Nathan takes a moment or two to absorb what Alex has said. I can see every part of his body tensing. I step between them. ‘Don’t rise,’ I say. ‘He’s a teenager. He doesn’t understand, that’s all.’
Nathan sweeps me aside and steps closer to Alex.
The two of them mirror each other, frozen in time, holding each other’s gaze. Alex’s body is rigid, muscles quivering. ‘Fuck you.’ He turns on his heel and strides out of the kitchen towards the stairs.
‘Don’t you dare walk away from me!’
His feet thunder on the stairs as he runs up them.
‘Come back now!’
Alex’s bedroom door closes with a bang that makes the walls shudder.
When I touch Nathan’s arm, he pulls sharply away and storms out of the kitchen. A few moments later his study door slams, mimicking Alex, and I picture Charles Cardew’s bloodied body jerking awake with shock.
I open the dishwasher and proceed to rinse each plate before stacking it. When the kitchen is cleaned down, I crouch beside Cass, who has resettled in her basket, and play my fingers through her silky fur.
This house is a prison.
Alex is right about that. But it wasn’t Nathan who imprisoned me. It was me. I walked into it willingly. This house – this life – is nothing more than a prison of my own making.
Chapter Six
Nathan
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, don’t they? Well, that was certainly the case when I was away from you. You grew like a cancer inside me, taking over every part of me, corrupting and altering each cell in my body. It was agony being so far away from you. I missed my daily visit to the bakery. Missed sitting in my car on the street outside your house and catching glimpses of you through the windows.
There was a cork board behind my computer in the Paris office and the first thing I did when I arrived was pin up a photograph of you. It was the one I took as you arrived at work one morning. You looked so beautiful with that serious, faraway expression that I decided not to shout a hello. I’d leave you to your thoughts and I’m glad I did. The photograph is perfection. Your hair taken by the wind across your eyes. Your hand reaching up to sweep it away. You lips parted just a fraction. When Jean-Paul asked who you were, I told him you were my girlfriend. He nodded with Gallic enthusiasm, gave me a crass thumbs-up, and said you were sexy. The man was an irritating oafish type, thick both in body and mind, but all the same, his reaction made my chest explode with love and, I’ll be honest, desire for you. It wasn’t long before I told him I was going to ask you to marry me. What I’d said was lost in translation, and he clapped me on the back and insisted we celebrate our forthcoming wedding with cigars and cognac. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he had the wrong end of the stick and we weren’t yet engaged. If truth be told, I enjoyed the misunderstanding.
Every hour that passed, you crept further under my skin and into my veins. There I was, in the most romantic city in the world, its very streets cobbled with love, but I was without you. Finally, I mustered the courage to telephone you. Your mother called you down in her coarse Cornish accent.
‘A young man on the phone for you, melder!’
Your feet clattered down the stairs at nineteen to the dozen and the excitement in your voice as you thanked her and grabbed the phone made my stomach flip. I should have called you sooner. How stupid of me to be so nervous.
When I said your name you fell quiet. So sweetly shy. You asked about France and work and if I was having a good time.
‘It’s hard work,’ I said. ‘Long hours. And, well, I miss you.’
‘I bet Paris is amazing though.’
We only talked for a few minutes. Your mother needed help in the kitchen. I said I’d call again.
‘OK,’ you said.
‘I’ll be back in a few weeks. When I’m back,’ I hesitated, ‘can we go out to dinner again?’
‘I’m not sure,’ you said. ‘It was so expensive last time. Don’t spend your money on me.’
That made me smile. You didn’t care for frittering away money. You weren’t extravagant. Not like some of the girls I came across in London and Paris, girls who were after anything they could get their over-manicured hands on.
‘Let’s see, shall we? When I’m back we can make a plan.’
‘I should go,’ you said.
‘Oh, Hannah.’ I was unable to contain myself. ‘You’re all I think about.’
You didn’t reply.
I kicked myself. I’d come on too strong. Idiot. I needed to take more care.
Females are, I thought as I put the phone down, too easy to startle.
Chapter Seven
Hannah
Steam fills the shower cubicle and, as I step in, I inhale the wet heat. I wash and dry perfunctorily – it’s my second clean of the day, after all – and dry myself briskly, listening for Nathan’s footsteps on the stairs.
‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ I call when the bedroom door closes.
I take the black silk camisole from the hook on the back of the bathroom door and slip it over my head. The fabric caresses my skin and my stomach turns over. I brush my hair through with my fingers and spray perfume on my neck and wrists. Before I open the door, I take five deep breaths.
He waits beside the bed and watches me as I walk towards him.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask.
‘I don’t want to talk about anything. I just want to look at you.’
I walk closer to him and press my lips against the curve of his neck. His hand falls to my waist and runs down the silk to my hip, then behind to cup my buttock.
‘My turn,’ he rasps.
This is a play and I am a character in the play. I know my part to perfection. I’m well rehearsed. I never miss a beat or a cue. I know how to kiss him and stroke the back of his head with the tip of my nails. I know how to bite my bottom lip and look at him through lowered lashes as I undress him. I lie him down and beg him to enter me. As he does, I affect pleasure. He kisses me on the mouth and neck, runs his fingers through my hair, groans and grinds. I take myself away and allow my mind to drift. Today I am on the cliffs at Porthcurno. Cass is up ahead of me searching the yellow fireworks of gorse for rabbits. A breeze caresses my skin like a cold hand. Kittiwakes and choughs cry mournfully. The air carries the scent of salt. The sea is dark grey-green with diamonds scattered over its surface. A boat glints in the winter sunlight. You are on the boat. You are sewing nets. Your shirt is off. Your tanned skin is shining with a film of fresh sweat. There’s a small tape recorder beside you. I focus hard. What music are you playing? Ahh. I hear it. ‘Zombie’ by The Cranberries. I smile. I’d forgotten how much you love The Cranberries…
Nathan doesn’t last long and, as he pulls himself out of me, I’m catapulted back into the room.
My final Tuesday job complete.
He lies on my chest, heavy, as if made of stone. I stare at the ceiling and notice a spiderweb. How did I miss it? No problem. I’ll get rid of it when I dust again next week. I force my hand to stroke his shoulder.
He kisses me. ‘I love you.’
This might be the one glimmer of truth in our house of lies. I know he loves me. Or at least he believes he does. In spite of the other women and the money and lack of trust, I often catch him staring at me with the same dewy-eyed wonder he’d had when we first met. Nathan enjoys the machinations of romance. When we first met he would send me long letters, sometimes up to five or six pages, filled with earnest proclamations of love. Did he truly feel those things he wrote? Was he really so consumed by love for me? Or was it a display, an attempt at seduction, fabricated words that he hoped would lure me? I don’t know. But I do believe he somehow convinced himself that what we had – what we still have – is genuine. Even now, he likes to surprise me with romantic gifts – a scented candle, some bath salts, a cashmere scarf – for no reason. The look of smug pleasure on his face when he does is something to behold.