by Grace Lowrie
Wow. I’d tried to envisage it plenty of times in the past, but I’d never imagined anything as spectacular as the wonderful, all-over melting sensation of kissing Liam Hunt. I enjoyed it so much that I was furious when he wanted to stop – angry enough to hit him. Twice.
But I wasn’t crying over him. He was just a stupid man; some idiot guy who didn’t seem to understand what his own body was telling him – what his body was telling me. It was in his eyes, in the way he kissed me, and in the bulge of his trousers – I was sure of it – and yet he kept pushing me away. Who was this other woman? She couldn’t mean that much to him if he was only ‘kind of’ seeing her. And what did it matter that I’d never had a boyfriend? How was I supposed to gain any experience if he wouldn’t let me? Stupid man. I wasn’t upset like he said, I was thoroughly pissed off and frustrated.
The sun hurt my eyes making me squint as I crossed the terrace, and despite the furnace-like heat bouncing off the stonework I began to shiver. It was a relief to reach the shade at the back of the house, but I wrapped my arms around myself feeling nauseated and dizzy. What was wrong with me? Was it shock, or had all the lake water I’d swallowed made me ill? In the kitchen I made myself a cup of tea, stirring in plenty of sugar, grateful that Mrs Daly wasn’t around to express her disapproval.
Slowly and carefully I made my way along the hall, but by the time I reached the bottom of the main stairs I was hot and cold and clammy with perspiration, and my hands were shaking so hard that I had to set my slopped tea down on a side table. A wave of nausea swept over me and I doubled over, clinging to the newel post for support. What was happening to me? This wasn’t right... I need to get upstairs and lie down...
Before I could take another step a ringing started in my ears, darkness clouded into my peripheral vision, and the chintzy hall carpet rushed up to meet me.
*
‘Are you likely to live, do you think?’
At the sound of the voice, I tried to open my eyes. My whole body ached, my head throbbed and my tongue was so thick and dry in my mouth that it was a struggle to swallow, and when I did, my throat burned with pain. It took me a while to make sense of my surroundings. There was a fox staring down at me, and for a confused moment I thought it was Mr Fox from the garden and that he was talking to me. But then I took in the bristly carpet beneath me and the mountain of stairs advancing up to a high and distant ceiling; it wasn’t a talking animal after all, it was a stuffed hunting trophy in the hallway. A sour-looking woman stood over me, with her hands on her hips.
‘Ah, you’re still alive then,’ Mrs Daly said with undisguised disappointment as I blinked up at her from the floor. I tried to move but my head felt disconnected from my body and I couldn’t seem to summon up enough energy to shift my twisted torso into a more comfortable position.
She pressed a papery palm to my forehead and tutted. ‘I thought maybe you fell down the stairs and broke your neck, but seems like you’re sick with something. I could call you a doctor I suppose... or I could just leave you here and crack on with the cleaning, what do you think...?’
Bugger and blast it. Not only could I not speak, as usual, but now I was too ill to move, and at the complete mercy of a woman who hated me. If she was here that meant it was Wednesday morning and I’d been lying here for hours. Gregory wouldn’t be back for another fortnight and no-one else would know to come looking for me; not even Liam. With a building sense of panic I tried to move again. This time I managed to roll over onto my back and raise my head but the pain and the strain of staying conscious was too much. Mrs Daly tutted again and I witnessed one last sneer of contempt as I helplessly slipped away.
Chapter Twenty-seven
As I worked my way along the winding driveway to Wildham Hall, one tree at a time, pruning the overhanging canopy, I missed Melody. A lot. It was a task that needed doing; a lot of the crowns were congested; the boughs criss-crossing, interlacing and blocking out much-needed light. I was removing those branches that were causing problems, but also cutting back and reducing the canopies for aesthetic effect. It was absorbing work, involving prior consideration, skill and concentration, and if I was honest with myself it was no coincidence that I’d chosen a job about as far away from the lake as I could get. After what had happened on Tuesday I’d deliberately set about creating space between us – only I hadn’t expected to be quite so successful.
Having started up a relationship with Bridget, it was her I should be thinking about, not Melody. I’d convinced myself I couldn’t have Melody; because she was young and inexperienced and possibly even the victim of abuse. But the more time that passed, the less sure I was about the exchange I’d seen between Melody and her father. What if I’d got it wrong? If she was being sexually harassed or abused, would she really be so keen to get physical with me? She was twenty-one – not a child – and clearly knew her own mind. Perhaps I should give her the benefit of the doubt; respect her wishes and trust her to know what she wanted.
Maybe all my doubts about Melody were simply excuses to mask my own fear of getting hurt. Because if anyone on the planet now held the power to wound me, it was Melody Sinclair.
I hadn’t seen her for two days and I missed her with every breath – her quiet company, funny facial expressions and blunt written remarks; I even missed her quirky dress sense.
The cleaner had come and gone as usual, and yesterday a middle-aged woman in a Fiat Punto had briefly visited the house, but I’d seen no sign of Melody at all and I was starting to worry.
I hated that she might be deliberately avoiding me, though she had every right to, of course; I’d behaved abominably. What kind of man got turned on by a woman who slapped him in anger? What sort of monster did that make me? I was ashamed of myself and still considered her better off without me, but not seeing her at all was proving unbearable.
I had fallen for her hard.
Having reached the end of the driveway and finished pruning the tree nearest the front door, I chopped up the last few branches and barrowed the logs round the side of the house, where I added them to the over-stuffed wood store in the stables. As I was returning to the drive, the dour-faced cleaner emerged from the back door of the house, handbag on shoulder, ready to leave for the weekend. I nodded and smiled to her, she didn’t bother smiling back, but as I continued on my way she spoke, stopping me in my tracks.
‘Scarlet fever.’
I turned. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘She’s sick with scarlet fever. My grandson’s just had it. Uncommon in adults apparently, but the doctor’s been and says she’ll probably recover eventually. Only I’m not paid to be a nurse and I haven’t time to be coming back here to check on her at weekends...’
‘Sorry, what? Melody’s sick?’
‘That’s what I said, isn’t it?’
‘So who’s looking after her?’
‘Well not me, that’s for sure. I’ve already done more than I’m contractually obliged. You go on up and see her if you want, but don’t expect to be rewarded with scintillating conversation.’ Leaving the door open she began to walk away and I stared after her, stunned.
‘Wait! How do I find her – which room is she in?’ Rolling her eyes in irritation she turned back. ‘Top of the main staircase, end of the corridor, last door on the right.’ Without further hesitation she stalked off.
It was peculiar entering the grand old house without a proper invitation, like I was trespassing, but the thought of Melody lying there sick and suffering all alone prevented me from hesitating long. Kicking off my boots I padded my way through the laundry room, through the atrium-like space, past a vast kitchen and round a corner into a long hall. A macabre collection of stuffed animal heads were mounted at intervals along the walls; a deer, a badger, some kind of antelope, a fox... it was like a set straight out of a horror film, their eyes seemingly following me as I went. Several high-ceilinged, formal-looking panelled rooms led off the hallway but I bypassed them, heading straight for a wide, elaborat
ely-carved staircase and mounting them quickly.
The house was undeniably impressive but felt more like a museum or a stage set than a home, with each piece of furniture positioned for effect, and every surface cluttered with ornaments. At the end of the upstairs corridor was a closed door labelled ‘nursery’, which couldn’t be right, but I knocked and waited for a response anyway. When nothing happened, I turned the handle and opened the door to a large, dimly-lit bedroom.
The curtains were drawn against the sun, but as my eyes adjusted to the muted light I could make out various pieces of furniture heaped with mounds of stuffed toys set against sugary pink patterned walls. But it was the occupant of the vast four-poster bed in the centre of the room who really claimed my attention.
She looked like an angel lying there with her hair fanned out around her head and a white sheet twisted around her tiny frame. Her eyes were shut, her breathing was shallow and her skin glistened with sweat, but her alluring scent was everywhere, drawing me closer to her almost against my will.
As I whispered her name she frowned in her sleep but otherwise did not stir. Reaching out I brushed the hair from her forehead, confirming for myself the fever that burned inside her. A rash of fine red spots was visible above the neckline of her nightdress, but a sense of propriety prevented me from checking to see how far downwards the rash might extend.
On the bedside table, beside a prescription pill bottle, was an empty drinking glass which I took into the en-suite bathroom to refill. I also found a flannel hanging beside the sink, so I rinsed it with cold water, wrung it out, and took it back to the bedroom.
When I perched carefully on the edge of the mattress, she opened her eyes. They were darkly dilated, glassy and unfocused as she stared at me in confusion.
‘Hey, it’s just me, everything’s OK.’
She tried to push me away at first, but I gently cradled her head and shoulders in one arm as I put the water to her lips and she drank greedily from the glass before collapsing back onto the pillow. I leaned over to lay the flannel across her forehead and for a moment her eyes rolled back, she shivered and her lips moved as if she were silently muttering something, but no sound came out. Her eyes closed again on a long sigh as she drifted back into a fitful sleep.
Having carefully studied the dosage instructions on the bottle of penicillin, I fetched more water and tried to open a window to introduce fresh air into the stuffy room, but the diamond-pattern leaded windows were sealed shut. After several minutes spent Googling scarlet fever on my phone, I came to the conclusion that all I could do was stay with her, keep her hydrated and make sure she took the antibiotics regularly. But I hated seeing her this way – all limp and vulnerable – and the idea that she might have been suffering for days only increased my sense of guilt. Melody was so special to me, and she was so alone; I should never have pushed her away.
Chapter Twenty-eight
My room was on fire. Flames were licking at the curtains and igniting the bed sheets and my flesh was burning. I was running and running but every time I reached the top of the stairs I was back in the nursery again; the poodles on the walls taunting me with their upturned noses and smug smiles. I couldn’t get away or breathe or scream for help, and I was thirsty, so very, very thirsty.
And then I was at the lake and it was completely clogged with mud and leaves, and Liam was there but I dove head-first straight into the filthy water and I drank and drank, my throat aching with relief despite the bitter taste. Liam was trying to pull me out – rescue me – but the water was so cool and refreshing on my skin that I didn’t want to leave, so I struggled and pushed him away. And now I was drowning again, icy cold, my teeth chattering so hard that they shattered, shook loose and fell out, piece by piece. I tried to catch them in my hands but they were lost in the murkiness surrounding me as it grew denser and darker and turned black.
And then they were there; the shadowy figures from my nightmares; the same voices; the same repeated warnings: ‘Keep quiet’ and ‘Not one word’ and ‘Do not make a sound...’ If I’d ever known the reasons behind those threatening words, I’d long since forgotten, but the persistent sense of dread that accompanied them returned full force with every bad dream. The message was clear: my own voice could destroy me.
I was back in my room again and the fire had receded, leaving smouldering fabric remains, charred furniture and a stringent lemony scent. My soft toys were all blackened with soot but whichever way I turned their glass eyes were staring at me in fierce accusation. I tried to get away from them but the bed was too slippery to get any purchase on. And then Liam was there again – right there in my bedroom, with his heavy furrowed brow, colossal body and kind eyes, and I realised I must be dreaming, but I didn’t care because it was wonderful to see him. He was saying something in a strange foreign language and I simply lay there, listening to the gentle rumble of his voice, letting it resonate through my body like distant thunder on a sultry summer’s day.
*
I woke to the sound of snoring, convinced it wasn’t my own. Holding my breath I listened, but the noise had gone. Opening my tired eyes, I was reassured to find that I was in my own bed and that everything looked normal, except for a glass of water by the bed I didn’t remember putting there. Had someone been in my room? Slowly sitting up I lifted the glass to my lips and greedily drank the contents in one go. As I was setting the glass down again a snore broke the silence, making all my hair stand on end. With an intense sense of dread I turned around.
There was a man asleep beside me. He was fully clothed in jeans and a T-shirt and lying on his side, on top of the sheet that was over me, but it was still a shock. My instinct was to leap backwards out of bed, but then I took in the solid curve of his shoulders, the bumpy line of his nose and the familiar dirty-blonde hair and realised it was Liam. He looked so different with his facial muscles relaxed in sleep, his lips parted and his jaw shadowed with stubble.
Was I dreaming? I felt absolutely exhausted but a warm tingle of excitement spread through me at the unexpected appearance of this man on my bed. Reaching out I touched his tanned, hairy forearm. It was warm, solid and substantial, thrilling me to my core. He was really here! Spreading out my fingers I gently stroked his arm from his wrist all the way up past his elbow to the cuff at his bulging bicep. He’d stopped snoring but was still in a deep slumber.
Lifting my fingertips to his face I lightly traced his eyebrows, the coarse stubble along his jaw line, and then the soft pink swell of his lips, his breath hot and moist on my skin. Why was he here? What day was it? The last thing I could remember was walking away from him, not feeling well and making myself a cup of tea...
Shuffling closer to him I lay my head down on the pillow and gently placed my hand on his chest. The slow rhythmic pulse of his heart beat up through my palm accompanied by the steady rise and fall of his breathing;
so soothing it lulled me back to sleep.
*
The next time I stirred he was conscious and smiling at me, his warm brown eyes causing me to wake with a start. He held my hand in both of his, nestled against his chest, but otherwise we weren’t touching.
‘Morning,’ he said softly, making me smile. ‘Are you OK? Do you feel alright?’
I nodded my head, though in truth I felt like I’d been run over by a ten-ton lorry. He started to get up, but I didn’t want him to go and used what little strength I could muster to cling to the front of his shirt.
‘I’m just going to get your notebook so you can talk to me – I’ll be right back, I promise.’
Gingerly I sat myself up, pulling the sheet up over my nightdress, conscious of my own body odour and the lank, greasy texture of my hair. When Liam returned he perched on the bed beside me while I scribbled down my first question: What day is it?
‘Sunday,’ he said.
I stared at him in disbelief. My last clear memories were from Tuesday; where had the rest of the week gone?
‘You came down with scarle
t fever sometime during the week – the cleaner told me.’
Now that he mentioned it I had a vague recollection of Mrs Daly standing over me with a cup in her hand and a look of contempt... and then helping me up the stairs... crap, how humiliating.
‘She called a doctor in to see you, but she said she couldn’t stay and I didn’t want you to be on your own...’
The idea of Liam the burly landscaper tending my bedside and nursing me back to health was both surreal and extraordinary – was there no limit to this man’s kindness? Were other guys this caring and considerate? Not in my experience.
‘You had a high temperature and a rash, but I think that’s fading now – not that I’ve looked – but you seem much better... are you in any pain?’
I shook my head.
‘Can I get you anything; you haven’t eaten in days...?’
I was hungry. I’d been distracted by his presence, but now, as if on cue, my stomach rumbled and he smiled.
‘How about some toast? I bought a few supplies and there’s plenty of bread...?’
While he was gone I dragged myself into the bathroom to relieve my bladder. A hideous sight greeted me in the mirror as I washed my hands and splashed my face. It was tempting to take a shower, but I was afraid Liam would disappear if I took too long, so I settled for simply brushing my teeth before crawling back into bed.
Liam settled beside me with his back to the headboard as I munched my toast and passed him another sentence: Thank you for looking after me.
‘My pleasure,’ he shrugged, passing the pad back to me.
I’m sorry for hitting you.
His cheeks flushed as he read my words. ‘Forget it,’ he muttered, avoiding my eye.
