Ten minutes later, Jason and Emily sat in silence at the kitchen table. On the shelves of their old pine Welsh dresser, which looked oddly out of place against the rest of the modern furnishings, Emily had arranged the ‘Good Luck in Your New Home’ cards, as well as more of the Christmas ones that had arrived in yesterday’s post.
With a shaking hand, he filled their glasses from the bottle of red Rioja he had opened, while the chicken casserole and potato gratin sat uneaten in front of them, along with the salad. On the muted television on the wall, a woman on Antiques Roadshow was pointing at an assortment of jewellery laid out on a table.
‘Maybe I should heat this up again – I thought we should have something hot after our cold lunch.’
‘Thanks. Is this what we bought at the garden centre?’
She nodded, looking at him almost guiltily for using a ready-made meal. ‘But I made the salad,’ she said, as if by way of reparation.
He dug his fork in and ate a mouthful of the casserole, testing it. It was tepid, but tasty. ‘It’s OK, doesn’t really need heating up, it’s good – not as good as yours, though.’ He smiled. ‘Babes, never feel guilty about having a ready-made supper – I don’t, when it’s my turn to cook.’
She smiled thinly back. Then said, ‘It would be a lot nicer hot.’
He glanced at his watch, anxious to get back to his studio, no chance of a relaxing evening in front of the television. He was going to have to work into the night to get the dogs painting finished, and tomorrow he would have to do the pencil sketch of the King Charles spaniel for his other client. ‘I’m fine with it – we could heat it up for a couple of minutes if you’d like?’
‘I’m fine with it, too.’ She picked up her glass and drank half of it in one gulp. She was still looking shaken.
‘So, are we going to talk about it?’
‘About?’ She put down her glass, picked up her knife and fork and prodded her food. But she did not eat anything.
‘About the lady? Tell me what you meant, when you said, you’ve seen her too?’
Emily continued to stare down at her plate, pushing the food around more. ‘Yesterday morning, when I was putting my make-up on at my dressing table, I saw a woman in the mirror, standing right behind me. I turned around and she wasn’t there. I thought I’d just imagined her. Then last night when we were getting ready for bed, I was looking in the bathroom mirror, cleaning my face, and I saw her again. I knew I was a bit pissed, after the P-Ws had gone, so I figured I’d imagined it again – and I didn’t want to say anything in case you thought I was going nuts. But that drawing you’ve just done – that’s her.’
‘You absolutely sure?’
‘It’s her.’
‘That’s so weird.’
‘Is it?’ she said, the sharpness of her voice surprising him. ‘What’s so weird?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re an artist, you draw or paint people, often random strangers you’ve seen. What’s so weird about that?’
He stared at her for some moments, trying to unravel her logic. ‘Random strangers, yes, but not random strangers in our house, normally.’
‘I’m not sure what normal is at the moment.’
He ate another mouthful, chewing in silence. ‘Perhaps . . .’ he began, then fell silent again.
‘Perhaps what?’
He continued chewing. On the screen behind Emily, one of the presenters was admiring an array of old toy soldiers. ‘Perhaps we’re both suffering a kind of moving trauma. Dr Dixon warned me that it might take some time to adjust to our new home.’
‘Did Dr Dixon also warn you that the ghosts of the previous occupants might still be in residence?’
He smiled. ‘No, he forgot that bit.’ He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Hey.’ He squeezed it, gently. ‘Look, you and I are both rational people. Our emotions are bound to be in turmoil; moving home is a big thing. You know what I think?’
‘No, what do you think?’
‘That maybe we’re both picking up on the vibes of a previous occupant.’
‘What do you mean, vibes?’
‘We’re all full of energy – maybe the energy of people who’ve been here before us remains in some way, leaves some kind of vibe that we occasionally pick up.’
‘How come we never picked up any before, in our previous homes? And anyhow, there hasn’t been a previous occupant, Jason. This is a brand-new house.’
‘I meant a previous occupant of the old house. We know this is on part of the footprint of the former mansion here. Perhaps – I don’t know – we’re picking something up from the past, and we’re communicating it to each other telepathically? That’s what I think is one possibility.’
‘And the other possibility?’
He sipped some of his wine then set his glass down and looked her in the eye. ‘It’s the one I’m struggling with – because it goes against all my rational thinking.’ He looked at her and fell silent.