? Report

? Don’t report

THEN: EMMA

Watching Edward getting ready to cook is like watching a surgeon preparing to operate, everything neatly laid out in its correct place before he even starts. Today he’s brought two lobsters, still alive, their big boxing-glove claws cuffed with cable ties. I ask for a job and am given a daikon, a heavy Japanese radish, to grate.

He’s cheerful tonight. I’m hoping it’s from being with me, but then he says he’s had some good news.

That speech I made at the AJ awards, Emma. Someone who heard it has asked us to submit designs for a competition.

Is it a big one?

Very. If we win, we’ll be building a whole new town. It’s a chance to do what I was talking about, to design more than just buildings. A new kind of community, perhaps.

A whole town like this? I say, looking at the stark minimalism of One Folgate Street.

Why not?

I just can’t believe most people would want to live like this, I say.

I don’t tell him that whenever he comes to the house I still frantically rush around pushing dirty clothes into cupboards, scraping half-eaten plates of food into the trash, and hiding magazines and newspapers under the sofa cushions.

You’re the proof it can work, he says. An ordinary person who’s been changed by architecture.

I’ve been changed by you, I say. And I don’t think even you can have sex with an entire town.

He’s brought some Japanese tea to go with the lobster. The leaves come in a tiny paper wrap, like an origami puzzle. From the Uji region, he says. The tea’s name is Gyokuro, which means “jewel dew.” I try to pronounce it and he corrects me several times before giving up in pretend disgust.

His reaction when I produce my art deco teapot, however, is anything but pretend.

What on earth is that? he says, frowning at it.

It was my birthday present from Simon. Don’t you like it?

I suppose it’ll do the job.

He leaves the tea to infuse while he deals with the lobsters. Taking a knife, he slips the blade under the armored helmets. Moments later there’s a cracking sound as he twists the heads away. The legs continue to twitch as he gets to work on the tails, slicing down each side. The meat slides out easily, a fat column of pale gristle. A few more movements and he’s removed the brown skin, rinsing the tails again under cold water before cutting them into sashimi. A dipping sauce made from lemon juice, soy, and rice vinegar is the final touch. The whole assembly only takes a few minutes.

We eat with chopsticks, then one thing leads to another and we end up in bed. I almost always come before him and tonight is no exception—by design, I suspect: Our lovemaking is as carefully thought out as everything else he does.

I wonder what would happen if I could make him lose control, what revelations or hidden truths lie beyond this rigid self-restraint. One day, I decide, I’ll find out.

Afterward, as I’m drifting off, I hear him murmur, You’re mine now, Emma. You know that, don’t you? Mine.

Mmmm, I say sleepily. Yours.

—

I wake to find him no longer beside me. Padding to the top of the stairs, I see he’s down in the refectory area, tidying up.

Still hungry, I set off to join him. I’m halfway down when I see him pick up Simon’s teapot and carefully pour the remains of the tea into the sink. Then there’s a crash and the teapot’s in pieces all over the floor.

I must make a sound because he looks up. I’m so sorry, Emma, he says calmly. He holds up his hands. I should have dried these first.

I go to help but he stops me. Not in bare feet. You’ll cut yourself.

Of course I’ll replace it, he adds. There’s a good one by Marimekko Hennika. Or the Bauhaus is still very fine.

I go into the kitchen anyway, crouching down and picking up the broken pieces. It doesn’t matter, I say. It’s only a teapot.

Well, exactly, he says reasonably. It’s only a teapot.

And I feel a strange little thrill of satisfaction, of being owned. You’re mine.

NOW: JANE

Carol Younson is based in a quiet leafy street in Queens Park. When she opens the door she gives me an odd, almost startled look, then quickly recovers and ushers me through to a sitting room. Directing me to the sofa, she explains that this will just be an exploratory session to see if she can help me. If we decide to go ahead, we’ll meet at the same time each week.

“So,” she says when these preliminaries are out of the way. “What brings you to therapy at this time, Jane?”

“Well, several things,” I say. “The stillbirth I mentioned on the phone, primarily.”

Carol nods. “Talking about our feelings of grief gives us a way to sort through them, to begin the process of separating the necessary emotions from the destructive ones. Anything else?”

“Yes—I think you may have treated someone I have a connection with. I’d like to know what was troubling her.”

Carol Younson shakes her head firmly. “I can’t ever discuss my other clients.”

“It might be different in this case. You see, she’s dead. Her name was Emma Matthews.”

I can’t be mistaken: The look in Carol Younson’s eyes is definitely shock. But she quickly recovers. “I still can’t tell you what Emma and I talked about. A client’s right to confidentiality doesn’t end at her death.”