This is old ground. Right from the start, Francis’s plans for this week away had been more ambitious than mine. Still, his enthusiasm had spiralled out of nowhere when I had tentatively floated the idea of a house swap, lurching from apathy to manic energy in the space of seconds. He had been so appreciative of what he saw as my initiative that I had shrunk back from telling the truth: that I had signed up to the house-swap site on an idle whim months ago and forgotten about it. I had only seen the message notification by chance, sifting through my spam folder in search of a mislaid communication from a friend. Someone wants to swap with you! It was an intriguing little hook, tugging me forward. I clicked on the link and there it was: a polite, featureless message from someone who signed themselves S. Kennedy, expressing an interest in our Leeds city-centre flat and offering their Chiswick house in exchange, if a suitable time could be found.
I had flicked through the pictures of number 21 Everdene Avenue – the unremarkable decor and the cool, pale walls, the nicely kept front lawn – but, in truth, I had barely taken them in. All I could think was that here was a chance for a change of scene at minimal expense, a week away for just the two of us, if my mother could take Eddie. Close enough to London for sightseeing day trips, far enough out of the centre to feel like a break from city life. We had toyed with the idea of a holiday in Spain months ago and abandoned it. Too much money and too much effort, or at least so we had told each other. Perhaps Francis, too, had been secretly daunted by the implications of an exotically hot hotel room and candlelit evenings on a mimosa-scented terrace.
Francis is ferreting beneath the plant pots at the side of the house, locating the key. ‘Brace yourself,’ he says, brandishing it. ‘This is where we find out they’ve left a load of dead bodies festering in the kitchen.’
I roll my eyes, ignoring the decisive shudder that passes down my spine. Ridiculous as his words are, I can’t help feeling that it is a weird thing to be doing, squatting in the house of a stranger. I remember a programme I watched months ago: some crack-pot psychic floating around a supposedly haunted house, wittering on about how its past tragedies were ingrained in its walls. I had scoffed, but that night I had dreamt of walking through silent rooms and cool, dark corridors, breathing in the infected heaviness of their air.
Francis unlocks the door and lets it swing open, and we stand there in silence for a few moments on the threshold. ‘Well,’ he says at last, ‘we needn’t have worried. The cops have already been here and cleaned the place out.’
I half smile, intent on taking in our surroundings. It’s the emptiest house I have ever seen. Nothing on the walls, not even a mirror. Pale pine floorboards and smooth, blank doors opening on to near-vacant rooms. A lounge containing a black leather sofa, monolithic and stark, and a sparsely filled bookcase. At the end of the corridor, I glimpse the kitchen – the bare pinewood table and a gleaming oven that looks as if it’s just been installed.
‘Is this … normal?’ Francis asks, moving gingerly through the hallway and peering into the rooms one by one, then following me up the stairs. ‘I mean, it’s not very …’
‘Cosy,’ I finish, as we reach the bedroom. It’s like an exhibit in a modern-art show. The double bed is made up neatly with a dark chocolate-brown duvet and two pillows, and there is a bedside cabinet, as well as a wardrobe looming in the corner of the room, but it’s just as devoid of personal possessions as the other rooms.
There is a sheet of white paper lying on one of the pillows, folded precisely in half. I cross the room and unfold it; it’s typewritten, in a small type size, centred. Dear Caroline, it reads, I hope you enjoy your stay. Information in kitchen folder. Please help yourself to anything you find. S.
I read the note out to Francis, who starts wheezing uncontrollably with laughter before I have even finished. ‘What?’ I say irritably. ‘What’s so funny?’
Francis takes a moment to compose himself. ‘Where do I start?’ he says. ‘The way it’s only addressed to you, like I’m chopped liver. The idea of you helping yourself to precisely fucking nothing, which is all that’s on offer, as far as I can see. The fact that it’s been left on the bed like some sort of love letter, only it’s the least romantic note I’ve ever had the pleasure of receiving by proxy. The whole thing is—’
‘All right, all right.’ I screw the note up into a ball and throw it at him, laughing despite myself. ‘I’m sure the intention was good. And yes, it’s a bit basic, but it’s not like we have to spend all our time here, is it? We can go up to London, go out for dinner. That was the point, wasn’t it?’
Francis shrugs. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Well, one of the points.’
I glance at him across the room, and just like that the atmosphere shifts and changes, our laughter sucked up into the space between us. The silence lasts a little too long for recovery, and I let it stretch, leaning back against the bedroom wall and shifting my gaze to the chilly brightness of the sun striking the skylight window. I don’t have to look at him to see the expression on his face: lost and vacant, a strange mixture of mutiny and regret.
‘OK …’ I say, just for the sake of speaking, and as I do I can feel panic starting to rise. I’m already missing Eddie, and the bridge he provides between us, the shared love and focus we can turn on him. Now there’s only the sudden, claustrophobic terror of being trapped in this unfamiliar house with my husband, for seven whole days, with each hour feeling like a potential landmine that we will have to tiptoe around, avoiding anything that might explode the still-fragile truce we have woven over the past two years. It feels oddly apt that this house is so empty: stripped back, with nowhere to hide. And that was the point, of course. We’re both tired of hiding. Sooner or later, we will have to take a step back into the light and take a look at what we have, and find out if it is enough or not. When I rub the flat of my hand across my face, my palm is damp.
‘Better get unpacked!’ Francis’s tone is casually cheerful. He is busying himself with unzipping our suitcase on the bed, pulling out clothes and briskly shaking out their creases. ‘Might as well get it out of the way.’ He’s smiling, his eyes full of warmth, but I think I can read the message behind the smile. Time to move on and bury the moment back where it came from.
‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ I say, ‘and then I’ll come and help you.’ I need a few moments to smooth my frazzled nerves. Heart thumping, I walk down the corridor towards the bathroom. My footsteps sound surprisingly loud on the polished floorboards, sharp, echoing bursts of sound in the silent air, and I find myself speeding up. For an instant, I’m oddly reminded of the way I used to hurry down the corridor between my parents’ room and my own as a child – the vaguely supernatural sense that I wasn’t alone.
I shake the memory off and push open the bathroom door. It’s another gleamingly untouched room, polished to perfection: marble surfaces and metallic fixtures. The window has been left open an inch or two. Light gusts of air are blowing through the gap, ruffling my shirt collar.
I want to move forward, but I am rooted in the doorway, staring at the vase on the windowsill. It holds a bunch of pale pink roses, beautifully arranged and just coming into flower. I try to fight the thoughts, but they’re too quick for me. A pulse of despair thudding through my body – the split second of inevitability before the memory hits and explodes, too vivid to ignore. All these months of careful suppression and denial, and all it takes is the sight of some curled pink petals. Just like that, you’re back in my head.
Home
Caroline, December 2012
I WAKE UP alone again. In my sleep, my limbs have uncurled and stretched, sprawling across on to his side of the bed. The sheets are smoothly cold. I can’t remember if we started the night sleeping together or apart.