Esmé didn’t respond, so Stella took her coffee and returned to work.
It was almost half past four and Stella was thinking about shutting down her computer. She had started early that morning and worked her hours, but part of her didn’t want to go back to the little cottage too soon, as she was worried that if she had too much time on her hands, she might weaken and call Ben.
‘Can you stay a little longer?’ Jamie appeared in the doorway just as Stella was putting on her jacket.
‘No problem,’ Stella said, relieved.
‘I’m going for a bath. Going to try for ten minutes. Can you time me?’
In the kitchen, Jamie filled three buckets with ice and gave one to Stella. ‘Are you okay with that?’ He seemed so self-obsessed that these moments of concern for her well-being were like tiny, heart-warming bullets. If she wasn’t careful, she knew she could build the idea of a good man where there wasn’t one. Her track record in assessing personality wasn’t exactly encouraging.
He carried the other two and led the way to the main bathroom.
‘I’ll wait outside the door,’ Stella said, unnecessarily, backing out of the room. She set the timer function on her phone. ‘Shout through when you get in.’
‘You’ll probably hear me splashing,’ Jamie said.
Stella slid down the wall to sit on the floor next to the closed door. She heard the final bucket of ice being sloshed into the water and then a stifled gasp as Jamie got in. ‘Never gets easier,’ he called, embarrassment in his voice.
‘I’m timing you,’ Stella called back.
After a minute or so of silence, Jamie spoke, his voice carrying surprisingly well. ‘So, how are you getting on? Has Esmé been feeding you? Help yourself to anything you like in the kitchen.’
Stella thought of the muffins that had been delicious warm from the oven. So good she had had two. ‘Do you not mind having food like that in the house? Isn’t it harder to stick to your special diets?’
A splashing noise came from inside and Stella looked at the timer. Only three minutes so far.
‘My official line is “no”, but yeah. Sometimes. But I want the data more so I have to do it.’
Jamie’s voice sounded weird and his teeth were chattering, but it was quite nice to speak to him this way. With a wall between them and no intense eye contact, Jamie seemed more manageable. Definitely less alarming. ‘Why has it got to be you?’
‘I would never ask anybody else to be a guinea pig. That would be unethical. I’m happy to experiment on myself, I choose to do this, but I would never ask anyone else to take the risk. I’m dipping down now,’ Jamie said. ‘I’ll count to sixty and then tell you when I’m back up.’
‘Okay.’ Stella checked the time and waited, counting silently as well as watching the timer, determined not to make a mistake. She was so used to being cautious on her own behalf, worrying about somebody else was almost pleasurable.
‘Up!’
‘Okay!’ Stella called back. ‘Five more minutes?’
‘Right.’
Stella had seen Esmé cross the back garden, dogs in tow, so she felt fairly safe yelling out her name through the door. She wondered how to introduce the question ‘why does your housekeeper hate me?’. She decided to ease into the subject.
‘Has Esmé worked here for long?’
‘Esmé is family,’ Jamie said. ‘She was looking after this place before I was even born.’
Stella congratulated herself on her tact. Complaining about Esmé’s manner would clearly not have been a good idea.
‘One minute to go,’ Stella said after a silence. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Alive,’ Jamie said, his voice strained.
Stella kept her eyes on the timer, counting down the seconds. Right on time, she heard water sloshing and a muffled bang as Jamie got out of the bath. ‘I’m on dry land,’ he said, sounding relieved. There was something else in his voice, too, something which stabbed Stella through her core. She felt as if she had glimpsed the hard price of Jamie’s obsessive intensity.
He came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a thick towelling dressing gown. She tried not to be self-conscious, but it was strange to be in such close, domestic proximity with a new boss. He rubbed a towel over his hair and thanked her for timing his bath, sounding weirdly stiff and formal, as if he was also noticing the oddness of the situation.
‘I saw you unpacked. Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ Stella turned to leave, but Jamie hadn’t finished.
He looked uncomfortable for a second. ‘There’s more, I’m afraid. I haven’t really done much with the house since getting back.’
‘Do you want rooms opened up?’ Stella pulled her phone from her pocket, ready to add it to the to-do list.
He shook his head. ‘No. I just want to get my stuff organised. I wasn’t expecting to stay this long and then I had some more shipped but I haven’t had a chance to—’
‘No problem,’ Stella said again. She made a note.
‘I thought Esmé would, but I think she’s been busy.’
‘This place is too much for one person,’ Stella said. ‘Don’t you have a cleaner and a gardener and all that?’
‘There were people employed for that when I got here. They did the turnaround cleaning and laundry for the cottages, too, but I didn’t want strangers around the place so I let them go.’
‘Well, it’s too much for Esmé,’ Stella said.
He nodded. ‘Good thing you’re here now, then.’
Stella remembered her resolution. It was time to take her new boss in hand. ‘I’ve sorted out the urgent emails, did you want me to forward them to you?’
‘God, no,’ Jamie said. ‘You just deal with them. If you don’t know how, just leave them and I’ll get to them later.’
‘Your agent called again,’ Stella said, determined to make headway. ‘He really wants to speak to you—’
‘He wants to tell me off, more like.’ Jamie smiled, not looking worried about this prospect.
Stella gave up. ‘I started early this morning so I’m going to finish now, if that’s okay? Going for a walk in the last of the light.’
‘Of course, no worries.’ Jamie already seemed distracted, probably planning his next activity.
Stella was halfway down the main stairs when he called. ‘Be careful along the shore. The rocks can be slippy.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
21st November, 1847
My dearest Mary,
Thank you for your letter and for your wise counsel. You always know how to soothe my mind and I am grateful for it. Please do not be concerned. I have grown accustomed to my new situation. Even the night visitors are less troubling to me now. Mr Lockhart has explained their great significance and I am no longer afraid. Mr Lockhart says that to be afraid of ghouls is to spit in the face of science.
To show you how fearless I have become, let me tell you about yesterday evening. It was long after supper and I was in my nightclothes. There was a great commotion on the backstairs, with a thumping noise and loud voices. I crept out of my room and saw that the cargo had slipped from the group and fallen down the steps. The mouth of the sack had fallen open and I beheld something pale and fleshy protruding. I did not linger. I was not unduly frightened, but the odour during these times is truly unbearable.
There. You see! I am calm and almost unbearably modern! Mr Lockhart bade me meet a body and said that I would never now imagine ghosts or the supernatural. He is most wise, as I could never now mistake one for the other.
Truly, it is a privilege to witness at close quarters the genius of Mr Lockhart. The bell rings day and night with people who wish to consult with him. Matters of medicine, naturally, but other subjects, too. He is known for his wise and learned ways and the quality of conversation in his secret meetings. Yes! I said ‘secret’ and they must be the worst-kept of all time. The parlour is more often filled with gentlemen from the Royal College than with patients, and Maggie, the maid who sees to
the fire in that room, told me a little of their conversation. Many of the words were unfamiliar, but I love to hear nonetheless. It is thrilling to be near so great a man. You can feel the intellectualism in the air, it is woven into the rugs, and seems to leak from the walls and furniture.
It has awakened a thirst in me, but one I must conceal. Mr Lockhart does not like to see a lady reading, save the Holy Bible. Still, I cannot help but think it would be wonderful to understand these things.
Please do not be shocked. And do not tell Mother and Father. They would only worry and I have caused them enough concern for three lifetimes already. Instead, I beg that you send me more news. You said that things were ‘much as usual’ but I wish you to write every detail of your day that I might imagine myself with you. Did you finish hemming the muslins in good time? How is dear Callum – I trust the wretched cough has cleared?
Your loving Jessie
Stella took the rutted track which led, through two gates with both ‘Private’ and ‘Keep closed’ signs, to a marsh. She stepped from tussock to tussock, avoiding the areas with reeds until she found a worn path to follow. It had seemed like a relatively mild day when she started out, and she had left the technical raincoat in the cottage, but now the breeze was cutting straight through her leather jacket. There was a clarity and cleanliness to the air, though, which made Stella feel more alive than she could remember. She took in great lungfuls, feeling her chest expand, grow strong. At once, she could understand why they used to build hospitals and sanatoriums on coastlines, why ‘a change of air’ was said to do you good. Never mind writing another bestseller, if Jamie could bottle the Highland air he could sell it to Londoners.
She climbed the stile and crossed the scrappy dunes to the shoreline, walking along the pebbled beach. It was deserted. Eerily so, like something from an apocalyptic film. Jamie had said that hikers and fishers crossed the beach as they traversed the coast, but the only other way to access this part of the bay was the one she had just taken. Her pocket was buzzing and it took a moment for Stella to realise it was her phone. The signal was so patchy that she was already out of the habit of checking it, although she kept it fully charged in case of emergency. She looked now, and saw multiple texts from Ben. She put it back in her pocket without reading them and looked out at the sea, the islands like giant creatures, and, in the distance to her left, the snow-capped mountains. She walked around the curve of the bay and scrambled over rocks which spilled out from under the cliff. She passed a wilted bouquet of flowers and wondered if they had been washed up or left purposely. Perhaps it was a local tradition, something to make wishes come true or to appease the bad spirits.
A massive slab of yellowish stone was begging to be climbed and she did, enjoying the stretch in her muscles, the slight exertion. At the top, there was a surprisingly flat surface, like a seat had been deliberately worn away by the sea and the weather, and Stella sat on her jacket and watched the waves roll into shore.
When she couldn’t resist the urge any longer, she read Ben’s messages. Quickly, like ripping off a plaster.
Need to talk to you about the house. I have a plan. Call me! X
Why won’t you speak to me? Please, let’s talk. It’s important. X
Where are you? House is empty (you left curtains open but I have closed). I am really worried. Should I call police?! Xx
Seriously, Stella. What is going on? Are you still angry with me? Where are you? I NEED to speak to you. Xx
ARE YOU OKAY? CALL ME.
Stella read the messages several times, waiting to feel something. There was a little trickle of guilt. Almost automatic. And a small sense of pleasure at Ben’s concern. It was nice to have his attention. Stella looked out at the waves, strands of hair escaping from her ponytail and flicking across her face. I’m not very nice, Stella thought. I shouldn’t be pleased that he’s worried.
The feelings were very small, though. Blessedly so. After weeks of drowning in the break-up, of taking gulps of misery and longing and pulling them down deep into her lungs and stomach, she felt light and empty. Almost free.
The sea was silver and black and, in the distance, the back of Eigg rose from the water, long and low, like a giant creature. An Sgùrr, the distinctive mound of volcanic rock at one end, only added to the illusion and Stella narrowed her eyes, imagining what ancient travellers must have seen as they navigated by boat, their senses playing with the shapes thrown by the waves and the strange Highland light.
A small part of her mind refused to be distracted by the landscape. It was still running the Stella and Ben show. Ben and Stella. As joined at the hip as the golden couple, Rob and Caitlin. After that first night, Ben had called around at Stella’s shared house the next day and asked if she fancied a triple bill at the cinema. It was a celebration of Rodriguez’s work and, truth be told, Stella fell asleep during the middle film, but she had never felt so comfortable with a man before. It was as if they had known each other in a past life. Their instant connection, with the sharing of likes and dislikes, opinions and humour, was intoxicating. Stella felt as if she had been walking around as half a person and now the rest had been returned.
They talked all the time, and when they weren’t talking, sometimes they just sat with their foreheads resting together and stared into each other’s eyes. Stella had never told anybody that, as it sounded like the worst cliché of romance, worse even than red roses and an engagement ring in a glass of champagne, but it was the truth. They had created a place between them. Her safe place. No matter what else was going on, no matter how frightened she felt, she could lean into Ben and feel her heart slowing down until it beat with his, steady and true.
The tears were pouring now, stinging with the cold air that whipped in from the sea. Stella was glad. She knew that she had poked the wound intentionally, as if she had been frightened by her calm reaction to reading Ben’s texts. No matter how bad the misery of the past few months had been, it was familiar. This light and airy feeling of freedom was terrifying and new. The wind coming off the sea had blown her wide open, and a part of Stella wanted nothing more than to sink back beneath the waves of her grief.
The next day, after a late lunch break in which she ate a sandwich in the deserted kitchen, Stella decided to take Jamie at his word when he said he wanted his things organised. She checked for stray boxes in all of the rooms, and discovered several which were entirely devoid of furniture, and another that was filled with white dust sheets. They lay over the lumpy shapes of furniture like shrouds. Stella closed the door with relief.
She moved every cardboard box, every piece of equipment, suitcase and unopened jiffy bag into one room – a place that had probably been a breakfast room as it had a smaller, less grand version of the polished table in the dining room. A row of taxidermy watched from a sideboard the size of a small boat while Stella unpacked and catalogued. She moved the unopened mail to a newly emptied packing box in her office.
Whenever she felt her breath grow shallow and her muscles begin to burn with the exertion, she repeated her mantra – You are fine, you are fine, you are fine – and resisted the urge to take unnecessary breaks. She wanted to get stronger and knew the only way was to push herself, however terrifying she found it. The problem, Stella reflected as she hoisted a box on top of another, was that she had been ill for so much of her life that she had no real reference for what was ‘good’ and ‘healthy’ tiredness, and what was a dangerous symptom. Her consultant had said that normal exercise was completely fine, but Stella had spent much of her childhood lying down, unable to breathe, and so these days she had absolutely no idea what ‘normal’ felt like.
Needing a break from the black shining eyes of the largest piece of taxidermy – an otter, unnaturally twisted and holding a fish in its claws, Stella poured herself a decaf coffee and took it into the deserted dining room. It had, in her opinion, the best view, and was quite a pleasant room if you avoided looking at the sharp tips of the antlers threatening an invisible foe.<
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The late afternoon sky was glowing, turning opal in places behind the clouds. Stella wiped condensation from the old sash window, to get a better look at the odd light. Frost glistened on the grass and trees, turning the garden into something magical for a moment. A small bird of prey, maybe a sparrowhawk, landed on the wall which separated the old vegetable garden from the lawn.
Something flashed and Stella blinked. She thought it was a security light, over by the hedge at the left-hand side of the garden. But it had only shone for a moment, so perhaps someone was using a torch. It flashed again and she realised that the setting sun was catching something reflective. The flash came again, and she saw that it was from the middle of the hedge, at the gap for a low gate. There was something black and circular wedged in the side of the foliage. Squinting into the shadows and letting her eyes adjust, Stella saw the object move. It was a cylinder and there was something bulky and dark behind it. Then, a movement and a pale oval appeared and disappeared. A face.
It was a person with a camera. A long telephoto lens and they were stood on the boundary of the garden. Which meant they were on the track that led alongside the house and was private property. The photographer had come through the gates with their forbidding signs, which meant they were knowingly breaking the law. Stella felt a thrill of fear. As an inveterate rule-follower, she had a visceral reaction to the chaos that breaking them implied.
And if a person was willing to ignore a sign, what else were they willing to do?
Stella knew that the sensible option was to call the police and hope that they got there in time to catch the photographer in situ. But she also knew that Jamie wouldn’t thank her for bringing more people and attention to his home. She stepped away from the window so that she could no longer be seen, and messaged Jamie.
The reply pinged back. Stay put. No police. Act natural.
Beneath the Water Page 8
