The Spiral Read online

  “STOP! Oh, for god’s sake. Please, I can’t breathe”

  Silence descends, thankfully, and I eventually turn to her hoping she’s not going to carry on any further. I seriously can’t cope. My guts hurt from laughing so hard. She’s smirking at me, finger pointing at my face and her brows up.

  “And that, Maddy, is the first time I’ve seen a real smile from you since I got here.” I roll my eyes at her and get out, still snorting back tears and checking my watch for the time. Eleven am, plenty of time to get this show on the road and head for the Blandenhyme meeting. I just need to get changed and get my serious head back on. “See, that’s why I came.” My breathing slows to something close to harmonious as I open the door and switch the alarm off. “Gotta get you out of whatever the fuck this past few years has been, right? Find the old Maddy again? Talk about shit and clear the route forward, yeah?” Maddy’s gone. Madeline finds her way through this. Perhaps then Maddy can come back, but not until then.

  I throw the keys on the kitchen table and shrug out of my denim lightweight jacket as Callie goes straight for a beer from the fridge then sits on my table and waits for my conversation.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, throwing my hands up in the air at her relentless attack. “So I’m still a bit preoccupied with it all, but I’m moving on. Okay? I am. I don’t want him back. I’ve left. Done. Maybe I’m just not quite ready to acknowledge it all yet. It’s hard to think about. I feel alone, Callie. Like a part of me is missing and I’m lost without it. You wouldn’t know how it feels…” I trail off and sit on the chair in front of her, not quite knowing how to get the words out, and probably not wanting to anyway. She puts her hand on mine and squeezes.

  “No one expects it to be easy. You just gotta talk it out, yeah? I got a few more days here, that’s all. We talk as much as you can ‘til then, okay?” I nod, at least acknowledging in some way that I get it. She’s right. As she always bloody is.

  “Tonight then. We’ll start tonight. I’ve got to meet this guy first and deal with that. It could be worth a fortune to me so I don’t want to be all bleary eyed when I meet him.”

  “Guy? Like hot guy?”

  “I don’t know. He owns the Blandenhyme estate about fifty miles from here. They’re selling off some antiques and paintings. His name’s Mr. Caldwell. Other than that I don’t know anything about him.”

  “Married?”

  “Don’t know. And It’s none of my business whether he’s married or not. He could be a grandad for all I know.”

  “Mr. Caldwell. Sounds like a headmaster. Could be kinky.”

  “Stop, will you? It’s business. I just hope he’s got things he wants me to remove for him.”

  “Like your clothes.”

  “STOP!”

  “What? You’re still hot as fuck, you know that, right? It’s that dark tumbling thing you’ve got going on. You could get all down and dirty in ‘The Estate’.” She’s doing inverted commas with her fingers, and shoving her crotch around again, this time all over my table with her open legs forging in my direction. “Wear the hair down, flick it around a bit. You’re not doing a boring suit, are you?”

  “Yes, Callie. Business meeting. You do understand the concept?” Clearly not with the grinding still happening and the banana she’s pretending to give a blowjob to.

  “Fuck business. You don’t need the money. You’ve got loads of it. You need fucking,” she snaps out, driving her teeth through the banana and widening her eyes at me.

  “Oh My God. I cannot listen to this anymore. I’m going to change.”

  “TITS OUT!” she shouts far too loudly at me as I get up and head for the stairs.

  Tits will not be out. My C cups will be demurely held precisely behind my bespoke Richmond shirts, and well covered beneath whichever designer suit I choose to put on. Tits out? It’s no wonder the woman’s never held a job down for longer than three months.

  I stare at myself in the mirror for a while, trying to find rational thought again amidst the rowdiness that is Callie. She might be amazing in her own right as she crashes through life not giving two hoots for basically anything, but I need professional again.

  Thankfully, most of my bruising has gone now. There’s only a small green-yellow dusting under and around my eye, which is mostly coverable. And the damage to my leg is now only a small scrape, which again can be covered over in minutes with the specialist creams I have. It’s not really makeup as such; it’s high end scar concealer, something I found on the internet after the first real beating happened.

  We had a party that weekend at our house, not that Lewis had thought about that when he threw a bottle of Jack Daniels at me, knocking me to the floor in the process. The purple had grown gradually to the point where no amount of concealer could do anything to help. So I searched for something better, and this little brown bottle I’m currently shaking was it.

  I top up the small area of colour left, smearing it gently into the corners of my eye, and then carry on with mascara and eyeliner again. There’s nothing I can do about the bloodshot bit that still hasn’t left, but at least it no longer looks like I’ve been in a fight. I’ll have to pretend I’ve got an eye infection, or make something up if asked and hope there are no more questions on the matter. It’s not like it’s any of Mr. Caldwell’s business anyway.

  I’ve dealt with his secretary rather than him. She’s sent all the relevant files to me without me once having to go to his office. It’s been a bonus given the bruising, and I managed to put off the meeting at the house citing a family emergency. They didn’t seem too bothered by it, thankfully.

  Half an hour later and I walk downstairs to find Callie stretched out on the sofa, her boots up on the end of it with half the contents of my fridge and cupboards scattered around the place.

  “What the bloody hell?” Is all I’ve got to say about the state of my, once beautifully calm, room.

  “What?”

  “What do you mean, what? Look at the place.” She surveys her damage, flicking crumbs off her t-shirt and then brushing a crisp packet off, too.

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Go do businessy stuff while I chill and find you someone to fuck.”

  I have nothing to answer that with as I stare in shock, although why I don’t know, and what’s the point anyway? I’ll just clean when she’s gone home.

  “Right,” I spit out as she turns away from me, staring back at the television and popping another one of my peanut M&M’s in her mouth. Mine.

  “Right. Bye then. Hot ass by the way.”

  There’s another exasperated huff from me, which only rewards me with her flicking up one finger and then proceeding to shove more of my M&M’s in, so I don’t bother anymore. I’ll just go, do what I’ve got to do, and then come back here and drink. Hopefully that’ll give me the ability to ignore the festering cesspit my lovely new sparkly home will turn into. Presumably this will also make my face hurt through smiling too much. Something that has, she’s right, been sadly lacking in my life.

  I end up snorting out a giggle and making my way for the car, grabbing my bag on the way and throwing a pair of her socks at her, which have somehow ended up discarded in the hall. Not unlike half a dozen other things that shouldn’t be there.

  The drive gives me a bit of time to think, something I also haven’t done a lot of on my own since Callie arrived. I called her the week after I arrived in the new place and she turned up that night stating, “This better be good, ‘cause I left a rock hard dick for you.” Nice. But she smiled as she said it, and then we hugged. We hugged so hard for so long that we ended up on the floor at the bottom of the stairs with me crying into her shoulder. But then that was it. She’s not given me five minutes to think, talk, react, cry or release any other emotion I might have needed to get rid of. Even after she saw all the texts and calls I’ve been ignoring from Lewis, some of which are truly nasty.

  At first he tried for sweet, begging and pleading. That soon developed into the underlying rage
I know so well. Then the voicemails started becoming verbally abusive, threatening me with ruination and that he’d find me and show me what real violence was. He never said it directly, but I understood the implication nevertheless. I spent all that week jumping at every shadow, dodging phone calls and hiding inside. Still, though, when she arrived Callie didn’t let me cling onto the fear I was beginning to feel. She’s kept me busy or laughing, and hasn’t allowed one part of me to wallow. Perhaps that’s why I’m not quite there yet. Maybe she’s right and I do need to talk it out. I don’t know. I am lost, though. I feel alone, and very much like this won’t be over until I make it that way somehow.

  I snort lightly. Dead is the only way he’ll ever stop. Not that I’ve got the gumption to pull that one off any time soon. I’m no murderer.

  By the time I’ve finished daydreaming about times gone by, I end up realising I’ve missed a turning I needed to take, so I try to make the Sat Nav redirect me. It does, straight into the middle of God knows where, until I’m driving along a stupidly bumpy road and thanking the heavens for the Range Rover beneath my bottom.

  Where the hell am I?

  I pull over and survey the area, checking out the large expanse of nothing but grassland for any sign of a landmark or even a signpost. There’s nothing but an extremely rickety looking bridge with a small brook running underneath it in the vicinity. And because of the post and rail fencing all along the side of me, there’s no way for me to turn around either. I start on the road again, checking the time and hoping that being twenty minutes or so late won’t matter too much. It’s not my fault this place is in the middle of nowhere, is it? Although it is my fault I’m lost.

  On further examination of the road ahead, I see there’s a gate before the bridge, one I’m rather thankful for because there’s no way this car is going over that safely. I pull over again and trip round the dusty ground to open it, then wonder how I’m going to get back on the road on the other side. So now I’m just standing here, hand perched over my eyes to try to see along the road for another gate somewhere. There isn’t one, but as I keep peering I do see the top of a house in the distance. It’s hiding behind some trees, all grey stonework, and bloody huge by the look of it.

  It can’t be, can it?

  I go back to the car, digging through my paperwork to find the picture of Blandenhyme. Grey building, elaborate finials. I peer back again, and yes, grey gravel driveway. Okay, go me. I must have found a back entrance somehow, though I’m still not going over that bridge. But if that’s the house, then surely it wouldn’t matter if I just followed the grassland down. This is an off roader after all. That’s what it was built for. Not that it’s ever set wheel on grass that I know of.

  Before I think too much of it, I pull through the gate and pop back out to close it again, then tentatively start my off road journey. Seems Range Rovers are quite adept at traversing fields because nothing feels any different for a while. The ride stays smooth, the ground beneath me passing with no trouble at all, and then something happens I’m not quite sure about. The steering wheel seems to turn of its own accord, sliding through my fingers as if the car thinks another direction is a better idea. I peer over the top of the bonnet, looking for what might have caused the issue, and find the ground undulating away from the flat I was on. This steadily increases to rolling bumps, which in turn, rapidly descends into me being flung around in my seat as the bumps increase in size.

  I grip on tight, trying to keep the car straight and heading for my target, which doesn’t seem too far away now, but the flinging about becomes wilder and wilder as the car lurches and rebounds again. I don’t know how I’ve managed it, but I appear to be navigating a bloody minefield all of a sudden as I heave and pull on the wheel trying to steady the jolts. And then I hear a whirring noise, followed by an almighty rattle and clank as the car slides to a stop. What the hell? I rev again. Nothing. Then again. Still nothing.

  My fingers push the door open to look downwards and back as I rev again, and I see the rear wheel spinning away in a deep wet patch. Great. Some off roader. Mud sprays constantly as I keep revving, hoping something of use will happen. Nothing does. If anything, the spin just seems to make the hole bottomless in the ground as the car rolls back and forth a bit. I slam the door again and put my forehead on the wheel, shaking it repeatedly and then knocking my head on it. Stupid. Jesus, of all the days to screw something up, this was not the day to do it. Why? I just want to get on with my life for God’s sake. It’s a bloody Range Rover. Aren’t they supposed to get over anything? I might as well have the Porsche I wanted for all the good this thing has achieved.

  Huffing out yet more irritation, I lay my head back against the rest and stare down to the mansion ahead of me. I suppose I’ll have to walk down and see if anyone can tow me out, apologize profusely for my foolishness and hope it doesn’t blow any chance I have of making this deal. I need this—not for the money, Callie’s right. I need it for me. At the moment I just want to know I can do all this on my own. That I don’t need Lewis’ backing or support. That I can weather my own storm and rebuild my life on my own. This unreasonable position I’ve gotten myself into is not how things are going to get me forward, literally.

  My patent blue heels sink as I cautiously step out onto the ground. I try to search for better footing, but there isn’t any. It’s like a bloody bog beneath me, and as I reach for my bag, I notice the front wheel, too, is sunken into the wetness engulfing it. Great. Properly stuck. Well, let’s hope Mr. Caldwell is a decent sort who can help me out of the hole I’ve plainly dug myself into. If not, I’ll have to call the recovery people who will take all bloody night to arrive because I’m not exactly at risk in someone’s field.

  It only takes a ten minute struggle to get myself over to reasonably solid ground, but by the time I’ve gotten to it I no longer have stylish blue heels on. They’ve been replaced with mud caked apparitions of style. And my bloody legs are also caked, giving me the appearance of an idiot.

  I throw my bag on the road I eventually get back to, digging around in it for tissues or napkins. There’s only a small pack but I have to at least try to make me feet resemble elegant again. It’s not perfect by a long shot, but it’s all I’ve got until I get to the house. Bloody Range Rovers. I’m selling the damn thing. The moment I get done with this I’m getting my Porsche. I only got this thing because Lewis said it would be better and we already had a sports car. It’s not better. In fact, as I keep trudging along, I remind myself that I never really liked the bulky monstrosity anyway. We didn’t have dogs, or children. No horses to tow about. It’s not even like I use it for moving antiques about. I wouldn’t dare. I leave that to the professionals who have insurance and the like.

  A noise alerts me to something happening in the distance, so I stop my internal ramblings and look up to see a small red truck coming down the drive in my direction. Oh good, help. At least something’s going right. I take another swipe at my ankles and feet, attempting to clean some of the drying mud a little more so I can try to appear in control when it arrives.

  “You alright?” a wrinkly sixty-something man says as he pulls up beside me.

  “No, well yes I’m fine, but I’m afraid I’ve got my car stuck in your field, Mr. Caldwell. I’m terribly sorry. It’s just the bridge didn’t look very safe,” I reply, mortified by my own stupidity and assuming this is him. He smiles, crinkling his weathered face up, and hops out of the truck to stand beside me.

  “Stuck in the bog, is it?”

  “Seems so.”

  “These bogs have been the bane of my life for thirty-five years,” he says, as I stare at his dirty overalls and wonder what it is that Mr. Caldwell does for a living given this building he lives in. “Can’t drain them, can’t dig ‘em out. Horses been stuck in ‘em, cows, sheep. Ain’t nothing fixed ‘em yet. It’s the brook, see?” Yes, well quite. I suppose it must be, but chatting about the reasoning isn’t going to get my car out regardless of his nice grandad ap
pearance. “They’re worse on the other side of the headland. Good job you didn’t drive up there, lassy.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Caldwell. I’m Madeline Blise..“ I stop myself, annoyed at the name that comes too quickly. “Cavannagh. Madeline Cavannagh. I’m here to see about the artefacts and antiques you want to sell?” He nods his head and takes a few steps towards my car, looking it over, or sizing it up. I’m not sure. “Should we do that first? Or I could call the recovery company first if you don’t think you can—”

  “We’ll get you out. Not a worry,” he says, cutting in and then walking back towards his truck with a smile. “Just need the tractor to pull your beasty out. Hop in and I’ll drop you off to the house so you can clean up.”

  “Right, good news. Thank you.” He smiles some more as I hitch my skirt up to get in the truck, trying not to expose too much of myself. “I really am very sorry. I’m not quite sure how I got on this road in the first place.” He pulls away sharply, causing me to ricochet off the seat and grab onto the handrail. “It’s just, your bridge seems a little dilapidated, and—”

  “That bridge has had tractors over it for thirty years. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  “Oh, sorry, I don’t mean it’s not capable. It’s just it seemed … Well, and I didn’t want to damage it any further because it looks a bit... old.” Christ, I’ll shut up, shall I?

  He smirks, clearly enjoying his torment of me, and begins chuckling away to himself as we potter back down towards the house.

  “Sometimes, you gotta rely on faith to get you through. You remember that, lassy. Just like the old girl up here. She keeps holding on, weathering storms.”

  He points up to the mansion we’re steadily travelling towards as the trees seem to part around it. It’s stunning, in a slightly eerie fashion. Its grey façade is covered with a blackening edge, as if years of smoke and the elements have engrained themselves into the fabric of the place. And it’s vast, much bigger than I thought from the top of the hill I was on. The long drive sweeps away from it into the woods, enhancing its ghostly appearance as tall redwoods dominate the area behind and around it, somehow caging it in like a fortress of protection.