Page 18 of We Live Here Now

“Well, I wish I could help, but I’m afraid I don’t remember anything odd about the place.” He looks to Sally. “Do you?”

She shakes her head. “I only lived there a couple of months before we got married and sold up.”

“Must just be me,” I say. “But thank you for not laughing at me.”

“Not at all,” Sally says. “I’m fascinated by this stuff. Women are more perceptive anyway.” The hem of my jeans has ridden up andsome of the long, shiny red scar tissue like a shallow valley in the length of my limb is visible. I tug the bottoms down.

“Is that from your accident?” Joe asks. “You fell off a cliff, is that right?” I look up, surprised. “Sally does yoga with the estate agent. There are no secrets in this town.” He smiles. “But you shouldn’t be embarrassed about it. That scar is a symbol of your survival. And all bodies are beautiful. We’re lucky to have them.”

“That’s a good way to look at it. Thank you.”

“And as for the house, even if there is some dark secret in its history as yet to be discovered, the past is the past and invariably a mystery. It’syourhouse now. Enjoy it.”

“I’ll try. And thanks again.”

“And if you need anything, we’re here.”

The door to the studio opens and one of the girls, flushed and in a loosely done-up robe, peers around the corner, the wineglass in her hand answering my silent question as to whether the booze was a prop. Sally and I might as well not be there, as she smiles coyly at Joe. “Are you coming back?”

“No rest for the wicked.”

He floats a soft kiss over my cheek and then the girl takes his hand, leading him back into the darkly decadent room, and her giggle dances out to us before the door closes again. I glance at Sally as she comes with me to let me out, but there’s not a hint that she finds it at all uncomfortable, whereas I’m flustered for her. And for me. I’m not really a prude, but it was so flagrantly sexual and surprising.

“If you feel something, you should trust it.” Sally leans on the doorframe as I step back into the cold January day. “Women have far more intuition than men. Maybe you should try the parish records at the church.” She’s thoughtful. “That’s where I’d look for the forgotten secrets of the dead.”

As we say our goodbyes, I figure it’s worth a try.

24

Emily

The graveyard is beautiful in an eerie way, not quite overgrown but not overly tended either, with trees that must dapple sunlight beautifully on the graves in summer. I’d tried to get into the church but the door was locked, and despite knocking I got no answer, so instead of browsing parish records I found myself wandering among the gravestones. Some are so old they’re worn back to nothing, and others are shiny new marble with gold inlays and fresh flowers. I loiter and look at the names and imagine all the stories I’ll never know between the birth and death dates of each one.

I trace my fingertips across one uneven stone, battered by the elements and green with years of moss, and wonder about the person it belongs to. All this death is making me gloomy but also making me think more rationally. Sally and Joe didn’t have any weird experiences in the house, and the graveyard and memory of my time in the hospital, and the loss of the cluster of cells that was the baby, are very much reminding me that when you’re dead, regardless of my supernatural leanings, you’re probably just dead. There probably are no ghosts. And given that I’m the only one experiencing anything strange in the house, which option would a sound mind believe—that Larkin Lodge is haunted or that my recovering mind is playing tricks on me?

It’s only as I head back along the narrow path to the gate that I recognize a name on one of the newer stones, a shiny marble built to last.Gerald Carmichael. 1938–2004. Most beloved perfect husband. Loving and kind.

I pause and stare at it. Gerald Carmichael. That handsome man who used to live in the Lodge. I look to the grave beside it, expecting to see Fortuna’s, but there’s nothing. Was she buried somewhere else?

“Well, hello.”

It’s Paul, the vicar, pulling his earbuds out.

“I didn’t realize you were here. I knocked.”

“Sorry, I was listening to an ABBA marathon while sorting out the store cupboard. Didn’t hear a thing.” He pauses. “Is everything okay?”

“I was just curious to see the parish records. I wanted to dig around in the past of the house. That sort of thing.”

“Ah, so youdothink there is a ghost.” His face crinkles with a smile, but it’s a gentle expression; he’s not laughing at me.

“Not really. I’m just curious about who’s lived there before us. I figured it might be fun to put together a potted history of the place. I saw Sally and Joe, and she said to try here.”

“Did you go to the studio while he was working?”

“Yes.” There’s a pause and our eyes meet, and we both burst into laughter.

“Quite the avant-garde couple, aren’t they?”

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