Page 24 of We Live Here Now

23

Emily

Wiveliscoombe is larger than a village but is still only a small gray-stone Devon town with narrow streets, and the woman in the general store–cum–post office merrily points me in the direction of Joe Carter’s art studio as I pay for a box of chocolates and a bunch of flowers. I find it—a stylish one-level barn conversion—a few streets away. There’s a beautiful large thatched cottage alongside, with the house number in the same brushed steel as the sign saying JC Artist , so it must be their home. There’s music coming from the studio, so I go there first.

Sally opens the door, her blond hair thick and long over her shoulders, a loose sweater over her leggings, and her feet bare apart from a silver toe ring and perfectly painted nails.

“Emily!” Her face lights up. “Come in, come in. Joe’s working through there but is always happy to have a break.” She waves me inside. “And I’m packing up canvases, which is my least favorite job, so this is perfect.”

With white walls and white painted floorboards the room should feel cold and austere, but there’s a bright Moroccan rug, several beautiful large potted plants, a couple of blue sofas with colorful scatter cushions, and a stylish art deco red floor lamp that’s taller than me. There’s also a very modern and sleek desk with paper littered all over it and four paintings in Bubble Wrap leaning against it.

“This place is gorgeous.” I was expecting something quaint given the locale, but everything here oozes style and cool.

“Thank you. The art is Joe’s, obviously.” There are three large modern canvases on the walls. One is a portrait of Sally, and the other two are nudes, both women, one very old and one much younger.

“Joe’s fascinated by the female form.” She looks up at the painting, almost wistful but in awe. “Come on, let’s let him know you’re here.”

I follow her through a connecting door into a second space that reminds me of drama studios at a school, the walls and floor black, the complete opposite of the brightness of Sally’s office area. Several lights of different brightnesses, like a photographer might use, are dotted around the room, creating a mosaic of light and shade. It’s humidly warm, and the air smells sweet, and it takes a moment before I recognize it as weed. There’s so much to take in, I don’t know what to say.

Two young women—the dark-haired one I’m sure I recognize as a waitress from the Lamb—are naked on the large sofa, their perfect bodies entwined with each other, on the verge of a kiss, and on the table in front of them is an open bottle of wine, two glasses half-drunk, some white powder, and a rolled-up twenty-pound note. I don’t know if they’ve consumed any of it or if it’s part of the setup, but my skin heats with the wildness of it all.

“That’s beautiful, Jess. Can you keep your mouth open like that?” Joe’s behind the easel, holding a joint in one hand and moving the brush in quick strokes with the other. “Perfect.”

He looks up to see us there and puts the brush down and smokes the joint, adding to the pungent air.

“Well, this is a nice surprise.” He smiles, all angular cheekbones, and there is such a rakish handsomeness about him, I feel suddenly awkward. It doesn’t help when behind him the girls start kissing and giggling, touching each other for real. I don’t realize I’m staring until Joe laughs gently.

“Youth will youth. Let’s leave them to it.” He takes my elbow and leans in, adding softly, “It’s the aftermath I want to capture anyway. The languid glow. All that contented joy.” He sees the chocolates and flowers I’m carrying. “Are those for us? That’s very sweet.”

“I wasn’t sure what to bring.” They seem ridiculous now, prudish, but back in the brightness of the office area, I put them down on Sally’s desk anyway.

“Peonies are always a delight.” Sally takes the joint from her husband, draws on it, then holds it out. “Do you?”

“No thanks.” I shake my head. “It was never my thing.”

“I’m intrigued.” Joe perches on the desk and nods me to the sofa. “What brings you here bearing gifts?” Despite the drugs, his blue eyes are clear and thoughtful, and I find the word mesmerizing coming to mind. Sally is beautiful but Joe has so much charisma he could have been a movie star.

“It’s about Larkin Lodge. You said you’d lived there. And I wondered if you knew if the place had any—well, history.”

“History?” Sally’s on the other sofa, knees under her chin. “That sounds ominous. Like mass murders or something?”

I shrug. “One murder at least, I guess, yes.”

“A murder? Not as far as I know. But I only owned the house for a few years and that was nearly twenty years ago.” Joe takes another toke on the joint and then points at me with it. “But I’m curious as to why you ask.”

“I know most people don’t believe in ghosts.” I shrug, uncomfortable. “But I do a bit. And there have been strange noises. A weird sensation. That kind of thing. I wondered if you’d noticed anything when you lived there.”

“You think it’s haunted,” Sally says, gleeful.

“Or perhaps it’s simply an old house with old bones.” Joe stubs the joint out.

“That’s what my husband, Freddie, would say. He’s always very rational. But I thought I’d ask.”

“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 and some 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’s your house 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.