Master of the House

‘What? Dunno. Hey, did you know Lord Lethy … bridge … died?’

‘I just found out. Joss’s not living there, I suppose?’

She shrugged.

‘Put a brew on, will you?’

That was Animal.

‘Do it yourself.’

I huffed into the bedroom, which was not mine, but the only place I could get a bit of peace and quiet and breathable air. I opened the window wide, replacing fragrant smoke with dry dog food and hamster bedding. Not much better, to be honest. I shut it again.

Lying flat on the bed, I looked up at the mobiles on the ceiling.

The room was sparsely furnished – a wicker bookcase, a reclaimed dresser covered in cheap beaded knick-knacks, a spider plant. It wasn’t much to show for a life, I thought. Mum was nearly fifty and this was everything she owned. But she was happy. Perhaps I should take a leaf from her book, travel light, live for the moment.

You’re so serious, Lucy-in-the-Sky. How did I make such a square?

Whenever I was around mum, I felt like a teenager again. My rebellion had taken a mirror-image form from the usual. No trying to get into nightclubs with a bottle of smuggled cider for me. I’d joined the Vale Operatic Society and spent my spare time reading about the politics of central Europe.

But at night, in my bed, I’d been less sober and sensible. At night, I’d thought about Joss and the cold look in his eye when he laughed at my distress.

I can do what I like to you became something other than a threat in those lonely bewildering nights. It was a dark promise, a hint of unspeakable pleasures that I could only guess at. I would remember how it felt when Joss twisted my arm behind my back and the recollection of my helplessness reached a pitch of such intensity that it seemed natural to put my fingers between my thighs and rub.

I hated myself for seeing his face when I came, but it was his face I always saw and his name I always spoke in the drugged aftermath of orgasm. It wasn’t exactly pleasurable – it was too guilty and furtive for that – but there was nothing I could do to change it.

I tried to tell myself I wasn’t mad for feeling this way, but I had my doubts. In reality, I hated him for everything he had done to me. The Joss in my head was not the Joss of flesh and blood but a fantasy creature I could warp to my will. I suppose, looking back, it was my way of dealing with how badly he had hurt me. Perhaps it wasn’t the most emotionally healthy way of processing it, though.

I sat up. I didn’t want to be thinking this. I wanted to know what was going on at the Hall. I didn’t want to sit through mum’s bloody Chumbawumba album either. I still had the general office number for Willingham Estates on my mobile phone.

I took a deep breath an

d dialled.

Obviously half past five on a Saturday afternoon in June wasn’t going to find the place manned, and I resigned myself to having to leave a voicemail message, but I was surprised when the ringing was cut off after two beeps and a female voice answered.

‘Willingham Estates, hello.’

‘Oh. Hello. You’re in.’

‘Yes. May I help you?’

‘Well, I was just wondering if Lord Lethbridge was available. I need to ask him something.’

A pause.

‘Who is this, please?’

‘So he is still living at the Hall?’ I could barely speak and I had to hold the phone tight to prevent it slipping from my sweaty fingers.

‘Who is this?’

‘Lucy Miles. Can you tell him Lucy Miles would like to talk to him?’

‘Lucy Miles?’

There was a kerfuffle and the next voice I heard knocked all the breath out of my body.