I wake with a start to the sound of rain ricocheting off my bedroom windows. At least it was bright and dry earlier, despite the icy temperatures. But when the morning sun swiftly disappeared behind ominous clouds that seemed to appear from nowhere, the weather turned even chillier, with a punishing wind that lasered through my slender frame. I turn my head towards the windows, grateful to be inside, despite feeling lonely in this house all by myself. The force of the rain is quite alarming. Brutal. Invasive. As if strong enough to break through the glass and attack me in my bed, even though I know the panes are impenetrable. The fitter who installed them assured me of this when I had all the windows in the building replaced as part of the house refurbishment. Fulfilling Charles’s long-held dream of going eco-friendly, in line with his company’s policy and the values it promoted. I’ll admit that replacing all the windows was also partly psychological. When Charles died unexpectedly seven years ago of a heart attack, I instantly felt so vulnerable, despite the high-tech alarm system he had fitted before we moved into our dream house twelve years ago. One of the happiest days of my life. Aside from our wedding day, of course. He was the best of men. Kind and true and generous. He took care of me, and I always felt safe here with him to protect me. I was the best version of myself with Charles. He, who broke through my emotional walls and made me feel good about myself, about being able to love and be loved back. Until that fateful day occurred. When something happened to shatter my new-found confidence. Putting a strain on my marriage and making me wonder, even now looking back, whether the stress I put Charles under with my mood swings and heavy drinking led to him being taken from me too soon. I hate to think that’s the case, but whatever the cause, his sudden death hit me like a stray bullet that pierced my heart and splintered my soul. A shock so devastating I didn’t leave the house for six months.
My aunt and uncle came to stay with me in the immediate aftermath. Concerned for my well-being. Frightened I might do something stupid in my low condition and revert to how I was in my early teenage years, anxious and depressed, experiencing frequent panic attacks that had me thinking I was dying. Back then, I sometimes felt that death might be preferable to the tidal wave of utter helplessness that overwhelmed me. They became surrogate parents to me after my real mother and father passed away a few months shy of my fifteenth birthday – that sensitive age, when my hormones were raging, my body going through all sorts of changes. Anger, grief, confusion shooting through me. A time when I needed a mother more than ever. Not that my real mother had ever been great at the role. Far from it, it pains me to say. Thanks to Aunt Georgie and Uncle Philip, I got through that time, got a handle on my drinking, and they left only when they felt it was safe to do so.
I yawn loudly, my head still foggy from having been locked in a deep sleep. Looking at the time, I’m startled to realise I must have dozed off for a few hours, yet I don’t feel as refreshed as I should do. That’s been happening a lot lately. It’s frustrating. But I guess I did go hard at the gym. I’ve really been pushing myself on the cardio, but perhaps I need to ease up. They say exercise is good for sleep, but too much can have the opposite effect. Can make you restless, drained. Anxious. It’s just that, since the whole business with Ethan, exercise has been a lifesaver, the only way I’ve managed to blank out the image of him lying dead on the ground. Blood everywhere. His neck broken, his vertebrae shattered, such was the force of the fall. An image that always seems to appear in my head as soon as I get under the covers and have nothing else to distract me. Ramping up my stress levels. To be honest, my sleep patterns have been all over the place since Charles died. Before that, even. My mind beset by fear and anxiety, along with an overwhelming grief and guilt I know I’ll never be free from. Dr Martin says it’s natural to sleep when you’re depressed, when the joy has gone out of your world. He said he treats lots of patients in the same position. Unable to drop off at normal times because their minds are too wired, but who eventually give in to the rest their bodies are craving. Be that at two in the morning or in the middle of the afternoon. He says that’s why I need a companion, a form of distraction other than my charity work to release my mind from the gloom that holds it so tightly within its grasp. And he agreed that taking in a new lodger, despite the unfortunate business with Ethan, might help with that. Someone who can help out around the house, do the little jobs Charles used to take care of, despite the debilitating knee pain that marred his life since getting injured on the rugby field aged eighteen. Ethan wasn’t so great at those, but he had other qualities and it makes me sad when I think about the good times we shared. The fact that he had his whole life ahead of him.
Night-time is the worst, when every creak, every sound seems to be accentuated a thousand-fold. It’s not so bad when I have work to do. And I’m sure, if it were summer and I could sit outside with friends on the roof terrace in the balmy evening air, chatting and drinking wine, I’d feel less isolated. Less trapped. But at this time of the year, when everything is so bleak and desolate, I feel especially cut off. Vulnerable. Exposed.
I tell myself the antidepressants Dr Martin prescribed twice daily can’t help with my erratic sleeping patterns, causing me to nod off at odd times, but still wake feeling thick-headed, like I’ve got the worst hangover. But perhaps that’s wishful thinking. Me wanting to bury the real issue here. That for some time now I’ve had the feeling I’m being watched, causing my sleep to be restless because I’m too afraid to drop off. I lie wide awake in this vast bed of mine, my heart beating rapidly, my ears pricked for the faintest noise or movement. My gaze fixed on my closed bedroom door, terrified that any minute an intruder is going to creep in and murder me in my sleep. It’s just a sixth sense I have, that I am not always alone, and it’s something that scares the hell out of me even though I know how secure the house is and that it’s probably pure paranoia. Like a child afraid of the monsters that only emerge at night.
I enjoyed my workout earlier at my local gym. I didn’t need to go there. I’ve got my own fitness room here. After we bought the property, Charles had it installed for me on the lower ground floor, along with my art studio. As well as being able to paint, he knew how much I loved to exercise. And that our home was where I was happiest. I’d like to say that’s still the case. That I spend so much time here at Serenity House because it brings me joy. But the truth is, I can’t afford to stay away for long. It’s too dangerous.
My home gym is equipped with all the cardio machines and weights I could possibly ask for, and I’ll often spend over an hour in there, sweating out my stress, centring my mind. It’s why I’m so slender, I suppose, although that’s also partly down to genetics, my mother having been a model in her twenties. But today, I needed to make myself scarce to give Max time to show my prospective new lodger around. I don’t like being in the house when they’re looking. Can’t bear for them to feel uncomfortable or fear that their every move is being watched. I know that feeling. It’s unnerving. Makes you feel tense, claustrophobic. Unsafe. Above all else I want my new lodger to feel at ease living here. To trust that I’ll respect their privacy as much as I hope they’ll respect mine.
Despite being a private person, I’ve never been good on my own. Not since I was a little girl. Being an only child, you’d think I would be, but it wasn’t the case. My parents socialised a lot, with my mother mixing in the circles she did, and my father a successful property developer. Because of this, they made little effort to spend time with me. My mother was more interested in living the high life, in keeping up with the Joneses, along with other things she kept from my father. While he was a workaholic. The various childminders and babysitters I had from the moment I could crawl knew me better than my own parents. I guess that’s why I buried my head in books. It was an escape from the loneliness. But when my parents died, and I moved far away from my childhood home in Devon to live with my aunt and uncle in Guildford, things were different, and for the first time in my life I felt truly happy. I became a new person and never looked back. Before long, I took my aunt and uncle’s surname of Carter, going on to study sociology at Royal Holloway aged nineteen and then, shortly after graduating, meeting Charles by sheer chance in a bar while out for a friend’s birthday. It was love at first sight for the both of us. We married after a year of dating and that’s when I got involved in charity work. I had no idea what else I wanted to do with my life, and with money not being an issue, I was extremely fortunate to be in a position to throw myself into good causes. Everything was perfect for six whole years, until that dreaded day. When my past came back to haunt me, and the perfect life I had built rapidly began to fall apart.
I’m looking forward to having a new lodger, so I can feel safer in this house, breathe easier at night. The reality is, I’m a rich widow, a sitting target for some crazed stalker or canny criminal looking to take advantage, and so I need to be careful despite having gone to excessive lengths to make the house secure. CCTV-controlled gates and a fingerprint-recognition door lock, for example. Both of which I wish we’d had when Charles was alive. It’s the quiet moments especially, like the other night when I was opening my front door, and I could have sworn I heard something behind me. OK, so it may have been the wind, the rustling of the leaves that sounded like a whisper in my ear, but what if it wasn’t? What if it was someone who means me harm? Someone who knows I no longer have Ethan around to protect me?
I had the same feeling walking home from the Tube station the other night. I tend to avoid the Tube, but I couldn’t get a cab for love or money when I left a fundraising event in Chelsea. Again, I may have been imagining it. I have been especially jittery since Ethan fell. But there’s something called instinct, and my instincts are usually spot on, even though Dr Martin would perhaps suggest otherwise. He admitted the antidepressants I’ve been on since Charles died can cause hallucinations, especially when combined with the additional sleeping pills I take on and off, and I’d like to think, or rather hope, that he’s right. It would make sense, even comfort me, knowing the pills are to blame, as strange as that might sound.
But what if they aren’t? What if I am being watched?
What if there’s someone out there who knows what I’ve done and is looking to punish me? Expose me. Even though I am not to blame for what happened.
I showered at the gym to give Max more time to show my potential new lodger around, so when I unwrap myself from the duvet, I don’t have to worry about changing into fresh clothes. I do realise I need more layers, though. Currently, I’m dressed in a vest top and pair of knickers, having been warm and toasty under the covers. But now I feel chilly as I sit on the side of the bed, my bare feet planted on the floor, before raising myself up and going over to the chest of drawers where I keep my thicker jumpers. I pull out a powder-blue zip-up fleece, fling it on, before grabbing a pair of fleecy jogging bottoms I left draped over my dressing table chair and slinging them on too. Then lastly, my slippers.
I look around for my phone, but then remember I consciously left it downstairs in the study on Aunt Georgie’s advice. She read in a magazine that it’s bad to have any kind of electronic gadget in the bedroom. Said I’ll sleep much better if I keep my devices downstairs: out of sight, out of mind. I suppose I’ve always felt safer keeping my phone with me, particularly since Charles died. In case I need to make an emergency call. But it’s not like I don’t have a landline up here, so a few weeks ago I decided to give Aunt Georgie’s advice a shot. If banning my mobile from the bedroom is one step towards sleeping naturally without the aid of pills, then I’m all for it. Even though I feel I have a long way to go on that front.
I leave the bedroom and pad down the stairs to the kitchen, realising that my mouth is parched and I’m in need of refreshment. The door is wide open, which is slightly odd, because I’m almost certain I shut it before going for a lie-down. I don’t like leaving the door of any room in the house I’m not currently occupying open. It comforts me to keep the doors shut, even though I know how completely illogical that sounds and won’t stop a burglar from intruding. Oh well, I must have been so tired I forgot to close it, I think to myself. A shiver runs up my spine when I think about the alternative. Glancing at my watch, I see that it’s just on 5:45 p.m. A little early for wine, and really, I could probably do with more water to replace the fluids I lost earlier on the treadmill – dehydration perhaps explains me failing to shut the door – but it’s a Saturday and I didn’t have any booze last night so I think what the heck and decide to treat myself to a glass or two from the bottle of Chablis I got on my last Waitrose order. It’s not like I drink nearly as much as I used to; there was a stage when I couldn’t go a day without reaching for the bottle. I grab a tall stem wine glass from an overhead cupboard, pull out the wine from the chiller cabinet and unscrew the top. Then pour myself a generous measure and take it through to the study where I find my phone on the desk, the charger plugged into one of the sockets on the wall behind, although not the one I remember slotting it into. I tell myself not to worry, that it’s no big deal, while ignoring the uneasy sensation kneading my insides. My eyes dart around the room as I sit down on the leather swivel chair, disconnect the phone from the charger lead, and immediately see that I have two missed calls. The first is from Max, who appears to have called shortly after I got home from the gym and went upstairs for a nap. There’s also an email from him sent a few minutes after that, so I’m guessing he decided to message me after I didn’t pick up.
Hi Adriana,
Hope all’s well with you? Couldn’t reach you on the phone, so just dropping you a line to let you know how I got on showing Sebastian Walker around the house today. Well, the answer to that is very well! I think we might finally have struck gold! He seemed like a really nice, down-to-earth bloke. Quite different to your last lodger from what you told me. Not the showy loud type at all. He’s a struggling writer, and loves the area for obvious reasons. Hopes it’ll inspire him! He said he works in a bar part-time plus he has some savings put away that’ll cover the rent, although I know having a lodger is more about giving you a feeling of security than the money. He seemed to understand your need for privacy, didn’t pry too much once I explained it all. Sadly, both his parents have passed away. I’m guessing he inherited all the money – unless he has a sibling of course – so that’s also how he’s able to make ends meet. He said he doesn’t have a girlfriend, so you won’t have any complications on that front. Not at the moment anyway! The only thing I found a bit odd, when I did a quick search back at the office, is that he doesn’t appear to be on any social media. Seemed a bit unusual for a single bloke of 25 who’s been to uni and gone travelling but I guess it’s not compulsory, and in some ways quite refreshing! Anyway, just wanted to flag that up with you for the sake of transparency.
Lastly, I think he was a bit surprised to hear you were female. Like I said, he seems quite shy, and had been after a flat to rent to himself, but couldn’t resist enquiring about your room because, let’s face it, it’s a stunning property most of us can only dream about living in! Hope you don’t mind, but I said I knew for a fact you weren’t the type to get in his way, so fingers crossed I assured him on that score.
I did take the liberty of checking your diary and you don’t appear to have any other engagements on Monday morning, so I tentatively suggested 10 a.m. assuming you’re happy to meet with him?
Let me know,
Best,
Max
Lovely Max. I knew the moment I met him he was a good choice. Thorough, conscientious. He’s only been in my employment since mid-December, but I can tell he’s a keeper. Ambitious for sure, but there’s nothing wrong in that, plus his heart’s in the right place and I appreciate the extra mile he goes in vetting potential lodgers. He made a point of getting to know the house inside out in his first couple of days before showing a carefully selected few around over the last fortnight but didn’t think they were suitable. Which I agreed with, having digested his feedback. After Ethan turned out to be so wild and unpredictable, I emphasised to Max how important it was for me to take on someone with a calmer disposition. Someone who keeps himself to himself, and doesn’t cause me undue stress. I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime. And from the way he’s just described Sebastian it sounds like he fits the bill. Plus we appear to have a few things in common. For one, our love of books, and two, both his parents are dead like mine. Obviously, I won’t bring that up unless he volunteers the information himself, but just learning this makes me feel drawn to him.
I set down my wine on Charles’s beloved bespoke walnut-finished desk and type a response to Max, thanking him for the information and confirming I’d be happy to meet with Sebastian at ten a.m. on Monday.
I press send before shifting to the kitchen and topping up my wine, conscious that the second missed call was from Dr Adams, the child psychologist my aunt and uncle took me to see after my parents died and I moved to Guildford. He’s also sent a follow-up email. If it wasn’t for Dr Adams, I’m not sure I’d be sitting here today, having contemplated suicide a month or so after my mother and father passed away. Life had seemed so cruel, so futile at the time, I didn’t see any point to my existence. But he turned my life around, helped me deal with my grief, and for that I’ll always be thankful. I hadn’t expected him to be in touch so soon. I only saw him on Thursday, just two days ago. I was still feeling shaken by Ethan’s death and needed to see a friendly face. I’m ashamed to say I broke down in front of him, got a bit hysterical, in fact. Told him things I’ve not told anyone. Let him into my deepest fears. But he was as patient as ever with me, and I left feeling somewhat lighter. Despite me moving away from Guildford to London some twenty years ago now, we’ve kept in touch in all that time. He even came to visit me after Charles died, when I was feeling so low, and it was then that he recommended I see Dr Martin, more local to me, on a regular basis, with whom he went to medical school. Dr Adams is a gem of a man, someone who’ll always hold a special place in my heart and who I trust unreservedly.
I sit down at the kitchen table and read the email.
Adriana, I hope you’re managing OK after the awful business with your lodger. It was good to see you on Thursday and I hope our chat helped. Listen, I wondered if you might be able to come and see me again? There’s something urgent I need to discuss with you, and it’s best we do so in person. Can you give me a call back, so we can arrange a time? Or I can come and see you. It’s no problem for me to hop on a train. Thanks, take care. Dr Adams.
I’m not sure what to think. His message is rather cryptic, and I wonder what can be so important that he can’t tell me over the phone or in the same email. Also, that he’s prepared to come and see me here at home. When I left on Thursday, he told me to take it easy, that we’d chat again soon, and that I should try not to worry too much in the meantime. But there’s no mistaking the anxious tone of his email, despite the sweet man clearly trying his best not to alarm me. I don’t waste a second in calling him back. He seems pleased to hear from me, if not a little agitated, and we settle on Monday afternoon at 3:30 p.m., giving me ample opportunity to meet with Sebastian in the morning before getting a train to Guildford.
I sip my wine, then go to the fridge and fish out the tub of olives I picked up at a local deli, conscious of my rumbling stomach, but even more so of my solitude. All my friends are married or attached, and I don’t have any charity events planned until next week, so for now I feel somewhat at a loss. In truth, since losing Ethan, it’s been hard knowing what to do with myself. And my isolation makes me dwell on the fact that I miss him being around. Even now, I keep picturing his lifeless body. It haunts my dreams, almost drives me mad wondering what had possessed him to go up to the roof at that time of the morning even though the coroner ruled that the drugs were to blame. That he was out of his mind when he went up there. Despite what her next door claimed to have seen.
Of course, I have my charities, my gym sessions, my occasional meals out with friends to keep me occupied. My art. Something I’ve done religiously since my teens to manage my anxiety. But the fact is, there’s nothing like having another human being in the house for company. And although I know I can never marry again, not just because there’ll never be another Charles but for other reasons too, it’ll be good to have someone close by to talk to, fill the void.
Being alone stokes the bad memories. Memories I’d tried to convince myself were just my imagination until that day when reality hit me like a smack in the face and it all came flooding back. Alone, my mind dwells on that time, on the terrible secrets that grate at my soul. Secrets that are buried in this house.
A part of me yearns to confess them, to finally be free of the guilt that weighs me down. But I know I cannot if I value my freedom.
What I need is a new focus. To take my mind off things and allow me to feel safer going to bed at night.
And I’m hoping that new focus will be Sebastian.