“But when you showed me round, you told me it had been empty for almost a year.”
“That’s right. The first tenant was a nurse—she only lasted two weeks. The second managed three months. I found a month’s rent stuffed through our door one morning and a note saying if she stayed there a day longer she thought she’d go crazy.”
“They were both women?” I say slowly.
“Yes. Why?”
“Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“Not really. I mean, no more than anything else about that house. But I’m glad you’re all right.” She leaves the words dangling, as if inviting me to contradict them. I don’t say anything. “Well, bye then, Jane.”
THEN: EMMA
He leaves reluctantly, the Swaine Adeney bag waiting on the stone table while we have one last breakfast.
It won’t be for long, he says. And I’ll come back for a night or two when I can.
He takes a final look around the house, at the pale open spaces. I’ll be thinking of you, he says. He points at me. Wearing that. Living like this. The way the house was meant to be lived in.
I’m wearing one of his white Commes des Gar?ons shirts and a pair of his black boxer shorts as I eat my toast. Though I say it myself, it works. Minimal house, minimal clothes.
I’m becoming a little bit obsessed with you, Emma, he adds.
Only a little?
Perhaps the break will do us good.
Why? Don’t you want to be obsessed by me?
His eyes go to my neck, to my new shorter haircut, almost too short for his hands to get a grip in when he fucks me.
My obsessions are never healthy, he says quietly.
—
After he’s gone, I open my computer.
Time to find out more about the mysterious Mr. Monkford.
The fact is, the way he reacted last night when he saw my haircut has given me an idea. An idea so crazy I can hardly believe it myself.
—
Mr. Ellis? I call. Tom Ellis?
At the sound of my voice a man turns toward me. He’s wearing a suit, a yellow hard hat, and a frown of disapproval.
This is a construction site, he says. You can’t come in here.
My name’s Emma Matthews. Your office said you’d be here. I just want a quick word, that’s all.
What about? Barry, I’ll catch you later, he says to the man he was talking to. The man nods and heads back into one of the half-finished buildings.
Edward Monkford.
He stiffens. What about him?
I’m trying to find out what happened to his wife, I say. You see, I think it could happen to me as well.
That gets his attention all right. He takes me to a café near the site, an old-fashioned greasy spoon where construction workers in hi-viz jackets tuck into plates of fried eggs and beans.
Tracking down the fourth member of the original Monkford Partnership hadn’t been easy. Eventually I’d found an old cutting online from Architects’ Journal announcing the Partnership’s formation. Four fresh-faced graduates stared out confidently from a fuzzy black-and-white photograph. Even back then, it was clear Edward was their natural leader. Arms folded, face impassive, he was flanked by Elizabeth on one side and a ponytailed, much slimmer David Thiel on the other. Tom Ellis was to the right of the picture, a little separate from the others, the only one smiling for the camera.
He brings us mugs of tea from the counter and spoons two sugars into his. Although I know the Architects’ Journal photo was taken less than a decade ago, he looks quite different now. Heavier, fatter, his hair thinning.
I don’t normally talk about Edward Monkford, he says. Or the rest of the Partnership, for that matter.
I know, I say, I could hardly find anything online. That’s why I phoned your office. Though I must admit, I hadn’t expected to find you working for somewhere like Town and Vale Construction.
Tom Ellis’s employer is a massive company that builds estates of near-identical houses for commuters.
Edward’s trained you well, I see, he says drily.
What do you mean?
Town and Vale build affordable homes for people who want to bring up families. They site them near transport links, schools, doctors’ offices, and pubs. The houses have gardens for children to play in and insulation to keep fuel bills down. They might not win architectural prizes but people are happy in them. What’s wrong with that?
So you had a difference of opinion with Edward, I say. Was that why you left the Partnership?
After a moment Tom Ellis shakes his head. He forced me out, he says.
How?
In a thousand different ways. Challenging everything I suggested. Ridiculing my ideas. It was bad enough before Elizabeth died, but after he came back from his sabbatical and she wasn’t there to rein him in anymore, he turned into a monster.
He was heartbroken, I say.
Heartbroken, he repeats. Of course. That’s the great myth Edward Monkford’s spun around himself, isn’t it? The tormented genius who lost the love of his life and became an arch-minimalist as a result.
You don’t think that’s right?