The Spiral Page 5

  “It’s... Wow.”

  He chuckles again, changing his gears and slowly trundling us down into the main forecourt. “We’ve not had many visitors here for a while. Shame really. The old girl deserves to be seen more often, lived in.”

  “She does indeed,” I reply as I stare up at the building’s magnificence and feel dwarfed by its scale. “How old is she?”

  “1872. She’s a beauty.” She is. If one calls a building a she. I’m not actually sure I’ve got words for how the building looks, especially at this time of day with the light cascading over the roof. The whole frontage is dappled with flecks of sunshine, almost ridding it of its darkness, and somehow oozing power and luminescence in the dark covering of the trees.

  “I guess the redwoods are nearly as old?”

  “The books have all the details. Mr. Caldwell will know.”

  “You’re not Mr. Caldwell?” I snap out, shocked and also mortified once again at my stupidity as I gawp at his face. Why didn’t he say? Oh my god, could this day get any worse? He just chuckles and nods as he pulls us to a stop outside the main doors.

  “Go on out. I’ll get to pullin’ that Range Rover out for ya, and then get it cleaned up before I bring it back.”

  “No, no, you don’t have to do that,” I reply, sliding as best I can from the rickety old truck and dropping my feet to the floor. “Just out is fine, really. Thank you.”

  He hands me my bag and nods again, so I close the door and repeat my thanks over and over again until I feel utterly inane and stop my mouth moving. And then he just leaves me standing here as I watch the truck disappear up another small dirt track to somewhere.

  Guess I’ll go fine Mr. Caldwell then.

  Chapter 5

  Jack

  S elma?

  I mutter her name, not daring to believe she’s here but still feeling her aura in the old building nonetheless. It followed me back last night, or maybe it was already here when I got back. There isn’t a reply, but the fabric of the place creaks and groans with her voice’s harmonic tone. It whispers memories at me, reminding me of love and niceties I no longer believe true or worth thought.

  I drove on last night, ready to floor the damn thing and release pent up aggression, but the mist kept getting in the damn way, slowing my route and eventually halting my progress entirely. I just sat there in the middle of a dark and dismal road, letting the gentle rain patter the window as I stared into thick fog. No more ethereal words had come from her, no orders or directions, and I didn’t see the apparition again, but she was there. I felt her—felt her warmth on my skin amidst the frigid chill, just as I do now.

  “What do you want from me?” I ask, walking along the deep red hall and glancing in every room I pass in case she appears again.

  The dining room is blank apart from the exquisitely dressed memory of Christmas dinners and champagne. The formal lounge is nothing but a charade of tartan, velvet, and roaring log fires now. The snug, one of the only rooms I still entertain entering, is lifeless without her in it, but memories of Lenon playing with his fire trucks continue to make me smile every now and then. The study is a place of work and nothing else, certainly not somewhere she ever enjoyed unless she was bent over my desk. I stop and smile, remembering the sound of her moans, as I push on the door to widen it. The desk is clear, no papers or clutter, and the floor is still clear of obstacles due to the lack of Lenon crashing through and leaving Lego scattered around.

  I finger the door’s surface gently, remembering the feel of the boy’s tawny hair in my hands. So fine. Nothing like his mother’s thick, dark curls.

  Sighing, I run my hands over my face and brush the image away as I carry on to the drawing room, once one of our favourites. A place where we would all eat breakfast from our laps and drink coffee. It’s as vapid as the last room now, vacant of life or hope. It just sits, stagnating along with me, happily gathering dust and slowly disintegrating further into emptiness.

  Jack.

  My head swings at the sound of her again, and I hurry back along the hall in the direction of the voice. There isn’t a vision of her, but the light of the mid afternoon sun filters in around the main door, highlighting the stained-glass window’s greens and yellows. They cascade into the hall, throwing aquamarine tones onto the dark flooring beneath my feet.

  I stare at them as the light bounces around on my tan shoes, watching the vivid spots and mixing colours dance with each other. Turquoise—her favourite colour. It reminded her of our honeymoon, and me of her eyes, sun drenched beaches and blue lagoons. Leisurely days. Long, long nights. Lazy mornings fucking anywhere that was acceptable. Making love. I smirk at my own thoughts, imagining her slapping me for using such a term to describe us together. Publicly, anyway. I’d have fucked her anywhere, still would if she was here. But she isn’t. She’s dead.

  A corpse.

  The loud old fashioned doorbell makes me frown from my musings and look up. Who’s here? Why? I snarl at the door and turn from it, ready to head back towards the kitchen. It rings again, followed by a knocking sound against the wood. My head inclines back to it as I pocket my hands and peer at the stained glass. Nothing moves or comes into view. There’s just the continued echo of the damned bell holding me still in the corridor.

  “Mr. Caldwell?” My heart damn near stops, nearly ripping the guts from my insides as I stumble backwards further up the hall. Selma? “Mr. Caldwell? The old man said you were here. Are you?” Christ. My hands grab out at the walls, looking for support or tangibility. It can’t be her. She’s dead. “Mr. Caldwell, please? It’s Miss Cavannagh. I’m here to see the antiques for sale.” What the hell is she talking about?

  Something moves in the stained glass, a shadow of someone trying to look through it. I freeze, not knowing what to do. And then the bell rings again. Over and over it rings. I step away from the fucking thing, backing my feet up the hall slowly in the hope that the face peering in can’t see me. “Oh, for god’s sake,” I hear mumbled. “Is that you, Mr. Caldwell? Please could you answer the door?” Fuck.

  I stand immobile, and glare at the door, hoping that if I stand here long enough the issue will disappear, or fuck off and leave me alone. Is it not bad enough that I have to endure the insanity of ghosts appearing?

  “Mr. Caldwell, should I go? I’ll have to wait for my car to be pulled out of your bog, I’m afraid. The old man’s doing it now.” The bog? What is she talking about now? I half move, suddenly concerned for reasons unknown. Or perhaps it’s the thought of her voice leaving, the one that sounds just like Selma’s. “I’ll just wait out here then, shall I?” Yes. I narrow my eyes at the sight of her leaning against the stained glass. “It’s not like I’ve driven over a bloody hour to get here, you inconsiderate arsehole.” The last of it is mumbled and full of frustration, something that raises my lips as my foot inches forward without consent.

  I wait for a while, neither moving forward nor backward. I just stare at the figure of her body resting against the rippled glass work and wonder what she looks like. Does she look like Selma, too? Why does she have to be British? Who would have sent this enigma to me, and why?

  Toby.

  The door handle suddenly twists slightly, making me snarl and flick my eyes over the hall, searching for something, anything to help me understand what the fuck is happening before the door opens. I listen intently, hoping for the real ghost version of Selma to say something, warn me, help me. One or the other. Christ, this is irrational. And unfounded. I’m hoping for a ghost rather than the actual human outside the door?

  I shake my head, feeling more than unsatisfied with my own irrationality, and take a step towards the door again, bracing my hand on the wall for support. I have to see her, if nothing more than to send her on her way and scare her into never coming back. Sell my antiques? Selma’s things? It isn’t happening no matter how much my brother thinks I should move on. How fucking dare he do this to me? Nothing is leaving this house. Ever. I’ll burn the place to the
ground before I let one piece of her leave these walls.

  Her jolt and tumble down the steps as the door opens is amusing, enough so that a chuckle comes out of me, but the moment she turns to look up at me, I can’t breathe. I hold onto the doorframe, choking on my inability to move or speak as I look at her. Her hands splay on the steps as she begins to pull herself upright, the crease of her suit exposing her legs and drawing me away from her eyes if only for a few seconds.

  “Mr. Caldwell?” she asks, climbing up the steps to stand. I can’t say anything, regardless of the fact I’m trying. I nod and try once again to pull in breaths. “Oh, good. I thought you were out. I’m Miss Cavannagh. Shall we get on with it?” Still there are no words to be found, but I find myself nodding at that, too, as she stares at me. “Are you alright, Mr. Caldwell? You seem ill. Pale.”

  Ill. A good word for what is currently circulating my thoughts.

  Madness is more fucking appropriate.

  I lick my lips and gaze at her eyes again, allowing myself to be drawn into the blue depths I know all too well.

  “Lighter hair,” I eventually muse, barely restraining the need to reach out and touch it. It falls around her cheeks, tumbling just as Selma’s did, but it’s a little lighter in colour.

  “Excuse me?” she responds as she fingers it and frowns. “Lighter than what?” Nothing comes out of my mouth at that. “Is it a problem? I can assure you it doesn’t impact on my ability to value correctly.” I watch the way her lips move around the words, listening to the British lilt behind the slight Americanism, and devour the image of lush pink lips. “If we could just get on with it, Mr. Caldwell. I’m sure you’re busy and it’s a long drive back for me.”

  Something snaps inside me at her words. Back? She’s leaving?

  I take my hand from its position on the doorframe and extended it to her, hoping she’ll simply put her hand in mine and leave it there, forever.

  “Miss?”

  “Cavannagh,” she replies, taking it and shaking it firmly, and then trying to pull away. I don’t let her. I close the distance between us and stare into her eyes instead, waiting for more language to fall out so I can bask in it some more. “Mr. Caldwell, could I have my hand back?” she eventually asks. No, she can’t. “Because it’s a bit strange to be holding your hand on a first meeting.” I’ve met her a thousand times before. Walked with her. Talked with her. Eaten, holidayed, drank with her. I’ve fucked her a thousand times, too, rolled on beds and held her naked skin to mine. Ground myself into her pussy, drank from it. I glare at the internal image, letting my eyes caress the slight pinking of her cheeks as she keeps gently tugging at my hand. “I really think we should….”

  “What do you think we should?” I mutter.

  She shakes, her whole body trembling in my hand. I feel it travel through her fingertips as she stops trying to pull away and just stands there. The sight makes me imagine all the things we should be doing. It’s been a long time since I felt the desire to bury myself inside something because of sentimental reasons, but she’s so like Selma. Perhaps even a reincarnation of the woman I loved.

  “I, well, perhaps the antiques?” Fuck the antiques. Fuck anything but just standing here so I can watch the way she moves, or flinches, or even the way she’s beginning to look amused by my behaviour. “Mr. Caldwell, really. This is flattering, but I’m here to do a job,” she says, bracing her other hand on mine and snatching my hold away. Job. Yes, I suppose she is. Not that she’s taking a damn thing from here. “Shall I?” she says, nodding past me into the house.

  My eyes narrow at that, but before I can find the words I want, she picks up her bag and proceeds to duck past me into the hall.

  “You have a beautiful home,” she calls, swaying down the hall and dragging a finger along the walls. It’s not nearly as beautiful as the little thing that’s currently striding towards the centre of it, hardening my cock with every footfall. “I’m excited to see the Phillips works,” she says, turning to the right and disappearing from view. Is she? I scowl, surprised at that. They were cheap when bought. I can’t even remember where they are.

  I turn the corner and gaze at the sway of her ass, remembering the way I used to smack Selma’s when we fucked. “I was told they’re on the gallery landing. Shall we start up there and...” My feet rush to catch up with her, not hearing the last of her words as I realise where she’s intending to go.

  “No,” I snap, grabbing her arm harshly and pulling her away from the spiral staircase. She snatches her arm back instantly and glares as she backs away into the foyer, causing me to sneer at her anger. “No one goes up those stairs.”

  “Why?” she immediately retorts, looking confused. Why, is none of her business. I pocket my damned hands again for fear of just throwing her on the floor and fucking her. “I can hardly do my job if you won’t let me see the work, Mr. Caldwell.”

  “I don’t need you to do a job.” Her brows rise as she rubs her arm, making her seem aloof and capricious. Possibly about to bolt for the door.

  “Then why am I here?”

  I can’t think of an answer apart from the fact I’m not letting her go. And the fact that she’s so direct is becoming an issue for my ability to think rationally. I just want to look at her, watch her, and listen to her. Fuck her, actually. I want to fuck her. And kiss her, kiss Selma again. I want to feel her on my skin, trace my tongue with hers and remind myself of Selma’s love.

  I glance around, unsure what the fuck to do.

  “You want a drink?” I eventually mumble out, hoping it will go some way to apologizing for manhandling her.

  “No, thank you.”

  I hover at the bottom of the stairs, sneering at the black carpet and chastising myself for my inadequacy. The silence carries on, something I’m normally comfortable in, but not this time. I frown, flicking my eyes across to her and not attempting to make the atmosphere any more relaxed as she stares at me. She’s so like her—the way she stands, the slight raise of brow, the haughty disposition. Long legs, tight waist, slender fingers that will grab on, no doubt. Dig in. And her lips echo kisses from long ago. God, she’s beautiful. So beautiful. Like a sculpture of the perfect creation.

  “It’s cold,” she eventually says.

  Is it? I hadn’t noticed.

  Blowing out a breath and straightening my back, I pull at my tie and try to find a way to make her stay a while longer at least.

  “Miss Cavannagh, we should start in the ballroom at the back,” I offer, pointing back past her towards the kitchen.

  “You have a ballroom?” she says, startled as she uncrosses her arms in anticipation and brightens her frown into a smile.

  “I do,” I mutter, walking past her and crossing through the back corridors towards it.

  “You’re not much of a talker, are you?” she asks, her heels clattering on the wooden floor behind me. “More physical.” I stop and turn back to her, holding my hand up instantly to stop her colliding into me.

  “I shouldn’t have touched you. I apologize. It’s just the spiral staircase, it…” It what? Holds criminals at the top, ones covered in blood and wallowing in their own excrement?

  I look at my hands, checking the bruising around the knuckles, and then frown at the thought of what I did yesterday to dog number two. What’s upstairs is no one’s business but my own. Nothing else needs to be said. “No one goes upstairs. It’s not safe.”

  She opens her mouth. I stare at it, waiting for her to dare questioning me.

  “That’s okay,” she says, smiling so widely I nearly stumble back at the brilliance of it. “You’re forgiven. Just this once, though, Mr. Caldwell.”

  I smile back, desperate to hold her hand to my face and hear my name whispered from her lips. She tilts her head, still smiling and beginning to giggle a little at something. “Are you okay? You’ve got that look you had outside going on again.”

  I turn and continue to walk again then stop as she gasps behind me. “Is that a Hopper?
But it can’t be.” Before I can stop her, she’s wandered into Selma’s study, heading straight for the small sketch on the far wall. “Where did you get this?” she asks, pulling glasses out of her top pocket and sliding them over her eyes to see close up. “It’s fascinating. I didn’t know anyone had these.” Fascinating is a fair assessment of my current thinking. Everything is fascinating about this woman.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, surprising myself by wanting to know, given her likeness to Selma. I should want nothing more than to keep imagining she is her. Just hold that name in my mouth and use it, often. Perhaps even gag whoever this is and force her to change her name.

  “Madeline,” she murmurs back, as I inch my way inside the room and watch her studying the pencil sketch. “Seriously, I didn’t even know these were in circulation. How much did you have to pay?”

  “A lot,” I answer. But then it was our two year anniversary and Selma loved Edward Hopper. I had art dealers scour continents to find it, eventually making an old woman in Chile an offer she most definitely could not refuse to procure the thing.

  “I bet. It’s charming. I could absolutely sell this for—”

  “It’s not for sale,” I cut in, furious at the thought and heading back out to continue on to the ballroom. “If you could follow me, Madeline.”

  What the hell am I doing? I don’t want to sell anything. Not one fucking thing is leaving this house. Certainly not anything to do with Selma. And yet, I can’t get this woman out of my mind or field of vison. I don’t want to.