by Rebecca Reid
‘Promise there’s no one else?’ she whispered as she lay, brown against the white fabric, her head resting on his chest.
‘No one but you,’ said Drew, stroking her hair. ‘Why would I want anyone else when I’ve got you?’
Poppy nuzzled into his skin. You wouldn’t be the first person, she wanted to say. But those stories belonged to the past, and they had agreed that the past could not and would not follow them into their new life together. So she said nothing, and kissed Drew hungrily instead.
The room was only half lit now; the sun had slid into the sea hours ago and the air felt cool.
Poppy shifted her body, wrapping it against Drew’s.
‘Poppy?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve noticed something.’
‘What have you noticed, darling?’
Poppy liked this game, where they talked as though they were in a 1950s sitcom.
‘Why do you close your eyes when you orgasm?’
Poppy sat up, putting a cushion in front of her body. She could feel the tell-tale rush of blood which meant her chest had gone a mottled red. ‘I’m sorry?’
Drew smiled, clearly not unhappy with the reaction he had provoked. ‘I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to shock you.’
‘I’m not shocked. I’m just surprised. I didn’t know I did that.’
‘You didn’t?’
She shook her head. ‘Every time?’
‘Every time. It’s like you need to pretend that I’m not there.’
That part was true. It was certainly true; there was no doubt about that. It didn’t matter how much Drew’s body turned her on, how much the feeling of his hands on her skin made her desperate for him inside her; if she wanted to come she needed to magic herself away to somewhere else and imagine that all of it was happening to another person. She just hadn’t realized that he had noticed it. No one else ever had.
She sighed. ‘I don’t know. Catholic upbringing, I guess.’
‘Even the Catholics don’t disapprove of sex within marriage.’
Poppy plumped the pillow in front of her stomach, running her hand over the smooth fabric. ‘I suppose I didn’t have the best introduction to sex.’
‘No?’
This was dangerously close to asking about the past. She wondered how curious Drew was. How far he would push to find out. What he might offer in return.
‘No,’ she replied. She’d read once that therapists have a trick where they say nothing and force you to speak because you want to fill the silence. She watched Drew, wondering whether that could possibly work on him. He didn’t seem the type to be bothered by silence.
‘What happened?’ he said, after a while. Was he allowed to ask that, she wondered?
‘It’s embarrassing,’ she replied, dodging the question.
Drew ran his hand up her thigh. ‘I’m unshockable.’
She took a deep breath. ‘When I was younger, my mother caught me …’ She paused, taking a breath. A run-up. ‘… touching myself.’ She looked up at Drew through her eyelashes, trying to gauge his reaction. So far if he was horrified he wasn’t showing it. But then, he never did. He seemed unshocked.
‘She got angry,’ she went on, unsure how to say the next part. She had only ever told this story to one person before, and he had howled in outrage.
‘What happened?’
‘She hit me.’
‘Your mother hit you?’
Technically another question about the past. Her blood was up now. He looked worried. Worried enough to keep ignoring the rule?
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It happened quite a lot.’
‘My God.’
He clearly thought the story was over, and she considered letting him be right. But then the only man she had ever told this story to would remain the only man she had ever told this story to, and that felt wrong. ‘And she told her priest,’ she whispered.
Drew sat up straight, his face a picture of horror. ‘She told your priest!’
‘She made me go and see him. I had to talk to him about it and stuff.’ Her neck and face were burning with the memory of it: sitting on a pew, looking the old man in the eye and telling him what she had been caught doing, watching his gaze, sure he was looking at her hands, guessing which fingers she had used. She’d prayed there would be a confessional like there always was in films, so that she could hide her face while she said the words. But there wasn’t. She’d had to look him straight in the eye while she told him that she was bad and broken and dirty.
‘That’s horrific,’ said Drew. ‘Why would anyone do that to a child?’
Poppy tensed, feeling the need to defend her mother that always came when she tried to talk about her childhood. ‘She’s religious. She thought it was a sin.’
‘Do you see much of your mother?’ he asked, stroking her hair.
‘No, not really,’ said Poppy. ‘She was great when I was little, but then my dad left. And she got obsessed with Church.’
Drew nodded. ‘They’ve got a lot to answer for.’
‘Was your school religious?’
The silence was screamingly loud. Had it been an accident, or had she asked on purpose? She couldn’t quite decide. Could he really refuse to answer her question when she had just told him that story? Adrenaline thumped in her bloodstream; she felt almost high on the excitement of pushing against the rule as she asked, ‘Drew?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Do you want a glass of wine?’
‘Catholic?’ She felt his body tense. Did that mean yes? Or was it just a reaction to her asking the question?
‘I’m going to open that bottle of red we bought yesterday,’ Drew said eventually. ‘Unless you’d prefer white?’
‘Did you like it? Boarding school?’ She could tell he didn’t want her to ask; she wasn’t stupid. But she couldn’t stop herself. It was as if someone else were pushing the words out from her lips.
‘Poppy …’ His tone was a warning.
‘I just—’ She wanted to tell him that she hated it. That it felt unfair to give him little slices of her life and get nothing back, that she regretted agreeing to this game, that she didn’t know if she could live a life where she didn’t know where her husband went to school or who his childhood hero was or when he had his first kiss. She didn’t need to know about his adult years, the ones where whatever he was running from would have happened. She just wanted to know little, stupid, inconsequential things, the kind of things she offered up to him with ease. But asking would mean fighting, and in her experience fighting sometimes meant leaving. So, as ever, her lips sealed themselves. She stared up into the darkness, listening to his breathing, telling herself over and over again that it was OK, or that at least it was going to be OK. ‘Sorry,’ she said, hanging her head. ‘I know.’
Drew relaxed back on the sofa and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I spoke to Ralph earlier. He said that the house will be ready the week after next.’
The house. Their house. Poppy felt her mouth widen into a smile.
‘Do you feel ready to go home?’ he asked. ‘I’m extending the lease here for a week but we can stay longer, if you like.’
Poppy shook her head. ‘I want to go home,’ she said. ‘I want to go home with you.’
CHAPTER 10
And so, two weeks later, Poppy and Drew sat in the back of a smart black car, sliding along the motorway and then off into twisting lanes under green canopies. Poppy lay her head on Drew’s shoulder, her hand resting on his thigh. His wedding ring glinted in the sunlight and her arms were evenly brown. They must look, she thought, like such a couple.
‘Have you ever been to Wiltshire before?’ asked Drew.
‘No,’ she said. ‘But I’m in love with it already. Look over there!’ The car was at the summit of a huge hill, looking down over a valley; sitting in the crook of the valley was a yellow house. ‘Is that it?’ she asked excitedly, leaning over and putting her finger to Drew’s window so that he couldn’t miss it.
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‘Yes!’ He laughed. ‘That’s it.’
The car slowed, the driver taking the driveway metre by metre for fear of a puncture.
‘I don’t know why I’m nervous,’ she said. ‘I already know what it looks like.’
Drew squeezed her hand. ‘I feel a bit nervous too.’ They rounded the bend and there, in front of them, was the house.
Poppy caught her breath. It was so symmetrical it looked like a child’s drawing. The door was wide and pale green, matching the window frames. How many windows? She counted eight. All high and mullioned with square panes. She squinted, trying to see through them, trying to see inside the perfect doll’s house. Wisteria dripped over the porch, brushing the huge front door. She turned to Drew to tell him how she loved it, how it was the single greatest thing any person had ever done for any other person. But the words weren’t there. So instead she squeezed his hand and smiled. Drew seemed to understand. She was surprised, given how stoic Drew’s reactions were to almost everything else, to see that he looked emotional too.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I just can’t quite believe that it’s all happening.’
Me neither, thought Poppy.
The night Mrs Henderson had fired her, the night that had felt like the end of the world, had turned out to be, without doubt, the luckiest day of her life.
Drew pushed the front door open. He stepped into the entrance hall and stood, stock still, looking up at the high ceiling, the staircase, and the rooms that surrounded him. It looked like he was trying to fill his lungs with the smell of the house. It was funny, she thought. One day she’d walk in here and she wouldn’t be able to smell it any more, their house smell. Drew turned slowly. For a moment Poppy wondered if he even really knew that she was there. And then, as if he had caught himself doing something awful, his head jerked.
‘Shall we explore?’ he asked. ‘Or eat?’
‘Eat?’ she said. ‘Don’t we need to shop?’
He laughed. ‘Ralph had food delivered earlier today.’
Poppy gave a little whistle. ‘Whatever you’re giving Ralph for helping you out, double it. He’s a fucking star. But I’m not hungry. How could we be when we’ve got all of this to look around?’
The entrance hall was dominated by a huge staircase, the floor had a worn Persian carpet and along the wall ran a long sideboard. The wall bore a huge landscape in a gold frame.
‘They left all their furniture?’ asked Poppy.
‘Ralph said they didn’t want any of it. Threw it all in with the price of the house. The mattresses are new – Ralph had them delivered. But we don’t have to keep any of it – we’ll want to make it our own.’
Poppy took a left turn and wandered into a huge green and yellow drawing room. ‘This is incredible,’ she called back.
‘There in a moment,’ Drew replied.
Poppy wandered around the room, running her fingers over the mantelpiece. There were dark rectangles on the walls where photographs or paintings must have hung, blocking the walls from the light. Who would the photographs have been of? she wondered.
She took out her phone and snapped a picture of the room. She started to send it to Gina but stopped herself. It felt too much like showing off. The old, familiar ache for Caroline pulled at her chest. Would she ever stop reaching to dial her number when something important happened?
At the far end of the room there was a huge mirror in a gold frame, mounted on the wall. The glass was speckled with age, and when Poppy looked in it she realized it must be ancient. It was warmly flattering. Softened by age, making her reflection prettier than she was. How many people must have looked in this mirror over the years. Teenage daughters of the house running in here to check their dresses before going to a party. Guests at a party glancing over their shoulders to check that their hair was still perfect. She’d look in the mirror to admire a baby bump one day. And she’d show her children – Drew’s children – their own reflections in it. Maybe she’d be looking in that mirror when she saw her first grey hair, or noticed the lines around her eyes deepen. It was a warm, comforting sort of thought.
She ran her hand over the surface, brushing off a fine layer of dust with the sleeve of her top. Before Poppy realized what was happening there was a snap and the mirror had fallen straight down the wall and hit the floor. She jumped back, as though she had burned herself. The mirror tipped forward, slamming on to the floorboards with a sickening smash. Poppy stood perfectly still, looking at the dull brown back to the frame, rooted to the spot.
‘Poppy?’ Drew yelled from another room. ‘What was that?’ She heard his feet on the stairs and then he was behind her, putting his arms around her.
‘Are you OK?’
She couldn’t move. ‘I hardly touched it,’ she whispered.
Drew hugged her tightly. ‘Thank God you’re all right. You could have been really hurt.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Drew’s eyebrows lowered. ‘Don’t apologize.’
‘It’s such bad luck. You don’t think it’s some kind of sign? Like an omen?’
‘On the contrary,’ said Drew. ‘It’s incredibly good luck. You could have been hurt, and you’re fine.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ she said again.
Drew took her hand and led her out of the room. ‘Stop apologizing,’ he said. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s an old house. Things break. It doesn’t matter.’ He looked at her, holding her gaze. ‘It is not an omen.’
‘What are we going to do with all this space?’ Poppy asked as they explored the house, room by room.
‘Fill it with babies,’ said Drew, smiling. ‘One in each bedroom.’
‘There are eight bedrooms!’ objected Poppy. ‘Think of my poor vagina.’ But her heart swelled with the idea of children, her own children.
They ran, like children playing hide and seek, along the wide hall, opening doors and looking inside them. Either side of the front door were huge white doors, one leading to the drawing room and the other to a library. Poppy left the doors open, dragged the dust sheets off sofas and tables and then ran into the next room.
‘You’re a nightmare,’ said Drew, standing behind her with a dust sheet.
‘But we don’t need those any more,’ she said, pulling it from him. ‘We live here now!’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s go upstairs.’
Upstairs was arranged around a square landing, with a huge staircase in the middle. ‘This is the master bedroom,’ he said, pushing the door open.
The carpet was a little faded and the curtains had seen better days. It was like the house had given and given to its previous owners and now it was exhausted. But the room was huge, the ceiling so high Poppy had no idea how they would ever manage to change a lightbulb, and a bay window so enormous that when Poppy threw herself on to the bed, she could look out across miles and miles of sky.
‘You like it?’ said Drew, standing by the doorway.
She nodded. ‘I love it.’
Something low in her gut shifted as she said it. A feeling like Christmas being over or Sunday night, like the taste in your mouth after you ate something sugary. But that was stupid. The house was perfect. She was just unsettled by the mirror, nervous and superstitious. Everything was fine. She repeated the words over and over inside her head.
‘Good,’ he said, turning back on to the landing. Poppy got to her feet, following him.
‘How did you know?’ she asked. ‘How did you know how beautiful it would be?’
Drew threw open another door to a slightly smaller room which looked out across the fields. ‘I had a feeling.’
She followed Drew back downstairs and outside, trailing behind him as they walked around the garden. Everything had clearly been in full flower a couple of weeks ago. Now stems bent slightly, the weight of heavy, blowsy flowers dragging them down. The edge of the neat green lawn immediately outside the house was lined with a
wall of lavender. It smelt sweet and light and nothing like the lavender fragrance her mother sprayed in the drawers of their house. Fat bees buzzed over it, drunk on pollen.
Poppy saw that there was a big wooden table on the lawn. The kind of table that other people would have sat around for family barbeques and summer parties. Happy, laughing people who had belonged here, but who were somewhere else now.
Something about it pricked at her, giving her just the smallest, almost unnoticeable sense of unease.
‘They left so much stuff. It’s weird. Like they just disappeared. Why would they do that?’
‘Ralph said it was easier for them to leave their things than to get rid of them,’ said Drew. ‘They emigrated, didn’t want the hassle of shipping it all. We don’t need to keep anything that isn’t to your taste. Ralph arranged for new bed linen and towels, all the basics, and had it all cleaned. I thought whilst we got started it would make life easier.’
Poppy nodded. ‘Why did they go abroad?’
‘No idea. You’re sure you like it?’ he asked as they went back into the house, using the side door. There was a rack next to it, filled with left-behind rubber boots. Long walks in the snow, children shrieking with snowballs, red noses. Woolly hats. A small hand in hers, belonging to someone who thought of her only as Mummy.
‘It’s perfect,’ she said. And it was true. The house was perfect. Big. Very, very big. But perfect. And what else could she possibly say?
It wasn’t that she didn’t like it. It was a feeling so much more complicated than that. A twisty, ephemeral feeling that she didn’t belong here.
‘Let’s eat something,’ she said, wondering if supper and a big glass of wine might do something to calm the twisting of her stomach.
The kitchen smelt like paraffin and wood polish. On the wooden table at the far end, squashed against the back wall, there was a package, wrapped up in old-fashioned parcel paper. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘Why don’t you open it?’
‘It’s for me?’
‘For us,’ he said, ‘but you should open it.’
She ran her finger under the layer of brown paper, splitting the Sellotape from the paper and pulling it away. Inside was a long cream rectangular box. She looked up. ‘It’s a box.’
