The Upstairs Room

Richard decided to start with the living room. He’d managed to put aside a small amount last month and he would put the rest on credit cards, even though he hated the thought of more debt. Eleanor had been even more withdrawn lately in a way he couldn’t put his finger on: she was preoccupied, almost secretive. It felt like they hadn’t talked for months. He had to do something.

Painting the walls would make enough of a difference, for now. He sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by colour charts, while Eleanor rested upstairs. He had looked at them all a hundred times, but it became instantly less pleasurable now he actually had to make a choice. As soon as he lighted on something, it seemed too strong, too ordinary, too much of a cliché, too much of a statement. He tried to think about what Eleanor would like. He’d asked her and she’d said, ‘Just different. Just change them, I don’t care.’ He tried to think about her favourite colours, her favourite things, and all he could remember was the times he’d got it wrong. The shoes she never wore. The engagement ring he knew wasn’t quite right.

She came downstairs carrying a bundle of washing in her arms and for a second, he was shocked at the sight of her: so pale and unhappy. She sat down at the table, still cradling the washing, and he put his arm round her. The novelty of the gesture shocked him; he wondered how long it had been since they’d touched.

He took a deep breath, suppressing the panic. ‘I know. I’m sorry. Look, leave the washing. You should be resting. I’ll do that.’

‘It’s not . . . it’s not about now.’ She turned her face towards him and it felt like the first time she’d looked at him directly for years. She spoke quietly and cautiously, but with an undercurrent of firmness that made him dread what would follow. ‘I don’t think resting helps.’

‘You just need to rest properly. Come on, give that to me and go and lie down.’ He tried to take the washing out of her hands; she held on to it.

‘It’s the house, Richard. I don’t feel well in the house. I haven’t since we’ve moved in here. There’s something in the house that makes me ill.’

He pulled his arms away. He felt like he physically couldn’t bear this conversation. He tried to stay calm. ‘Eleanor, that’s impossible.’

‘I really don’t care any more! I don’t care what’s impossible or not. It’s what’s happening.’

‘I’m sorry you’re ill. I really am. But it’s nothing to do with the house. Look, you’re run-down, you’re stressed out, I know things haven’t been easy.’

‘Eleanor, what? Where to? Think how long it took us to find this place. We can’t!’

‘Let’s look somewhere cheaper then, leave London, I don’t care! I just don’t want to stay here!’

He tried to be rational, though he wanted, more than anything, to leave the room. ‘It doesn’t make any sense. We’ve done nothing to this place – we’d be lucky to get a single offer for it. We have a real opportunity, Eleanor, to shore something up for the future. We need this house.’

He thought about how much simpler things would be if he’d been working full-time, how much freer they’d be with his full salary. They could have started on the house by now; they might not even need Zoe. He thought about his days in the study; how they were now almost less appealing than his days in the office, as the undercurrent of guilt and dissatisfaction that accompanied them grew. He thought about how behind he’d got. The hours he’d spent in Zoe’s bedroom when he should have been working.

‘It’s not just the illness, Richard. It’s everything I’ve heard about the house, everything the neighbours have said. Knowing that something bad happened here. The stones! The stones on the step.’

‘The stones are weird, I know. Someone’s messing about. Maybe a child. But a few stones – it’s harmless, isn’t it? And the rest is just – stories, Eleanor! Gossip. I don’t know why you’ve taken it to heart.’

‘Richard, things move in the house. Nothing stays where I left it. I opened a cupboard this morning and found my engagement ring in a bowl.’

He tried to sound reassuring, but his heart was beating faster. ‘You probably just put it there when you were doing the washing up.’

‘I know I didn’t! Everything’s in the wrong place! I feel like I can’t keep hold of anything any more!’

‘You just forgot, that’s all.’ He remembered the open door of the upstairs room, a few months ago now, and the strange feeling he’d had about his desk. It couldn’t be true and besides, Eleanor was so run-down. He spoke cautiously, afraid he might be advancing where he shouldn’t, unable to let it stay unspoken. ‘When you’re ill . . . well, it’s natural to get confused. And sometimes the mind plays tricks on you.’

She pulled away. ‘Richard, it’s not me! I’m not going mad, I promise you!’

‘I’m not saying you’re mad! Just . . . you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately and . . . Look, I’ll do something about the house, and then we won’t need to think about moving. I’ve wasted too much time already, and money, and I’m sorry. I’ll make a start, make it nice, choose some paint.’

‘Well, what’s it about then?’ He tried to stop the note of desperation in his voice.

She didn’t answer. He held her in his arms again, hoping she couldn’t feel his hands trembling. She leant against him but it felt more like surrender than reconciliation. Tomorrow, he would choose the paint; it didn’t matter what colour. He’d order samples and try them out on the walls.

On Friday, after he’d said goodbye to Eleanor and then Zoe, and put off going upstairs as long as he could, he sat at his desk, walled in by piles of unread books. One was open in front of him, but it refused to yield, no matter how many times he stared at its pages. The image he’d had of himself here – absorbed, at peace, his mind working nimbly and energetically – was getting fainter. And he was finding it impossible not to think about what he’d always half known but now knew for certain: Eleanor wanted to leave. They might lose the house.

It used to be so much easier to convince himself that he was doing the right thing. ‘It’ll be worth it if you’re happier,’ Eleanor had said, when they talked about his Master’s and the sacrifice of time and money. He’d told himself that university was the last time work had meant anything to him, the last time he’d felt any pride or fulfilment in it. He’d thought it would be easy to find his way back to it.

But the side of his mind that was good at all these things had atrophied after years of underuse. Maybe it was irretrievable, maybe that hungry curiosity was lost to him now. His memories were changing too. He’d liked being good – the quick satisfaction of challenging someone’s argument or passing an exam. He had wanted to like the rest of it – solitude, library stacks, desks, notebooks – but now he wasn’t sure if he ever had. Perhaps he was as bored by it then as he was now. Perhaps it had all just been a means to an end.

The paint charts on the desk reproached him; he’d circled a few squares in biro but still hadn’t ordered the samples. His mind turned to Zoe’s bedroom as it always did on Friday afternoons. He closed the book, folded the paint charts and went downstairs.

Standing by her bed, he saw there were two empty contact lens sachets on the bedside table, little plastic dishes with a chalky white residue inside. He picked them up one by one, pressing down their unpeeled foil lids so he could read her prescription. Her eyesight was slightly better than his. He didn’t know why he could possibly want that information. Her old lenses had been abandoned on the table, two shrivelled translucent petals. He picked one up, feeling queasily electrified at the thought of touching something that had been in her eye.

It slipped out of his fingers and he panicked. He didn’t know if she would remember that she had left them by her bed; she might. He saw it glinting on the carpet and carefully picked it up, but as he tried to place it the exact same distance it had been from the other one, he knocked over the glass of water next to it. He watched, sickened, as the water pooled in the contact lens sachets and the other discarded lens regenerated in the liquid, expanding to a full moon. A dark incriminating bloom spread on the carpet. He had a blinding flash of clarity and saw himself through Zoe or Eleanor’s eyes. He knew what it looked like, and that what it looked like was essentially what it was: he was spying on their lodger.

He tried to blot the stain with tissue, but little shreds of paper, like grains of rice, got caught in the carpet and he had to pick them out. The dark patch remained. He looked at it from different angles, trying to convince himself it wasn’t obvious. He prayed it would fade by the time she got home. He had to stop this. This had to be the last time.

But he went into Zoe’s living room anyway, because if it was the last time, then he should at least make the most of it. He went straight for her fold-up writing table, which always seemed to yield the most interesting things. He found a photograph there, of her and another girl sitting on a kitchen table. They looked young – from their faces, he might have guessed twelve or thirteen but they appeared to be in a student kitchen, full of sticky jars and bottles, wine glasses and ashtrays. He was amazed by how ordinary Zoe looked: her hair was straight, shoulder-length and a kind of strawberry blonde. She had no piercings. She wore jeans and a tight, cropped T-shirt but the girl she was with was wearing a ratty black ballgown and elbow-length white gloves, which even from the photograph Richard could tell were grubby. There was something compelling about the delighted way they were looking at each other – Richard guessed that was why Zoe had kept it.

The last time he was there, she had left her laptop open, and he had delicately nudged the trackpad, as if he were brushing it by accident. The screen lit up, and he did a frenzied scan of her email inbox, but it didn’t tell him much: it was just a cluster of girls’ names and subject headers like ‘tomorrow’, ‘Exhibition’ and ‘Hello!’ Now he deliberately eased the lid up, as if he were prising open a shell. There was a brief email from someone called Liz on the screen, suggesting a time to meet – he scrolled down to read Zoe’s email to her.

So, yeah, Adam, I don’t really know what to do. I really like him. But then, I don’t know whether I actually like him or if I’m just getting off on the situation. I mean, I know it’s all kind of pointless. If we don’t really want to be together, why am I wasting my time? Then sometimes I think he’s kind of . . . showing me how to live. Ugh – I know that sounds sappy.

And then I think maybe I should just enjoy it. He’s really good-looking! There’s loads of stuff about him online – he’s got a website and things with pics. Adam Cunningham, Google him, tell me what you think! Anyway, I’m really sorry for going on about it all the time. How’s your new house? How’s Ed? Shall we go for a drink next week?

xxx

He saw a bicycle stop at the kerb outside. Someone climbed off: a woman in jeans and plimsolls. It couldn’t be Zoe, it was too early, but the jeans and the bike . . . He pushed down the laptop lid and raced up the stairs as quickly and as quietly as he could. He wanted to cocoon himself in his study, but he wouldn’t make it all the way to the top of the house. He went into the kitchen and pretended to look in a cupboard, so she wouldn’t see his face.

‘Oh, hi. How’s it going?’ Richard heard her say and he emerged from the cupboard, thinking it was going to be OK, though his pulse was still racing.

‘Yeah, we haven’t had any orders in and it’s so quiet on a Friday. Duncan said there was no point us both being there.’

‘Lucky you! Well, best get back to it.’ He tried to walk past her without looking at her.

Upstairs, he thought about the glass of water and the missing contact lenses. He had no idea if she would notice. He felt sick when he heard her footsteps on the stairs down to the basement, braced himself for a cry of outrage or repulsion. Only when it had been quiet for some time did he start to calm down. Maybe it hadn’t been a disaster after all. The residue of adrenaline was almost pleasurable. His resolution that he had to stop began to fade.

Later, he put ‘Adam Cunningham artist’ into Google. His website came up straight away. There were pictures of lumps of metal and plaster, in unrecognizable forms. Sometimes they were squeamishly corporeal and had bits of rusty nail or pipe stuck in them. Some of them were described as being made out of wax and latex, which made him feel a bit sick. His artist’s statement was full of incomprehensible jargon and his long CV meant nothing to Richard: he’d been in lots of exhibitions, most of which seemed to take place in a ‘project space’. Still, he had given lectures in art institutions Richard had heard of. He’d won prizes. He had a live/work space in Hackney. He was born when Richard was ten. Richard clicked on ‘Media’. There was a video of him speaking, saying things like ‘emotional resonance’ and ‘navigating the inner self’. Zoe was right: he was good-looking.

Richard thought about Adam’s talent and assurance, and wondered what his life would be like now if he’d given himself more of a chance. The year after graduating had felt horribly, torturously long, a heavy, sticky mouthful; now, years slipped down without him even noticing. He’d retreated to the law conversion so quickly, afraid of how unboundaried and unjust the real world seemed. He wanted the security of exams, progressions, levels and ladders. He wanted to be good at something. He thought fruitlessly about the life he might have had and the things he could have done if he’d been braver. He shut down his laptop. He potentially had a couple more hours to work, but his appetite had entirely gone.