If he hates it—if he’s angry—at least I’ll have provoked a reaction.
And what if he’s really angry? a voice inside my head whispers.
Yes please, Daddy.
I turn my head this way and that. I like the way this style makes my neck look more delicate. Edward can wrap one hand around it. I can still see the marks left by his fingers from the other night.
I’m still looking when Amanda comes in. She gives me a smile, but she looks tired and drawn. I let my hair fall back. Are you okay? I say.
Not really, she goes. She splashes water on her face. The trouble with working at the same company as your husband, she says wearily, is that when it all goes balls-up, there’s no getting away from it.
What’s happened?
Oh, the usual. He’s been screwing around. Again.
She starts to cry, yanking paper towels out of the dispenser to dab at her eyes.
Has he said so?
I don’t need him to, she says. When I first slept with him he was still married to Paula. I should have known he wasn’t going to be faithful.
She looks at herself in the mirror and attempts to repair the damage. He’s been going to clubs with Simon, she says. But I suppose you already knew that. Since you two broke up, Saul’s been hankering for bachelor freedom. Funny really, because Simon only ever goes on and on about getting back with you.
She meets my eyes in the mirror. I don’t suppose that’s going to happen, is it?
I shake my head.
Shame. He adores you, you know.
The problem was, I say, I got fed up with being adored. At least, by someone as wet as Simon. What will you do about Saul?
She shrugs despondently. Nothing, I suppose. Not yet, anyway. It’s not like he’s seeing someone. I’m pretty sure it’s just one-night stands when he’s had a few. Probably proving to Simon he can still score too.
At the thought of Simon sleeping with other women I feel a sudden stab of jealousy. I push it away. He wasn’t right for me.
When are we going to meet Edward, anyway? she goes on. I’m dying to see if he’s everything you say he is.
Not for a while. He’s going away tomorrow—this massive project he’s got starting in Cornwall. Tonight’s our last night.
Got anything special planned?
Sort of, I say. That is, I’m going to get my hair cut.
NOW: JANE
It should feel different with Edward not here. But the truth is, the house is so much a part of him, I feel his presence even when he’s away.
It’s nice, though, to be able to lay a book down while I cook, then simply pick it up again and read as I eat. Nice to have a fruit bowl on the refectory counter to graze from. Nice, too, to slouch around in a T-shirt and no bra, unfettered by the need to keep either myself or One Folgate Street pristine every single moment.
He’s left me three cutlery sets to try out—the Piano 98, designed by Renzo Piano; the Citterio 98 by Antonio Citterio; and the Caccia by Luigi Caccia Dominioni and the Castiglioni brothers. I feel flattered to have been involved like this, but I suspect it’s also a kind of test, to see if my judgment coincides with his.
Gradually, though, I become aware there’s something niggling at me. Just as Edward can’t ignore a left-out teaspoon or a stack of books that isn’t perfectly aligned, so my tidy, conscientious mind refuses to leave alone the mystery of Emma Matthews’s death.
I do my best to resist it. After all, I promised. But the mental jarring only becomes more insistent. And what the promise he extracted from me failed to take into account is that this particular mystery is a barrier to our intimacy, to the quiet perfection of our life together. Really, what’s the point of choosing precisely the right fork—and at the moment I’m favoring the weighty, sensuous curves of the Piano—when there’s this monstrous, messy shadow hanging over us from the past?
The house wants me to know, I’m sure of it. If walls could talk, One Folgate Street would tell me what happened here.
I will satisfy my curiosity, I decide, but secretly. And once I’ve laid those ghosts to rest, I will never wake them again. I won’t ever speak to him of what I’ve learned.
Carol Younson described Edward as a narcissistic sociopath, so my first step is to research what that actually means. According to various psychology sites, a sociopath displays: Superficial charm
A sense of entitlement
Pathological lying
He or she is:
Easily bored
Manipulative
Remorseless
Lacking in emotional range
Individuals with Narcissistic Personality Disorder: Believe themselves superior to others Insist on having the best of everything Are egocentric and boastful
Fall in love easily, put the love object on a pedestal, then just as easily find fault
This is all wrong, I think. Yes, Edward is different from other people, but from a sense of purpose, not superiority. His self-confidence is never boastful or attention-seeking. Nor do I think he ever lies. Integrity is very, very important to him.
The first list might be closer, but it still doesn’t feel right. Edward’s reserve, his unavailability, could certainly be taken as evidence that he’s lacking in emotional range. But actually, I don’t think he is. Having lived with him, if only for a short while, it’s more that he’s…