Secret
Now
Idon’t take anything in as I leave Mrs Hannington, the reception, the girls are a blur of light, colour, movement. I push through the double doors. The sun is blinding. I glare back at it, like I’ve told Millie never to do. Burn my retinas. Erase the study, the clinic, the dull ache in my stomach.
Someone touches me, I flinch, but it’s not him, just a girl already walking away from me. I look round for him and then double back to reception. He’s not there.
Coward.
Does he think he can get away from this that easily?
I haven’t finished.
Not by a long shot.
My backpack swings as I sling it back on.
The lights are off at his mews house but the curtains are drawn. He might not be here; I don’t have to hurt him, I could go back to the hotel now, climb between fresh, clean sheets. But I am only pretending,stretching out the last few seconds before time snaps back into place. He’s in. His lights are off because of the migraine I’ve given him. His head is about to feel a lot worse. I take a deep breath, press the doorbell.
He isn’t wearing the dove-grey shirt, he’s exchanged it for a linen one, creased at the waist and rolled at the sleeves. He covers his eyes as he opens the door. Light from the streetlamp cuts shadows on his skin. ‘I can’t really do this now,’ he says.
‘Do you want me to go?’
We both know what his answer is. Always. He stands aside to let me in.
I am frightened following behind him, I feel like I’m going back in time. In the corridors of the cottage, I’d pull his shirt free from his belt, slip my hands round his waist; he’d tense under the cloth, the draw of his spine under my lips. My skin prickles. He rubs the back of his neck. He is thinking of this too.
In his living room, it’s difficult to process what’s changed, what’s memory; apart from the lamp on the far side, the living room is sunk in darkness. The bones of the house look the same, the corridor that leads to the kitchen, the stairs downstairs. But as my eyes adjust to the shadows, it’s clear that where once the interior of the house was light and neutral, now, it’s rich and dark. A pair of chocolate leather Chesterfields claim the centre of the room, a captain’s chair is angled towards the fireplace and above the seating area is a large pendant lamp in a milky glass, which looks like it once belonged in the cabin of a ship.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I can turn on another light.’
‘It’s okay.’ On the walls are his published articles, hanging in gold frames. The coffee table is set with lepidoptery journals. I want to push a stack over. Watch them slide onto the rug.
The only thing missing is his butterfly collection, he used to keep them in an enormous antique collectors’ cabinet, the drawers shallow and wide to display as many butterflies as possible. There’s nothing like that in here now but I know they must be here. I cast round for them. The wall across from me has nothing on it, just plain walnut. I cross the room, run my palms over it, it’s not a single piece but wooden panels. I press my palms against them, they spring open. Underneath, is butterfly upon butterfly, rare or extinct, their names coming to me like the lyrics of a forgotten song: Emperor of India; Island Marble; Xerces Blue; Zebra Longwing; Saint Francis’ Satyr.
‘You know all my secrets.’
I am your secret.
He’s beside me, the butterflies have energised him, but it lasts only a second, he slumps onto his couch, shuts his eyes, and I think Daniel behind closed doors is Daniel in the dark. However much he loathed prison, the truth is, he’s recreated his prison cell, here. It’s the only place he feels safe.
‘Sorry,’ he says quietly. ‘I’m having some kind of reaction.’ He rubs the back of his neck, he’s still itchy. ‘And the school . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘It tires me, being round that many people.’
‘Is it a migraine?’
He nods slowly, covers his hands with his eyes. Cowering from ordinary things, he looks older than I’ve ever seen him before.
‘You need to drink; have you had anything to drink?’
He shakes his head.
‘I’ll get you some water.’
He doesn’t protest. I go to his kitchen.
In contrast to his living room, the kitchen is bright and sleek – white marble counters, black cabinets. I open his fridge, his cupboards, his drawers. Everything is where I think it should be, the utensils in the top drawer of the island, cups and glasses above the kettle, it is the exact way I organise my kitchen, perhaps I do it that way because of him.
I smash my palms on the cool marble of the counter.