The Girl Before

It should feel different with Edward not here. But the truth is, the house is so much a part of him, I feel his presence even when he’s away.

It’s nice, though, to be able to lay a book down while I cook, then simply pick it up again and read as I eat. Nice to have a fruit bowl on the refectory counter to graze from. Nice, too, to slouch around in a T-shirt and no bra, unfettered by the need to keep either myself or One Folgate Street pristine every single moment.

He’s left me three cutlery sets to try out—the Piano 98, designed by Renzo Piano; the Citterio 98 by Antonio Citterio; and the Caccia by Luigi Caccia Dominioni and the Castiglioni brothers. I feel flattered to have been involved like this, but I suspect it’s also a kind of test, to see if my judgment coincides with his.

Gradually, though, I become aware there’s something niggling at me. Just as Edward can’t ignore a left-out teaspoon or a stack of books that isn’t perfectly aligned, so my tidy, conscientious mind refuses to leave alone the mystery of Emma Matthews’s death.

I do my best to resist it. After all, I promised. But the mental jarring only becomes more insistent. And what the promise he extracted from me failed to take into account is that this particular mystery is a barrier to our intimacy, to the quiet perfection of our life together. Really, what’s the point of choosing precisely the right fork—and at the moment I’m favoring the weighty, sensuous curves of the Piano—when there’s this monstrous, messy shadow hanging over us from the past?

The house wants me to know, I’m sure of it. If walls could talk, One Folgate Street would tell me what happened here.

I will satisfy my curiosity, I decide, but secretly. And once I’ve laid those ghosts to rest, I will never wake them again. I won’t ever speak to him of what I’ve learned.

Carol Younson described Edward as a narcissistic sociopath, so my first step is to research what that actually means. According to various psychology sites, a sociopath displays:

Superficial charm

A sense of entitlement

Pathological lying

He or she is:

Easily bored

Manipulative

Remorseless

Lacking in emotional range

Individuals with Narcissistic Personality Disorder:

Believe themselves superior to others Insist on having the best of everything Are egocentric and boastful

Fall in love easily, put the love object on a pedestal, then just as easily find fault

This is all wrong, I think. Yes, Edward is different from other people, but from a sense of purpose, not superiority. His self-confidence is never boastful or attention-seeking. Nor do I think he ever lies. Integrity is very, very important to him.

The first list might be closer, but it still doesn’t feel right. Edward’s reserve, his unavailability, could certainly be taken as evidence that he’s lacking in emotional range. But actually, I don’t think he is. Having lived with him, if only for a short while, it’s more that he’s…

I think, searching for the right words.

It’s more like he’s closed off. That he’s been hurt in the past, and has reacted by retreating behind these self-erected barriers into a perfect, ordered world of his own devising.

Was it his childhood?

Was it the death of his wife and child?

Could it even have been the death of Emma Matthews?

Or was it something else entirely, something I haven’t yet guessed at?

Whatever the reason, it seems strange that Carol should get Edward so wrong. Of course, she never met him. She’s relying on what Emma told her.

Which in turn suggests that Emma was also mistaken about him. Or—another thought occurs to me—that Emma herself deliberately misled her therapist. But why should she do that?

There’s one person who might be able to tell me, I realize. I get out my phone and find a number.

“Hampstead Homes and Properties,” Camilla’s voice answers.

“Camilla, it’s Jane Cavendish.”

A short pause while she places me. “Jane—of course. Is everything all right?”

“It’s fine,” I assure her. “It’s just that I found some things in the attic here that I think might have belonged to Emma Matthews. Would you have any contact details for the man she moved in here with, Simon Wakefield?”

“Ah.” Camilla sounds guarded. “I take it you’ve learned about Emma’s…accident, then. That was when we took over, actually—the previous agents lost the contract after the inquest. So I wouldn’t have any details for tenants before then.”

“Who was the previous agent?”

“Mark Howarth, of Howarth and Stubbs. I can text you his number.”

“Thanks.” Something makes me add, “Camilla…You say your agency started letting One Folgate Street three years ago. How many tenants have lived here since then?”

“Besides you? Two.”