This time I went up ahead of Donovan, moving quickly, stepping into the attic bedroom before he’d begun to tackle the stairs.
A shimmer of relief.
The room weaved its magic on me again.
The white walls. The glass skylights.
I ventured forwards, blowing air through my lips, flexing my fingers and toes as I listened to his approach.
The walls trembled gently as he reached the half-landing, then his mouth gaped with surprise.
‘I can see why it’s your favourite room.’
I cupped my hands together in front of my waist, toying with my fingers as he moved towards the skylight nearest to him, bracing his hands on the framing, going up on his toes. The darkening sky meant that I could see a reflection of him in the glass.
Donovan rocked backwards, his heels sinking into the dense carpet, looking past me towards the daybed. It had a white metal bedstead, taupe cushions and a knitted throw.
Across from it, an egg-shaped wicker chair was suspended from a ceiling rafter, its insides lined with another sheepskin rug. Low bookshelves were nestled against the eaves. A stereo, a lamp, some candles and a number of plants were arranged on top of the bookshelves.
‘What is this? Your chill-out space?’
‘I read here. When I have the time.’
Which wasn’t often.
During most of the renovation process I’d worked late into the night, sanding and prepping, painting and wallpapering. And when that was finished, I’d waged a relentless campaign against the endless build-up of dirt and dust. Usually, I was so tired at the end of the day that I’d have little energy to do anything except collapse into bed, where Sam would have his research papers spread out across the duvet, his reading spectacles on, his bedside lamp burning away on an old cardboard box on the floor until the small hours of the night.
Throughout the hard times – the days and weeks when it felt like we would never complete the renovation – this room had sustained me because I’d carried a vision of it in my mind. I’d viewed it as a perfect haven where I would sit in my swing chair, study my design books and wait for Sam to come home with a bottle of wine and a takeaway.
In my heart, I knew that’s what I would miss most when we sold this place. Not the room itself, because I hadn’t had nearly enough time to use it, but the idea of it. The future it had once seemed to promise.
My heart skipped over something, a stone skimming across a lake.
‘You don’t get claustrophobic up here?’ Donovan asked me.
I pointed upwards. ‘Windows.’
‘Right.’ He approached the bookshelves, pushed back the tails of his coat and squatted with his elbows balanced on his thighs. After glancing at some of the spines of my books, he straightened and moved to the far wall, smoothing his hand over the finish before turning and looking past me to cast an appraising gaze towards the wall opposite. I sensed he was sizing up the angles and dimensions of the space.
‘Quick question. Would you throw me out right now if I told you I was likely to turn this into a home cinema?’
I laughed. ‘Can we pretend you didn’t just say that to me?’
I felt a crackle in the air between us again, a renewed awareness of his confidence and charisma.
‘Didn’t you say there’s a study up here?’
‘Next door. It’s on the other side of the landing. I’ll follow you in.’