It was a woman in her thirties, with short dark hair, smartly dressed in a black suit with a white blouse. She stood there for a fleeting instant with a strange smile on her face.
Then she vanished.
Goosepimples rippled down his skin.
He stared at the door, which he had distinctly heard open. But it was closed.
She had looked so . . . so real. So damned real. He strode over to the door and yanked it open. There was no one outside. ‘Emily!’ he shouted. ‘Emily!’
‘Yes, what is it? I’m in the kitchen.’
The image of the woman he had just seen burned strongly in his mind, like a photograph.
So damned clear.
He must have imagined her. But why? From where? From somewhere in his past?
He went down. Emily was at the sink with rubber gloves on, washing the cups and glasses she was unpacking. He stopped and stared at her.
‘You OK?’ she asked.
He nodded, uncertainly.
‘Are you sure? You look very pale.’
He nodded.
‘Have you eaten?’
He said nothing, still staring at her.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
He continued staring at her.
‘Hello!’ she said. ‘Hello!’
He walked over and kissed her. ‘Had a good lie-in?’
‘I did, I needed it – I’m feeling seriously hungover. Did you go for your bike ride?’
‘Fifteen miles,’ he said proudly. ‘It’s just stunning countryside all around here.’
‘Wish I’d come with you.’
‘Didn’t want to disturb you. You were lying, paws up, snoring like a warthog.’
‘Thanks!’ she said.
He grinned. ‘Did you just come into my studio, a few minutes ago?’
‘No – I’m trying to get everything unpacked for the catering kitchen. Why?’
‘It’s OK, don’t worry about it.’ He turned to go back up.
‘What do you mean, did I just come into your studio?’
‘Nothing. It’s OK. What time shall we leave for the pub?’ he said.
‘Are we walking or driving? We could walk, then we could have a drink – and it’s a glorious day.’
‘I’m not going to drink – I’ve got to work this afternoon – but let’s walk anyway. It’ll take about twenty minutes.’
‘Perfect. Are you really feeling OK? You don’t look right.’ She peered at him closely. ‘Why did you ask if I came into your studio?’
He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Absolutely. Just a bit hungover, too, that’s all. Actually, maybe a small hair of the dog in the pub will do me good.’
He made himself another double espresso from the machine and carried the cup upstairs. As he reached the door to his studio he hesitated, feeling a sudden cold draught, and with it a frisson of fear, then pushed it open.
The room was silent. Low winter sunlight streamed in through the windows. He breathed in the smell of white spirit and oil paints, the smells he had always loved. All the same, as he entered, he looked around – for the woman in the smart suit with the curious smile.
The triple-glazed room felt cold, as if the heating had gone off. He went over to the thermostat and checked it. Twenty-two degrees – it should be plenty warm enough in here. He went down to their bedroom, put on an extra sweater and returned to his studio.
The woman was still ingrained vividly in his mind.
Who was she?
Why had he imagined her?
Jan Dixon, his clinical psychologist, warned him that moving home could be a very stressful experience for people, and he might find his emotions seesawing for some while. Perhaps that included hallucinations?
Parking it, now he had a possible explanation, but still unsettled by the woman, he sipped his coffee then focused on his work in progress, and within moments had put her completely out of his mind.