Page 20 of A Cornish Love Story
Now
Istrode up the stairs clutching my camera. I could hear the low timbre of Ethan’s voice, laughter echoing up the double-height foyer as I stepped into the first room I came to on the right of the landing. I let out a long, slow breath as I took it all in. This, surely, was the master bedroom.
I had no teenage blueprint to lay this over because, when we’d trespassed, we weren’t sure if the stairs were safe, and none of us had been brave enough to try them. So this was completely new to me. It was a huge room, decorated in soft tones of off-white and dove grey, with touches of the blues and greens that I’d seen in the rest of the house. The king-sized bed stood against the far wall, and the window that looked out over the sea was framed by a luxurious window seatin a rich blue fabric, a bank of green and white scatter cushions adding to its plushness. There were no blinds, and I assumed the glass here could be tinted, or blacked out completely at night, like Ethan had mentioned in his speech.
Cushions on the bed matched the ones on the window seat, sitting proudly on a silver bedspread that looked like glistening water. There was a chaise longue at the foot of the bed in emerald green velvet, and I felt a pang, because everything about this house was opulent, but having a seat at the end of the bed – having a bedroom big enough to fit one – had always seemed like the height of luxury to me: so simple but desirable, to be able to sit there and put on your socks. Here, there was so much floor space between the bed and the wardrobe that I was almost tempted to perform an entire dance routine on the plush grey carpet, though I would have to find one on TikTok first.
Anglepoise lamps were built into the walls on either side of the bed, above floating bedside tables, and there was an oil landscape of a windswept coastline above the headboard, the reds and earthy greens of fields running down to the sea, the layers of bold texture a rugged contrast to the room’s soft hues and clean lines. It would be a local artist, I thought, and made a note in my notebook to ask Ethan – or Sarah – so I could mention it in my article. At this moment, neither of those prospects was appealing.
I walked into the bathroom and found a clawfoot tub under the window, the view of the grassy,wildflower-strewn clifftop stretching away from Alperwick, towards the next bay along. There was a separate shower, with spotlights recessed in the pearly tiles. I touched the panel next to the door and a rainbow of lights illuminated the floor, cycling from pink to blue, green to yellow, like a steam room in a spa hotel. I pressed the button again and again, watching the lights change from pulsing to a slow fade, to static colours and then off. Who needed disco lights in their shower? Suddenly, it was all I wanted.
I returned to the bedroom, and touched the rose petals in yet another elaborate bouquet. I had a sudden idea that it was fake, and they were pumping the scent through the discreet Sparks vents, but there was nothing plastic about it. Ethan wasn’t – or at leasthadn’tbeen – a dishonest person, unless the lies were to protect someone he loved. I moved some of the cushions aside and sat on the window seat, trying not to think about the choice he’d made all those years ago, and how I’d reacted.
I could hear the murmur of people below, soft voices and the tread of footsteps in the corridor outside. I smiled as a couple paused in the bedroom doorway, eyes wide as they took in the opulence, then I turned away from them, towards the window, and heard them move on. The sun was hovering above the mirrored horizon, but a bank of thick cloud was gathering to the north, obliterating the blue sky. In here, the air was cool, but I could almost feel the heavy humidity outside, and I wondered if the weather would breaktonight. I pressed the panel next to the window and watched the glass go from clear to frosted. I pressed it again and it went dark, the room plunged into a thick gloom. Soft lighting immediately took its place, running along the skirting board and from hidden spotlights I hadn’t noticed in the ceiling. I pressed it again and the view reappeared, the lights winking out.
‘It’s Smart glass.’
I jumped, then turned to see Ethan standing in the doorway. He’d discarded his jacket, loosened his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. The glass he held only had a dribble of champagne left in the bottom.
‘Have you let go now that you’ve given your speech?’ I gestured towards him, and he looked down, as if he hadn’t realized he’d started to unravel.
He took a step into the room.
I picked up my rucksack and my camera. ‘It was a great speech.’
‘I said what I had to.’
He was resolute, as if I’d imagined the moment of shame when he’d written me out of Sterenlenn’s origin story. ‘And I have all I need, too.’ I tried to slide my Nikon into my bag but it got stuck, the wrist loop catching on the broken zip. ‘I can go now.’
The carpet was thick and I didn’t hear him crossing the room, but then he was crouched in front of me, trying to untangle the camera from the zip. I pulled my hand away.
‘I meant what I said outside, about it being good to see you.’
My stomach swooped. ‘You too,’ I said, though I wasn’t sure if I meant it.
‘You’ve really got everything you need?’
‘This isn’t a long-form piece for theNew York Times, Ethan.’ I yanked the bag back, and the zipper flew off and pinged against the wall.
He huffed out a frustrated, ‘Fine.’
‘Great.’ I jammed the camera into my bag, no longer caring if it broke in the process.
‘You seem irritated,’ he said, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
‘I’m not, I’m just on a schedule.’ Sweat prickled down my spine despite the air conditioning, and I felt as if all the composure I’d carefully gathered during the day was deserting me, with his face so close and the sound of his breaths punctuating the spaces between our words.
‘You didn’t have to come today.’
‘I really wish I hadn’t.’ I stood up and so did he. He was between me and the door. ‘I wish I hadn’t bothered but Spence—’
‘Spencer?’ His brows knitted together. ‘Who’s Spencer?’
I felt a thud of satisfaction. He might have been keeping tabs on me, but he wouldn’t have found evidence of a boyfriend, because I didn’t have one – not since I broke up with Rick – and S. E. Artemis had been out of the limelight for thirty years. So let him think Spence was Spencer. Considering all the beautiful women he paraded on Instagram, it seemed only fair.
‘I have to go,’ I said.
‘Everyone will be gone soon.’
