Did you buy anything nice?
One or two things, I reply. If you’re good, I might show you when you get home.
If I’m very good, do you think you might take them off for me instead?
Mr Durrand, what kind of girl do you think I am?
There follows a series of short replies.
A smart one.
A stunning one.
Delectable from head to toe.
Not really a girl at all, but all woman.
A willing woman, I hope.
Also, mine.
That volley of texts. Those simple characters typed into his phone, the knowledge they bring, causes a series of tiny explosions of delight deep inside.
I missed you today, I type back, which is a pretty lame reply, compared to his.
I’ve missed you, too. But I’ll see you soon.
Any idea how long? Are you hungry at all?
Forty-five minutes. I had dinner earlier, but I’m sure you can guess what I’m hungry for.
I’ll see what I can rustle up ;)
A winky face. What am I, twelve?
A shimmer of anticipation washes through me as I place my phone down, and my eyes fall to the gift boxes of ties. And a spark of inspiration hits. I know just what my man needs after a hard day at the office.
Me!
42
Remy
Closing the door behind me, I resist the urge to call out honey, I’m home. I find myself smiling at my own ridiculousness, but if home is where the heart is, she is it.
I twist my head to my shoulders, left then right, the satisfying click of joints and stretch of cartilage easing the tension in my shoulders as I slide my jacket off. A fresh bowl of lilies sits in the centre of the Art Deco era occasional table, their scent sickly sweet and reminiscent of funerals. I make a mental note to ask the housekeeper not to order them again as I quickly sift through the mail.
Nothing of note. Also, nothing for Rose. Perhaps I should ask Paulette to sign her up to some circulars; mail in her name to tie her to the building that has already won her heart. She loves this old place, and I love seeing her here. I love us being here. Together.
‘Rose?’ I drop the mail to the table, suddenly noticing the absence of noise. There is usually a hum of a TV from the den or the newly installed flat screen in the kitchen, music playing somewhere, the shuffle of her feet as she dances to the beat. Though the lights burn bright in the hallway, the rooms I pass are dark and still. Salon, formal dining room, sitting room, music room, library, or den; I duck my head into each, just in case, as I make my way to the back of the house when I notice light coming from the kitchen. But there’s no sign of Rose.
My fist clamps around my heart as I take the treads of the second staircase two at a time. I’ve had a particularly trying day. One where I might have, possibly, once again faced my own mortality, if not for the vigilance of a member of staff. I had a meeting in Turin, Italy—just a forty-minute helicopter flight away—but when I arrived at the helipad, I found my usual pilot arguing with a new member of the maintenance crew. It seems the engineer noticed an irregularity with a lubricant that had been used for the rotors, and used for quite some time, as I understand. It wasn’t an irregularity but an error, an error that hadn’t been picked up at the one-hundred-hour maintenance check just last week. The engineer was trying to make the pilot understand the potential for an accident, while the pilot could only see that the previous week’s maintenance report as proof of all was well. An error, not a case of tampering. Probably. Though still a potentially costly one, and not just in terms of possible repair expenses. An unsuitable lubricant causes erosion, which would have, at some point, resulted in a mechanical failure. Possibly in midair.
Needless to say, I did not fly to Turin in my own helicopter but in a hire. An investigation is underway, but it appears to be a case of human error on the part of the old engineer. Words that are easily said. Words that have no effect on the chill currently creeping up my spine.
A low light shines from under our bedroom door as I push it open, my heart rising to my throat.
‘Rose?’
No answer, not as I push the door wide and—
‘Honey, you’re home.’ I hear her before I see her, the warmth in her voice thawing my internal chill.
‘There you are.’
She lifts her chin, an act of courage, not of enquiry, as the colour in her cheeks reflects the blush pink colour of the velvet chair she’s lounging on. Her toenails are painted a similar shade, her nail polish one of just three things she appears to be wearing.