A Stranger's House Page 2

  ‘She’s stable.’

  Well, thanks. The make-up must have worked then.

  ‘She just needs somewhere quiet to get her head together and pick up the pieces,’ Steph went on, helpfully. ‘If she can at least keep her writing ticking over then she’ll have something left for the future.’

  Good grief.

  ‘It’s nice of you to be concerned for her,’ Steph went on, her eyes raised, head on one side.

  Nate shrugged, looked down at the pavement and folded his arms. ‘Of course, I don’t want to make things worse. But there’s the business to consider too. The last thing I need is someone who’s falling apart.’

  I felt all the air go out of me.

  There was a long-ish pause before he added: ‘The guy who owns the house …’

  Something in his tone made me listen all the more intently.

  ‘What about him?’

  He was silent for another second, but then he sighed. ‘Actually, forget it. It doesn’t matter.’

  Nate was thinking so hard about Ruby Fawcett as he drove home that he lost concentration. Not great on Newmarket Road, which was thick with buses, and cyclists that wove between the lanes of traffic. He shook himself and tried to focus on the matter in hand. Shame the air conditioning had packed up; a cool blast would have helped him snap out of it. Instead, he’d wound down the window, and a fug of fumes hung in the air. The Volvo didn’t owe him anything; he’d run it into the ground. Safer to drive a beaten-up, nondescript car than something more eye-catching. Nate leant over to switch on the radio, which, miraculously, still worked.

  He should have told Ruby to go home. The thought came back to him, blanking out the news report currently on air. And he’d known that, standing there opposite her, watching her glance at Damien bloody Newbold’s list of dictates. From what Steph had said, house-sitting for some control freak was the last thing she needed. Hours on end on her own, with a list of monotonous duties for light relief. If you weren’t already down that would do it for most people.

  He thought again about the wad of instructions. There wasn’t anything fundamentally wrong with any of them individually. He’d had plenty of clients before who’d wanted a house-sitter to occupy a specific room, or who’d been obsessive about what they could or couldn’t use. It was the combination that got to him in Newbold’s case. Didn’t want Ruby to use the upstairs bathroom, did want her to clean like a skivvy, and sleep on a rickety bed that looked like it had been made from Scrapheap Challenge leftovers. Some people enjoyed exercising power, showing what their money could buy – not just services but compliance.

  It would have been satisfying to have told Newbold to get lost, but the instructions had come at the last minute; he’d still been digesting them as he’d driven over to Cambridge. Before he’d left River House he’d wondered again about letting Ruby stay, and if she’d even want to. But her discomfort when he’d told her she could still reject the job had been obvious. Nate could see her expression now; the look in her eye had made any change of heart impossible. He hadn’t wanted to be the next person to pull the rug from under her feet. Though, in fact, she struck him as a survivor; he just didn’t want to be the one putting her strength of character to the test.

  Nate suddenly realised it was the first time in eighteen months he’d made a decision that wasn’t based on reasoned argument. And he knew what could happen if you dropped your guard. His mind strayed back again to the comment Newbold had made when he’d seen Ruby’s photo … then he remembered Jack Jones, his old mentor’s advice: ‘Never ignore your gut instinct. We’re animals and we’ve developed it for a purpose.’

  All well and good, but Nate was no longer reliable. The events of eighteen months ago meant he couldn’t differentiate between his gut and paranoia.

  Chapter Two

  I managed to make it back inside River House before Steph knocked at the door again. If I’d been on better form I might have opted for a full-scale row, but as it was I didn’t have the energy. Far simpler to pretend I’d never heard.

  ‘He really liked you,’ she said, shutting the door behind her and smiling her perky little smile.

  ‘Oh come on. He was only here for forty minutes. Admittedly, I managed to avoid any of the classic mistakes: running round in circles clucking like a chicken, that kind of thing. But as for liking me …’

  Steph turned and walked back through to the drawing room, moving over to one of the windows facing the Common. ‘You managed to turn off the flippancy, so that was a bonus.’

  I gave her a look from where I’d perched on the sofa.

  ‘I know you just do it in self-defence, but other people might think you’re shallow. And, anyway, you don’t need to do it with me. I’ve known you since you were five, for God’s sake.’

  ‘It is actually just my nature, not a front.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, right. There’s no need to be so prickly. I know it’s not nice being checked out, but you can’t blame him. You’d do the same.’

  I shrugged, but she was right, of course.

  ‘Besides, I know Nate,’ she went on, ‘and I’m quite sure his desire to see you was more to do with settling his own conscience than protecting Damien Newbold’s interests.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘He wanted to know you’d be okay here.’

  And that I wasn’t going to crack up on the job, of course.

  Steph’s eyes suddenly lit on a photograph in a silver frame sitting on a shelf near the sofa. She wandered over to get a closer look. ‘God, do you think that’s Damien Newbold? He’s quite a looker. A moodier version of George Clooney, wouldn’t you say?’

  I stood up to peer over her shoulder. The picture showed a man with the smooth yet slightly dangerous good looks popular in Hollywood. He was receiving some kind of award – for something businessy, I reckoned. The various suited executives standing to his left and right had that feel about them. I guessed the photo’s main subject might be somewhere in his late forties. He had a fair amount of grey in his hair.

  Steph moved on towards the bookcase, which covered one whole wall of the room, up to the high Victorian ceiling, and stroked the spine of something red and leather bound. Her eyes flicked over to the baby grand. ‘I do like the idea of a man of culture. Robin never really gets beyond the likes of Cowboys and Aliens.’

  ‘You’re doing the banter thing now, Steph. You might get a sense of proportion, at least in my presence.’ The idea of sitting through Cowboys and Aliens was almost painfully harmless compared with Luke’s recent choice of entertainment. ‘Tell me more about my new boss instead.’

  She stopped book fondling and moved over to the sofa, perching on the edge of it as I had, as though one wrong move might make it fall to bits. ‘Nate keeps himself to himself. He’s been through a lot over the years, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  She gave a little shudder. ‘Difficult stuff. It’s—’

  ‘What?’ She was always doing this.

  She shook her head, again with that small shivering movement. ‘I shouldn’t even have mentioned it.’

  I was starting to wonder what on earth it could be. ‘No, you shouldn’t, if you were going to clam up afterwards.’

  ‘It’s no good. It would be all wrong.’ And, for once, she did look as though she meant it, and wasn’t just after a pleasant little tussle before letting the gossip flood out. ‘The trouble is, once people know, they can never relate to him without focusing on the associated baggage. It wouldn’t be fair. He’ll tell you himself if he wants. Ask me about something neutral instead.’

  I tried to think and eventually managed to slip back into the mundane with: ‘How long has he had the house-sitting business?’

  ‘Got to be almost eighteen months now. Seems to be growing all the time.’

  ‘It was nice of you to arrange this for me.’ I sat down opposite her on the piano stool. ‘It’s saved my bacon, having somewhere to stay until I
get sorted.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ she said. ‘And as for the job, it was pure luck, really. I hadn’t spoken to Nate in a while, but he called to let me know one of our great aunts had died. We had a bit of a catch up and, apropos of the house business going from strength to strength, he told me about this Damien guy who’d requested a sitter, right at the last minute. He said how he was going to have to turn him down, he was so booked up. Thought I might as well throw your name into the ring. Of course, you’re not at all his usual sort of contractor.’

  I raised an eyebrow.

  ‘He normally makes use of mature, well-built, ex-police officers, or as close an approximation as he can manage.’

  ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘But, as I said, this guy needed someone urgently and I was able to assure Nate you were the right sort.’

  ‘I have to say,’ I said, ‘he doesn’t look like your average service industry worker. What did you say he did before he set up the business?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ she replied. ‘As a matter of fact, he has always been in the service industry.’

  ‘What is it you’re not telling me? Come on. I am working for him.’

  She sighed. ‘All right; he used to be a private investigator. If you think about it, house-sitting’s a natural off-shoot of that. Lots of security work involved.’

  ‘But less action, I imagine.’

  She put her head on one side and paused. ‘Look,’ she said, eventually, ‘it’s actually best not to ask him about it, okay?’

  She went back to the window to look out again, possibly to stop me beseeching her for information with my eyes. ‘So it’s Strawberry Fair on Saturday,’ she said, a slight note of distaste in her voice. ‘Do you think that was one of the reasons old Damien didn’t want to leave his house empty?’

  ‘Looks like it, from his notes.’

  ‘Maybe one of the reasons he took off too. Must get pretty noisy here when the whole thing’s up and running.’

  ‘A ringside seat, I’d call it.’ I’d been lots of times myself, and liked the range of bands. ‘I won’t be seeing much of it this year though.’

  ‘No?’ She glanced at me over her shoulder.

  I pointed to my sheaf of instructions. ‘The rules say I have to keep the house in sight on the day of the Fair, so there’ll be no lurking in beer tents. In general I’m not supposed to go out for more than three hours a day, too. Not that I’ll want to.’

  ‘You’re worried about running into Luke?’

  Saxwell St Andrew, where I had lived with Luke, with Steph and Robin as neighbours, was only fifteen minutes’ drive from Cambridge, but still I shook my head. ‘He hardly ever comes into town. I just think I’ll appreciate being able to hole up and get on with things, that’s all. It’s lucky that I’m at the writing-up stage with this book.’

  Though quite how I’d tackle its subject matter, given what had happened, I wasn’t sure.

  Steph left, with the promise of another visit soon, in spite of all my hints about the value of personal space. The trouble is she’s an author-illustrator of children’s books, so neither of us has a strict work timetable to adhere to.

  After she’d gone I drank some Coke I’d brought in from the car. It was depressingly warm, as well as being slightly flat, but Damien Newbold’s Smeg fridge freezer had an ice dispenser that improved things.

  I was ridiculously hot in my black jeans and boots, and, now that I no longer needed to goad Steph, I went to the downstairs cloakroom to swap them for loose white linen trousers and sandals. There was a mirror above the basin, and I flinched as I saw the reality of me, standing there in such strange surroundings. There wasn’t much physical sign of what had happened. The face that stared back at me, framed by dark, feathery, shoulder-length hair, was pale, except under the eyes where there was shadow. At least the red rims had gone though. The constant crying I’d been giving in to had been replaced by a sort of numbness. I was managing to keep all my feelings locked away again. Most of the time. But when I suddenly came up against reality – my face in the mirror, for instance, or a sympathetic friend on the other end of the phone – then the feelings came rushing back. I felt myself flush, as though someone had slapped me hard on each cheek. The cause was a feeling of deep and aching sorrow, mixed with a sharp sense of foolishness. And then there was the shame – that was a significant part of it – for Luke’s actions. It didn’t seem fair to have to cope with that, on top of everything else.

  Time to get what little else I had packed from my car.

  I went via Midsummer Passage to Midsummer Lane, the road beyond. The scent from a bank of honeysuckle covering a weathered brick wall mingled with the food occupying number four’s green bin.

  I looked at the haul I’d managed to grab from mine and Luke’s house when I’d walked out. I’d barely been aware of what I was doing that day; certainly had no idea where I’d end up until I finally saw a B&B on the outskirts of Newmarket. All in all, I reckoned I’d done well to gather the basics. At least I’d got a wash kit, a few clothes and books, my own digital radio and my laptop. For a moment my mind strayed to the rest of my stuff, stranded back in Saxwell, but I pushed the thought away. Way more than I wanted to cope with right now. Eventually, maybe I could send Steph in as an emissary to help with extracting a few more bits and pieces.

  Back in the drawing room I slipped off my sandals and tested the bed. I cursed myself for having forgotten to ask Steph to help me move it, and the bloody thing was seriously uncomfortable too, not to mention noisy. Springs creaked with every muscle I moved. When I lay on my stomach my feet reached beyond its end, my toes knocking against the metal frame. I turned on to my back, and gazed up at the seascape over the mantelpiece. It looked weird there; it was too small.

  I wasn’t any more comfortable in my new position than I had been on my front. My feelings of irritation towards Damien Newbold were intensified by the fact that he’d probably spent over a grand on that fridge freezer of his, but had saddled me with a five pound, junk-sale bed. I was never going to be able to sleep on it.

  I woke up with a start, the room in near darkness. For a moment I couldn’t think where I was and reached out in the normal direction of my bedside table, bashing my arm on the cabinet as predicted. Luckily for the glass, I only connected with its wooden corner. Once I’d extricated myself and switched on the drawing room light I glanced at my watch. Hell. I’d slept for five hours straight; the longest stretch I’d managed since I’d left home. I must have been making up for lost time.

  I suddenly realised how hungry I was. I’d been intending to go out and shop for food, but the moment had passed. If I went to find an eight ’til late now it would be midnight before I got anything to eat. Instead, I went back into the hall and found a phone book, sitting on a mahogany side table that smelt of polish.

  Safe in the knowledge that a pizza was on its way, exploring the house became a priority. I couldn’t believe I’d fallen asleep without checking all the rooms first. That surely went against some kind of animal instinct. Looking up the stairs into the shadows I felt an inexplicable moment of nervousness and shook myself to clear the irrational sensation. At last I found a light switch and made my way up, my feet sinking into the thick burgundy stair carpet.

  The first-floor landing had three mirrors and, whenever I turned, unexpected movement caught my eye. I knew my brain was just being tricked by the layout, but it gave me an unpleasant feeling, as though there was someone else there with me. The series of closed doors became intimidating and I wondered what secrets they had to give up. I had my hand on one round, brass doorknob, ready to go in, when, once again, I felt that little shiver of apprehension. For no good reason I turned to the second flight of stairs instead, flicking on the halogen lights for the attic.

  The first thing that hit me as I went up there was the heat. Through four enormous Velux windows I could see clouds scudding across the night sky now, but during the day there would have been none, and the sun mus
t have flooded the space. The room was impressive, and the bed was already made up. It would have been ideal for your average house-sitter, thank you very much.

  Back on the middle floor I took myself in hand and started at the rear of the house, finding a guest bathroom, spacious and luxuriously tiled in marble, as well as three guest rooms, two with en suites. Gradually I made my way forwards, towards the master bedroom, which I could see must be large, spanning the width of the building.

  I was aware that Damien Newbold was expecting me to visit each of the rooms at River House – after all, his list of cleaning jobs involved delving into every area of his home – but slowly opening what must be his bedroom door still felt like prying. Perhaps that was what made me hesitate. I felt as though I might be caught, even though I wasn’t actually doing anything wrong. The house didn’t feel empty; its owner still seemed like a palpable presence, with indications of his personality everywhere I looked.

  For a moment I stood in the doorway. The curtains of the bay windows were drawn back, leaving blank eyes looking out onto a dark world. And then I flicked on the light switch.

  Bits of Damien Newbold’s bedroom were just as I would have expected. He had heavy linen sheets, a quilt that was no doubt filled with the finest goose down, period bedside lights, and an en suite wet room.

  What I hadn’t anticipated were the paintings. There were studies of female nudes on each of his four bedroom walls: one over the head of his bed, one opposite that, between the two windows, one to the left of the wet room door, and one to the right of his wardrobe.

  Nude portraits are obviously not normally shocking – the female body is a beautiful thing – but four? Wasn’t he being just a trifle greedy?

  I stood there, joking to myself about it, but there was something peculiar about the quality of the paintings, and the way they’d been placed. They faced one another like the leaders of opposing armies, staked out across a battlefield. Damien Newbold’s bedroom. I felt my skin prickle.

  There was no mistaking the physical resemblance between the women too – superficial, but apparent all the same: dark hair, reaching well below their shoulders, blue eyes, and petite curvaceous figures. It was their expressions that marked them out as individuals. The one to the left of the wet room looked eager to please, a tentative smile on her slightly parted lips, her eyes almost pleading, whereas the woman on the wall opposite, next to the wardrobe, simply looked shy, her eyes cast down, arms crossed over her torso, partly obscuring her breasts.