hall to her own bedroom. The bed was still unmade from the usual rush this morning but she didn’t bother making it now. What was the point, when she’d only be getting back into it to sleep again in a short while anyway?
She stepped out of her bathrobe and pulled on a pair of black loose trousers and a black jumper with a deep V; there was no point in putting on underwear at this time of night either. Twisting her damp hair into a rough bun, she padded barefoot back down to the first floor that housed her enormous kitchen and lounge. If the space was extravagant, its furnishings were not. She had spent most of her savings on the construction work when she had first moved back – the timber piles supporting the house had rotted and needed to be replaced with concrete ones, which had also meant replacing the lower-ground-floor parquet; and converting the first floor into one giant room across the front section of the house had been fiddly, ergo expensive, as the builders had had to take extraordinary care not to damage the intricate rococo plasterwork that trailed on the panelled walls and ceilings.
With the bones of the house intact, she had kept everything else simple – white walls, black free-standing kitchen units made for her by a carpenter friend of a friend. Mila called it ‘classic’, but it wasn’t her style that was questioned, just the scarcity of it. She didn’t have enough furniture, apparently; friends kept telling her she needed to get more stuff, but it struck her as somewhat grotesque to have extra possessions purely for the purpose of filling a space. She had sufficient chairs for friends to sit on, a large enough table for them to eat and drink at, beds for her, Jasper and mythical guests who never came to stay, a couple of sofas, some bookcases . . . really, what more did they need? They had ‘enough’ and she had lived for too long in too many places in the world where enough counted as a feast.
. . . Gisele’s pregnant.
The fact of it came back to her again, ignored but not forgotten. She went to the larder cupboard and pulled down her favourite bottle of whisky from the top shelf. She poured herself a snifter in an eggcup – an old habit that wouldn’t die – and knocked it back, closing her eyes as the burn hit the back of her throat, liking it – liking it for the memories it triggered of a life when everything had been more intense, when the things she did had mattered, when nothing had existed beyond Now, when life had made sense precisely because it was framed by death. She was safe now but sometimes she felt it was this domestic version of living – so cocooned and soft and dulled – that left her feeling bewildered and lost.
She wanted another but she made herself put the bottle back and reached into the fridge for some beers instead; she considered glasses too, but thought better of it. She padded down to the ground floor and set the beer bottles on the bedside table, switching on the floor lamp in the far corner and smoothing the wrinkles off the bedspread. She looked around at the little scene just as she heard the knock at the door – not the bell, just like she’d said. She didn’t want Jasper to be disturbed.
She checked the time. It wasn’t yet eight. She went through to the hall and pulled back the bolts and locks and chains.
‘That’s some security you’ve got going on there.’ Matteo Hofhuis grinned as she finally opened the door to him.
‘You can never be too careful, in my experience,’ she said. ‘And you’re early. Again.’
He smiled back at her unapologetically and she could see the shadow already darkening on his shaved head – the memento of their day together, the token of his trust, the reason Claudia had fled the studio in tears. He shrugged, those famous blue eyes set to full smoulder and working their magic, even on her. ‘I couldn’t wait a minute more. Giving you three hours has been bad enough.’
She felt a small part of herself come alive again, knowing she needed this. It was something to grab onto, at least for a little while. She held the door a little wider. ‘Well, I guess you’d better come in then.’