Page 13 of We Live Here Now

12

Emily

“Everyone should have a second Christmas in the middle of January,” Cat says as she opens up another box of books. “It’s such a miserable month.” She looks at me, trails of dark hair escaping her ponytail, over a handful of paperbacks. “But preferably without you scaring the shit out of us and nearly dying first.”

“My hiking days are over. Not that I really liked it in the first place.” I slide some cookery books into a space on the shelf and sip my red wine, nicely warm from the glow of the fire. While a January Christmas might be ridiculous, it’s good to have some fun. It’s been a busy day or so getting things ready—to be fair, Freddie did most of it while I directed him—and with no more strange sounds or feelings, any misgivings I’ve had about something odd in the house have almost faded away. “I only ever went hiking because Freddie wanted to.”

“I remember. I was surprised you went that day at all because you both were in such shitty moods. Hangovers, I guess.”

“Something like that.”

She looks up, curious. “Had you been fighting?” Nothing gets past Cat.

“Not really. Just been in a bit of a bad patch. You know how it is. It’s better now though, obviously. A coma will do that.”

“Maybe next time don’t go for such an extreme solution.” She smiles at me. “But seriously. I’m glad you’re better. Relationships can take work, but we all know it’s worth it. Marriage is teamwork, after all.”

I smile back at her, half-amused that she’s dragged up that saying again, but I know that her heart is in the right place. Cat’s a good person, and I’m glad to see her.

The Christmas tree is decorated and lit in the dining room and Freddie and Russell have dressed the table already while prepping the food, the smell of cooking turkey permeating the warm house. Fires blaze in the downstairs grates and a massive icy downpour started just after Freddie and Russell finished bringing a bunch of boxes in from the outhouses so I could get my books put away. It’s a proper wintry day, and the house feels almost Dickensian.

Cat scans a couple of the old paperbacks before adding them to her end of the shelves. Unlike Freddie, Cat’s always been a bookworm like me. It’s what we bonded over in uni. Iso was the light, the party life of our house-share trio, Cat was the studious one, and I was somewhere in between. Sometimes I think it’s strange we’ve stayed friends for so long, but once our boyfriends and then husbands clicked—different as they might be too—we were locked into a six. Right now, in a new house and new life, it’s comforting to have them here, and I feel a rush of affection for them all.

Given the built-in shelves on either side of the fireplace, this room might have been a drawing room or library at some point, smaller than the main lounge and not as imposing as the red room or the dining room, and it’s great to finally have somewhere to let my books breathe and a desk to sit at if I ever decide to write a book of my own.

“These are the last ones out of this box.” Cat hands me three hardbacks and I slot them in. All I need to make this room my own are a couple of wingback chairs and maybe some plants. I wasn’t keen on the thick green wallpaper, inlaid with a gold pattern, but I’m warming to its richness now that the room is coming to life.

“This place is amazing,” Cat says, flopping into my old Ikea chair, her baggy green sweater over her jeans almost matching the walls. “So much space. And god, the peace and quiet. I wonder if there’s a vacancy for a head of year in one of the local secondaries. Bet the kids are easier. I’d love to run away from London.”

“If you guys moved down here, that would be amazing.” I stand back, enjoying the look of the full shelves. “But ‘run away’ is a funny way of putting it.”

“Just a turn of phrase. Run away. Move away. Whatever. Come on,” she says. “Let’s go get another drink and check on the turkey.”

We head out into the hallway and the click of pool balls comes from the room that Freddie and Russell have turned into a games room while we’ve been setting up the study.

“I’ll see if the boys want anything,” Cat says, and I realize I’ve left my own glass behind. I turn back to the study to fetch it, a gentle wine-and-happiness buzz making me more relaxed than I’ve been since getting out of the hospital.

I’m about to pick up my glass when the study door creaks slowly shut behind me.

As I watch it click closed, I feel a sudden gust of icy wind and the fire goes out.

I stare into the grate, my heart pounding in my chest. The fire isn’t just out. It’s cold. There’s no smoke coming from the coals. No residual heat. Nothing. Rain hammers at the window, the sound my only company. Just a blast of stormy wind coming down the chimney. That’s all. Feeling a million miles away from the rest of the warm house, I pick up the glass and force my feet to move calmly toward the door.

It’s an old house and there’s a storm outside. This is nothing to be freaked out by. It’s only as I touch the handle, twisting it to free myself from the room, that I hear several soft thuds on the wooden floor behind me and I glance back in trepidation, half expecting sooty footprints coming toward me, but instead I see that four books have fallen off the shelves from various points, now on the rug in front of the dead fire. Just the wind , I tell myself again as my mouth dries. Nothing else. Determined not to be scared out of the room, I pick them up. Die or Diet by Dr. Ella Jones, Will You Love Me by Mhairi Atkinson, Here Come the Clowns by Armond Ellory, and You by Caroline Kepnes.

Out in the hallway the door knocker bangs loudly, and I drop the books onto the table, take my glass, and get out of the cold study, hurrying to greet Mark and Iso, who is already shrieking with delight, and to revel in the normality of our friendships.

Just the wind , I repeat like a mantra. Just the wind.

And I almost believe it until we go back into the study while giving them the tour of the house. As the others talk, all I can do is stand and stare. The fire is blazing again. The books are back on the shelves. It’s as if it didn’t happen at all.

It’s me. I must be going mad.