things? Surely he should respect my privacy? Surely there were boundaries even within a marriage? Doug had always given me space. I couldn’t imagine Doug ever unpacking all my things, especially my cosmetics. Or was I wrong? Did people do this?
I exhaled forcefully.
Whatever my feelings, Martin had now seen all my drugs. I snatched the Ativan container from the cabinet, opened it, and hurriedly swallowed a pill, desperate now to take the edge off the full-blown panic attack threatening me. I replaced the container and saw he’d also put my bottle of multivitamin capsules in the cabinet, so I popped one of those, too, followed by a headache pill.
Wrapped in a towel, I went into the bedroom and slid open the mirrored closet door in search of clothes. The first side I opened was Martin’s. I stared bemused at the impossibly neat stack of T-shirts. Color-coded. And his hangers holding button-down shirts had been placed at precisely even intervals. It was creepy. Cold. Too organized. How had I not noticed this streak in him before? Probably because we hadn’t lived together yet. After we married he’d stayed at my place only on occasions. The rest of the time he was back and forth between winding up his business and his apartment in Toronto.
I opened the other half of the closet. He’d hung and folded my clothes, too, including my bras and panties in matching color groupings. A chill crawled down the back of my neck. Everything of mine had been touched and ordered by him.
I found a sundress, and as I pulled it over my head I felt the Ativan taking effect. It was a relief. Once dressed I did my makeup, trying to minimize the puffiness of my eyes and the redness of the mosquito bites. Then I wandered downstairs in bare feet.
Everything downstairs was white. The room was open plan, clean lines, minimalist. Huge pieces of abstract art provided the only slashes of color—streaks of bloodred, black upon yellow. Glass sliding doors opened onto a lawn that rolled down to trees along the river. The Bonny River, I presumed. I could see the mouth, where the brown bled into the aquamarine sea. Beyond the mouth was a rocky point where waves crashed and foamed, spray blowing white into the wind.
I padded into the living room, the white tiles smooth beneath my feet.
“Martin?” I called.
Silence echoed through the hollowness of the stark house.
“Martin!” I called louder.
No answer.
I saw a closed door to my left. I tried the handle. Locked. Martin’s office? Why would he lock it? My feeling of disquiet deepened.
The kitchen was huge. Again, all white, even the dishcloths. No dirty plates in the sink. No lingering coffee cups. The wine fridge was fully stocked with an array of whites and rosés plus two bottles of prosecco. A small craving pinged through me as I studied the chilled bottles, but I opened the main fridge, instead, in search of cold water. This fridge contained ciders, beer. I found bottled water. I opened the cap and swigged, but I was stopped by a sudden sense of being watched. I lowered the bottle, turned. The sensation of being observed intensified.
“Martin?” I said softly, but I could see no one there.
I went to the sliding door and stepped out onto the patio facing the river. The air was heavily scented with the sea. The sense of being watched lingered. I glanced up into the trees. As I did, two sulphur-crested cockatoos screamed and swooped down at me. I gasped and ducked. They fluttered, cackling into the sky. My heart hammered.
I turned in a slow circle, seeking the source of my unease. There was a vacant lot to my left—a tangle of drab vegetation. To my right was a neighboring property. I studied the second-story windows of the house that looked into our yard. A sheer curtain moved, possibly stirred by the hot breeze because I could see no one. The background noise of raucous birds was intense.
I walked over the coarse grass and down the slope toward the boathouse that Martin had said would be ideal as my studio.
Everywhere, droplets glimmered in the sun. It had clearly rained heavily last night. It was making the ground steam. Gum trees dripped. The blades of grass were sharp-edged under my feet, like everything else in this place was sharp.
Inside the studio the walls were also bright white—a kitchenette, a tiny bathroom, a daybed. A lone black-and-white clock hung above the bed. The clock