I smiled, wondering if she still had it, hanging in the villa in the south of Spain.
‘How about you?’ I asked. She had a faint northern English accent. ‘You don’t sound Welsh,’ I said.
‘No, I’m from Manchester originally. Didsbury. We only moved here a few years ago.’
I wondered who she meant by ‘we’. The retreat’s website listed Julia as the sole proprietor.
‘Come into the kitchen,’ Julia said. ‘It’s warmer in there.’
She asked me if I wanted a coffee and I accepted gladly. It was a typical rural kitchen – spacious, with buttery walls, a stone floor and a view of the front garden. I stood by the Aga and rambled on for a minute, telling her about the journey. I hadn’t spent time with another human being in days. Julia smiled politely as she waited for the kettle to boil, making the occasional comment. She’d removed her glasses, which had left two little marks on the sides of her nose.
A ginger cat strolled into the kitchen, tail held high, and I stooped to stroke it.
‘That’s Chesney,’ she said, as the cat purred and rubbed his face against my knuckles.
‘He’s gorgeous. So . . . is it just you and Chesney?’
She turned away from me and lifted the faintly whistling kettle. The cat, detecting a shift in the atmosphere, dashed out of the room.
‘Yep,’ Julia replied, the gap so long that I’d ceased to expect an answer. ‘Just us. And the other guests, of course.’
I looked around, stupidly, as if they might be hiding in the kitchen cupboards.
‘They’ve all gone to the pub,’ she said. ‘It’s become a bit of a tradition, when they finish work for the day. The Miners Arms – it’s a couple of miles down the road.’
She handed me my coffee. ‘I’ve got some boring paperwork for you to fill out. How long do you think you’ll want to stay?’
‘I was hoping to leave it open-ended, if that’s okay. I mean, at least a month.’
Her eyebrows shot up. ‘A month?’
‘Is that okay? I can pay up front.’
‘Yes. Sure.’
‘I really have to get my stupid book finished.’
Not just finished. Started as well. But I didn’t tell her that.
She looked me up and down, like she was seeing me for the first time. At last, she smiled. ‘That’s absolutely fine, Lucas. Stay as long as you like.’
I spent a while filling out the paperwork and made small talk with Julia while I finished my coffee. Outside, dusk crept up to the windows.
Julia gestured for me to go up the stairs first. In contrast to the immaculate decor on the ground floor, the stair carpet was threadbare and the wallpaper peeled in patches. There were signs that someone had started to decorate this area at some point, but the work had been abandoned.
When we reached the landing Julia said, ‘You’re on this floor.’ I was a little disappointed I wouldn’t be at the top of the house, but didn’t want to complain.
‘Yours is the second door on the left,’ Julia said from behind me.
I took hold of the door handle and she yelled, ‘Not that one!’
I withdrew my hand as if the handle were red hot. ‘Sorry, you said . . .’
‘I meant third door. Third door. Room Six.’ She had her hand on her chest, breathing hard, pink spots on her cheeks. She noticed me staring at her and forced a smile. ‘Sorry, that room isn’t made up yet. It’s a bit of a mess.’
She stepped past me and pushed open the door of Room 6. I followed her inside.
It was an impressive space: wooden floorboards, in better condition than those in the hallway, a neatly made double bed, a wardrobe and dresser. Best of all, there was a huge desk beneath the window with what looked like a comfortable, ergonomic chair. I ran my hand over the desk’s smooth oak surface.
‘I’m sorry there’s no en suite,’ Julia said. The pink spots on her cheeks had faded and she was calm again. ‘The bathroom is a little way down the hall.’
She stood beside me at the window, so we faced our reflections in the glass. It was dark outside now. No stars or moon. Save for a few lights dotted here and there across the landscape, it was as if the world beyond this house had ceased to exist when the sun went down.
‘I’ll show you around when you’ve had a chance to unpack, but you can either write here or in the sitting room, or even in the cottage.’
‘Great.’
She produced a room key and laid it on the desk. ‘You pretty much have the run of the house, except . . . can I just ask you not to go into the basement. It’s not . . . safe.’
‘Oh?’
‘The stairs need to be repaired.’
‘Understood.’ I couldn’t imagine wanting to go into the basement anyway. I sat at the desk. ‘This is wonderful, Julia. How long have you been open?’
‘Only a few months. I haven’t really got going yet, not properly. I mean, I know a lot of writing retreats have guest authors, classes, et cetera. I’m going to organise all that at some point. For now, this is just a quiet, secluded place for people to come and get their heads down.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m looking for.’ I didn’t explain there was another, more specific reason for choosing this particular retreat, so close to where I spent my early childhood. ‘Are you an author yourself?’
‘Me? No.’
She was about to leave me to it, but hesitated by the door. ‘I don’t mean to be nosy, but what kind of books do you write?’
‘Horror.’
There it was: a faint look of distaste. A reaction I was well used to. ‘And is this . . . your first book?’
‘No, I’ve written tons, most of which sold somewhere close to zero copies.’
‘Most?’
‘Um. The last one did pretty well. It was called Sweetmeat.’
She looked blank and I must have appeared disappointed because she said, ‘Sorry, I’m not really a big fan of that type of book. I mean, I’ve read a couple of Stephen Kings but I’m a total wimp.’
I smiled. People were always saying this to me.
‘I have enough nightmares as it is.’ I could tell she immediately regretted saying this, as she quickly added, ‘Anyway, let me leave you in peace. Dinner’s at eight, when the others get back from the pub.’
‘Great. Thank you.’
She shut the door, leaving me alone at my temporary desk. I stared at the space where she’d been. She was mysterious. A woman with a story. I was looking forward to finding out what it was.
Chapter 2
A clatter of noise came from downstairs: a booming male voice, footsteps, a slamming door. The other guests, back from the pub.
Fellow writers. I instinctively bristled, then chided myself. I had come here not only to get my head down and work, but because I was in need of human company. I had spent too much time on my own since losing Priya. So much time alone that I had begun to talk to next door’s cat when she came to visit, and to order parcels from Amazon just so I’d see another human face. I was sure the courier had started to avoid me, tired of making conversation with the crazy guy in Flat 3.
I went downstairs, following the sound of conversation to the dining room.