An Unwanted Guest

He becomes absorbed in his book, until he is interrupted by the sound of a woman’s voice.

‘Is that you, David?’

It’s Gwen, and, in spite of his earlier resolution, his heart leaps. ‘Yes.’ He turns to look at her, standing in the doorway, and sees that she’s alone.

‘I remembered you saying you were going to the library.’

How lovely she looks, he thinks, getting up out of his armchair.

‘It’s perfect,’ she says, gazing around the room.

‘Yes, isn’t it,’ he agrees. Somehow he knew she would appreciate it, too.

‘I wonder where everyone is,’ David muses. He feels awkward, adolescent.

‘Riley is tired and has gone up to bed,’ Gwen offers shyly. ‘I think some of the others might still be in the dining room, having nightcaps.’

‘I can ask Bradley to light the fire in here,’ he says. She nods, but he can’t tear himself away from her to find Bradley just yet.

Together they begin to peruse the shelves. He enjoys standing beside her, while the storm rages just outside. After a particularly loud gust of wind they both look towards the French doors.

‘Do you think it’s going to get worse?’ she asks.

I don’t care if it does, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it aloud. He’d like nothing better than to be stranded here, with her. ‘I don’t know,’ he says.

‘What shall I pick?’ she wonders out loud, as he stands close to her.

He points to the large book he’d chosen earlier, open on the coffee table where he left it. ‘I’m reading about a tragic expedition to the South Pole.’

‘Perfect for tonight!’ She wanders along the shelves, dragging her index finger along the surface. Something seems to catch her eye, and she pulls a volume from its place. ‘Oh – I’ve heard about this one,’ she says. ‘I’ve been meaning to read it.’

David reads the title – The Suspicions of Mr Whicher, or The Murder at Road Hill House.

‘I love a good murder mystery, don’t you?’ she says.

Chapter Seven

Friday, 8:50 PM

AFTER DINNER, IAN escorts Lauren – they are both a little tipsy – up the grand staircase. He can’t wait to get her into bed. Their room is located on the second floor, at the end of the hall. When they arrive there, Lauren fumbles with the key, and Ian idly notices another door near theirs. He suspects it opens onto another staircase that goes down the back of the building, presumably emptying out somewhere close to the kitchen. It would have been the servants’ staircase; the maids would never have used the main staircase, which makes such a grand statement in the lobby.

He puts his hand on the door and pushes it open. He stares down the rather narrow, plain wooden staircase that winds below, dusty and dimly lit.

‘What are you doing?’ Lauren asks.

‘Just looking,’ he says.

‘What’s on your dirty mind, Ian?’

She is on his dirty mind. He grabs her hand and pulls her to him. ‘Come with me, baby,’ he says, nuzzling her neck. He slowly unbuttons her blouse. ‘Come on, no one will see.’

She protests softly as he pulls her into the stairwell.

Henry and Beverly return to their room on the first floor after dinner. ‘I think I’ll read a bit before bed,’ Henry says.

‘I’m going to take a bath,’ Beverly tells him.

She slips into the marble bathroom, taking with her the costly, sexy new nightgown that she’d bought in anticipation of this weekend. Henry doesn’t even notice what she’s up to, his nose already in a book.

It’s been such a long time since they’ve made love. What with teenagers in nearby bedrooms, and the two of them both so tired and irritable at the end of the day, the physical part of their marriage has suffered. Time just slips away from you. But she’s going to make an effort. She hangs the new nightgown – champagne silk with ivory lace – on the back of the door and admires it for a moment while the bathtub fills. Henry hasn’t seen it yet. He’ll be surprised. It’s been a long time since she’s worn proper lingerie – she’s embarrassed to think of the tatty pyjamas she usually wears, day in, day out. This silky nightgown will make her feel attractive again. She adds bubbles to the bath, and as she gets into the tub and sinks below the bubbles, she decides that this weekend is going to be the beginning of a new start for her and Henry. Perhaps they will sleep late and have breakfast in bed, like they used to, a long time ago.

She emerges from the bathroom a short time later, feeling radiant in the champagne silk, smelling of roses, her skin soft, and approaches the bed. She looks at Henry sitting up in bed with his book, and when he lifts his head from the page she smiles at him coquettishly, though she suddenly feels shy. How ridiculous.

But he doesn’t respond the way she expects. He looks more dismayed than anything. He certainly doesn’t look at her as if he’s pleased, as if he finds her attractive.

It’s a shock.

He recovers quickly and says, ‘I’m sorry, honey. I’m just … so tired.’

It’s like a slap, even if she’s only getting her own words thrown back at her. She feels her face go hot, and tears start to burn her eyes. She’s so hurt that she can’t think of anything to say. Perhaps she has misjudged things badly.

‘I thought we came up here to be together,’ she says, fighting tears. ‘You don’t seem that interested.’

He gives a big exhale and puts down his book. Then he says quietly, ‘Maybe it’s too late.’

Too late? He can’t possibly mean that. He can’t. Now she starts to cry, sloppily. She’s hurt and scared and embarrassed, standing there in her filmy gown that hides nothing. That was the point, but now she wishes she’d never bought the damn thing, never popped into that fancy lingerie store a couple of weeks ago, blushing and hopeful. Suddenly she wishes they’d never come to this damn place, that she’d never had the idea. She doesn’t want to see her marriage fall completely apart. She should have left well enough alone; perhaps they could have gone on amiably ignoring one another, being too busy to examine their lives, their relationship, focusing on the kids, who still very much need them. She’s not sure she really wants to put the two of them – their relationship – under a microscope. Does she really want to open this can of worms? She’s suddenly frightened of what he might say next. She’s frightened of being alone, of being left. She has a career, but she doesn’t feel that independent. Financially, a divorce would ruin both of them. They both know that. If he wants out, she thinks, terrified, he must be desperately unhappy.

Maybe it’s too late. She feels like a fool for not seeing this coming, for not knowing what he was thinking. All this slips through her mind in a flash as she stands there exposed in her expensive negligee, goose bumps appearing on her chest and arms. Embarrassed in front of her own husband, she folds her arms in front of her breasts, which are billowing out of her nightgown in what now seems to be an unseemly fashion. Perhaps he is finished with her. Her thoughts are speeding away with her like a runaway train headed for catastrophe. She longs for her thick terry bathrobe to cover herself, but is too stunned to move. She sinks down onto the bed, takes a deep, ragged breath, and says, ‘What do you mean?’