‘Lost your job, your friends – you’re in a limbo right now. You certainly can’t go back. What would you do? Where would you live?’
More tears rolling down the curve of my cheeks, making my vision blur. Marco says, ‘Oh, darling’, and he says, ‘Oh, Stella.’ He rubs my knuckles with his thumb.
‘I’m just trying to – don’t cry, honey – I’m just trying to make you see the reality of it, of your situation. It’s no good me pretending to you that everything is as it was. It isn’t, and it won’t be for a while.’
His phone begins to twitter in his hand. He looks at it and smiles apologetically.
‘I really do need to take this. One second, okay?’
He moves away from me, across to the back door and onto the little stone path which leads out into the garden, voice low. I close my eyes, only half aware that I am swaying slightly, only half aware that the knocking sound I can hear is at the front door.
‘Marco,’ I call out, ‘Marco, the door.’
I walk into the hallway, back again. Fidgeting. Someone is here at the house. My hands curl and uncurl at my sides.
‘Marco?’
More rapping, this time more urgent. I walk down the hallway on legs which are not quite steady. When I reach the front door I allow my fingers to hover over the latch.
‘Who is it?’
‘Caretaker,’ comes the muffled reply. And then, when I hesitate, ‘It’s starting to get cold out here.’
I open the door, pinning a smile to my face rigid as rigor mortis. The man standing in the doorway is middle-aged, bullish, thick beard threaded with grey. He is smiling, revealing a row of small, even teeth.
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘you’re not Mr Kennecker.’
‘True.’ He pushes his cap back on his head. ‘What gave it away?’
‘You’re too young. Marco told me he’d been looking after the house since he was small so that would make you at least seventy.’
‘Correct. And I am to assume that you are not Mr Marco Nilsen?’
‘Very observant. What gave it away?’
‘If I’m honest, ma’am, it was your tits.’
I bark laughter once, shocked. He is still smiling, arms folded across his broad chest. Carmel would have liked you, I think briefly, and with that comes a pain somewhere in my chest so I shut the thought down.
‘Do I hear a trace of an accent? Are you American?’
‘Nope. Canadian.’ He rolls back the sleeve of his parka to reveal a maple leaf tattoo. It is old and faded and the colours have bled.
‘Terrible, isn’t it? I got it done in my teens when I was in Vietnam so that people wouldn’t keep assuming I was an American. People are much friendlier to you when they find out you’re from Vancouver, not Texas.’
‘It’s a pretty permanent form of identification.’
‘Yup, I guess. But you don’t think of permanence at nineteen, do you?’
I shrug. He tilts his head slightly, narrows his eyes.
‘I’m Frankie.’ Extending a hand. ‘Like the Sister Sledge song but more irritating. Can I come inside? I’m getting soaked.’
The caretaker, Mr Kennecker, has been in hospital.
‘Gallstones,’ Frankie explains. ‘Painful but not fatal. He’s fine, he’s recovering, but he won’t be back at work. I’ll pass on your best wishes, shall I?’
‘Yes, please do,’ Marco says briskly. He moves around the table to shake Frankie’s hand. ‘We were expecting you half an hour ago, so I hope you’ll understand that I’m not going to stay here long. I need to get back to London.’
Since coming off the phone his face has darkened. He looks like a caricature of himself, swiftly drawn. Dark and brooding, wide mouth set in a firm line.
He pulls me towards him, saying quietly, ‘That was Alice. She found your bag. It was in the hallway by the stairs. She said she’ll get it down here as soon as possible.’
‘I don’t understand how that happened.’
He squeezes my shoulder, looking into my eyes. ‘Stop it.’
‘Stop what?’
‘Going over everything. You’ve done the right thing.’
‘I wasn’t—’
‘And stop thinking about Carmel. You’re better off without her. She was a leech.’
‘I wasn’t thinking about Carmel.’
I am, of course. I look at the bracelet on my wrist, the one with the inscription next to my skin. I wear it all the time. And so I think of her.
Frankie has a box beneath one meaty arm, and now he puts it on the scarred surface of the old oak table. He pulls his cap off to reveal dark curls peppered with silver. He has another tattoo, I notice, on the back of his hand. Blue ink, a geometric shape, fuzzy with age.
‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ Frankie asks.
I clear my throat. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t been shopping yet, so we have nothing in.’
‘Aha!’ He sounds pleased with himself and opens the box. ‘It’s a sort of welcome pack. It was Mrs Kennecker’s idea, so I can’t take the credit. Just to help you on your first night.’
From inside he produces teabags, milk and a small bag of sugar. Holding up a finger – ‘Wait, wait, I’m not done’ – he continues to extract a bag of apples, cornflakes, sausages, potatoes and a box of chocolates. With a final flourish he produces a bottle of red wine.
‘Uh – Frankie. That’s very kind, but Stella won’t be drinking the wine this evening, I’m afraid,’ Marco says.
‘Well, then she can splash it on her cornflakes, can’t she?’ Frankie stares at the label. ‘Should certainly liven up your morning.’
‘Do you want to tell him, Stella?’
It stings. My guts turn slippery with anxiety. A blush is building on my chest, my neck. Instead I look down, hands ghost-white stars spread on my knees. I shake my head.
‘No?’ Marco turns to Frankie. ‘Stella isn’t drinking because Stella is an addict. We can’t have any alcohol in the house. She’s here to get better. London was ruining her, and she’s left it all behind.’
Marco says all this impassively, tanned forearms crossed in front of him. The glint of his thick gold watch hangs in a loop about his wrist. Distantly, I hear Frankie say that it’s cool, no problem, he’ll take the wine home, and would I like him to show me the boiler, it’s just upstairs. I follow him on hollow feet.
London, home, suddenly seems as remote as a moon orbiting a distant planet. I have shed it like a skin, a ghostly imprint, fading. I miss my friends, although it feels like a long time since I have spoken to Carmel or Martha or James. Marco told me it was all behind me now; the commuting, the unendurable deadlines and unbreakable glass ceilings, the flirting, the pubs, the traffic. But, still. I miss it.
My bedroom is at the back of the cottage, with a long window overlooking the sea to the west. The room is bisected by a dark beam, and beneath my feet are honey-coloured oak floorboards worn smooth with passage. I lie on the bed, my arms over my head. My bones are tired, lead-heavy, like my flesh. I cocoon my memories, the ones which are stark and indelible, the ones the pills haven’t eroded away. I keep them safe because they are all I have.