“Erm, yes, I suppose so, although it was only me and the wife.”
“How lovely.” Mac turns. His expression, hard and unsmiling, sends an icy finger down my spine, and for a moment I don’t recognize him. He gestures to the door and says, “Shall we see the rest of the house?”
The moment is gone so quickly, I wonder whether I imagined that vague feeling of threat. I traipse after them as we make our way through a big kitchen. It has ancient-looking cupboards painted a dreary avocado colour, but it’s still a beautiful room with a side window that looks down on another garden—this one overgrown but with the river glinting through the branches of an old willow tree. I imagine big doors opening onto that garden, and a table set in front of the view. Music would be playing while I cooked dinner, and Mac tapped away at his laptop. I sigh wistfully and then have to smile. I can’t cook, and so it would belikely that I’d make him something inedible or that would make him choke to death.
I follow them into a dining room and then up some back stairs to the upper floor, where we see five huge bedrooms, most of them empty apart from a few pieces of furniture under dustsheets. As we walk along, I experience a gamut of emotions. This place feels strange to me, and not just because of its combination of beauty and shabbiness. It’s almost as if I’ve been here before, like I know this house deep in my bones, and it’s welcoming me back.
Mac seems to have forgotten I’m here, and he discusses floorspace and council tax brackets with Mr Corvin.
Finally, we head down another flight of stairs, and into the lounge. Mr Corvin doesn’t offer us a seat. I hover awkwardly, but Mac shows no sign of discomfort. “It’s a lovely house,” he says slowly.
Mr Corvin nods. “There’s a nice community on the island. The neighbours do a lot of things together, and people like to help each other.” He grimaces. “I don’t like that sort of social life myself, but I don’t think the place is as isolated as it first appears. A lot of the people here commute to work. They moor their boats at the pub on the other side and then catch a train into the city. There are a few families and a lot of younger people here, too.” That last bit is aimed at me, and I nod dutifully.
Mac stirs. “I can imagine it would be a dream for children to live here.”
There’s something odd in his voice—some note of something that I can’t work out. It makes me feel protective of him, and I edge closer, taking his hand. He jerks as if suddenly realising I’m here, but when I go to move back, he tightens his grip on me, keeping me by his side.
Mr Corvin watches us intently. A shadow passes over his face. “There are children on the island. I believe they go to schoolin Shepperton. Sadly, we were never given children, so there were no grandchildren for us.”
Mac’s hand tightens so hard that he hurts me. I suppress a gasp and squeeze back, still compelled to comfort him. This old house holds no threat to him, so why do I feel that something is happening under the surface that I can’t see?
Mr Corvin turns to me. “And you, Mr Reilly? What do you think of the place?”
I blink and realise he’s talking to me when Mac nudges me subtly. “Oh me,” I say stupidly. I look around. “I love this house,” I say slowly.
“Why?”
I search for words. “Because it feels safe, like it could hold the world at bay. It feels like a bit of England that’s lost in time. It feels like home.”
Silence falls for a few beats while he stares at me. Then he nods abruptly and turns to Mac. “I’ll sell to you.”
Mac doesn’t display any surprise on his poker face. “Thank you,” he says, once more his urbane self, with no sign of that odd distress of before. “Shall we discuss the details?”
I hover for a while, but then Mac offers me an impersonal smile. “Don’t let me keep you inside, Wes,” he says pleasantly but firmly. “You’ll get bored, darling. Why don’t you explore the garden?”
Like I’m five years old. Feeling stung, I nod and drift out into the garden. I stand for a second, twisting the ring on my finger. It feels odd there, and I look down at its golden gleam. My view of the future has always been about my career and never about someone to share it with. I’d vaguely presumed I’d find a partner, but I never had an idea of who that would be.
For a wild moment, I consider what it would be like being married to Mac. He’d be protective of his husband, in a way that would feel like being wrapped equally in barbed wire andcashmere. But on the other hand, he’s so reserved and closed off I can imagine being with him for thirty years yet still waking up to see a stranger’s head on the pillow next to me.
Still twisting the ring, I look around. The garden is overgrown, but the breeze is fresh, and the sparkle of the water is inviting. I follow the old, cracked path towards the water.
The day is hushed. Birdsong and the sound of a boat puttering down the river are the only things disturbing the silence. I end up at the summer house. It’s falling apart, the paint cracked and peeling, and the wood broken, but it’s a curiously charming place. I go up the steps and put my hand on the door. It swings open with a rusty squeak, and I immediately sneeze when the dust billows around me.
I find myself in a small room with a mildewed and rotting old carpet. Shelves line one wall filled with old books. The smell of mould and wet paper is rank in the air, and when I touch a book gently, the cover crumbles. It’s a story about a girls’ boarding school. I go along the shelves finding others. They’re all children’s books. The wall opposite has a poster pinned to it. It’s a photo of a man—an actor or a singer from the looks of him. He’s dressed in jeans and a shirt with a wide collar, making me think it’s from the seventies. It’s obviously been torn from a magazine as the staples are still in the middle. The man gazes at me with a half smile that looks almost mocking.
I look around. “He said he had no children,” I say questioningly, but no one answers me. The heartthrob stares at me, and I shiver, suddenly desperate to escape this place that feels full of ghosts.
Once outside, I tilt my face to the sun, grateful for the warmth that chases that odd chill away. A nearby lilac bush fills the air with its heady scent. It’s overgrown, and the flowers are blousy. Overhead, a plane tracks a silver path across the sky.
Mac finds me later sitting by the river, swinging my legs and watching it flow swiftly by. He comes to stand next to me and pats my hair in an absent but affectionate way. “Alright? Sam is on the way with the boat.”
I look up at him and wonder whether to tell him about the summerhouse, but I decide against it. His face is set and cold. Not the face of a man who just got what he wanted.
“So, it’s done? The house is yours?”
He looks back at the old house slumbering in the late afternoon sunshine. “Finally,” he says with an air of intense satisfaction.
What does that mean? I bite my lip. “There’s something about Mr Corvin.” I trail off, not sure what I’m trying to say.
