The Therapist(9)
‘I thought we could turn the downstairs bedroom into a second study, then we’d be able to have one each,’ Leo explained.
‘Good idea, as long as I can have the one downstairs,’ I said, kissing him. ‘I love the idea of being nearer the kettle.’
‘No problem for me to have this one.’ He opened one of the doors on the other side of the landing. ‘This is the biggest bedroom.’
‘Nice,’ I said, looking round the bright and airy room.
‘Yes, but the room next door has the en-suite. Come and have a look.’ I followed him in. It was a little smaller than the previous one but still large. ‘I thought we could knock the two bedrooms into one to make one big bedroom and an en-suite,’ he explained. ‘It would still leave us with a guest bedroom for when Debbie comes to stay.’
‘Sounds good,’ I said, moving to the window so that I could see the garden. It was early May, and a beautiful Laburnum was in bloom. There was also what looked like a cherry tree and I could see raspberry canes along the left-hand fence.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, captivated. ‘Really lovely.’
He came to stand behind me and wrapped his arms around me. ‘I can see us sitting out there on a summer evening with a glass of wine,’ he murmured.
His breath was warm on my neck and I instinctively tilted my head. ‘Me too.’
He turned me in his arms so that he could see my face. ‘Does that mean you like it, then?’ he asked, his brown eyes searching mine.
‘I love it,’ I said, mentally crossing my fingers, because I didn’t love it, not really. But I would learn to love it, for his sake. It would grow on me.
Except that it hasn’t.
Five
I sit cross-legged on the kitchen floor, thinking about the inner voice which had told me with such intensity, just moments ago, that I don’t like this house. It’s not true, not really. There are things that I love, like my downstairs study. It has the palest of pink walls, a colour I never thought I’d like, but which I do, and an en-suite, because it was destined to be a bedroom. The desk that once belonged to my father stands in front of the window and in the corner, there’s a sofa bed that came from Leo’s flat. I also love the kitchen, with its pale marble worktops and white bulthaup units – or at least, I will once I’ve finished jazzing it up a bit. It’s too neat and clinical for me at the moment, all clean lines and everything hidden away in clever cupboards. So, I don’t hate the house, it’s more the atmosphere that I don’t like.
Maybe it’s just that there’s no atmosphere; the house was only built five years ago, whereas the cottage where I was born and brought up, and where I lived until a few weeks ago, is two hundred years old. I’m so grateful I was able to keep it. I did as Leo suggested and it’s rented for six months to a lovely couple from Manchester, who want to give country-living a try.
I glance at the photographs spread on the floor in front of me. They are mostly of Debbie and my other friends back in Harlestone, but there are also some of me and Leo, taken during a week’s holiday in the Yorkshire Dales. Reaching out, I pick up one of the other photos, a headshot of my sister. I stare at it for a moment, then reach for another photo, this time of my parents and sister, taken on the day of her graduation, and raise it to my lips, pressing it there, my eyes closed, remembering. I can’t believe that I’m actually going to put these two precious photos on the fridge, where my eyes will automatically be drawn to them every time I open or close the door. And the eyes of other people, who might ask about my family, because then I’ll have to explain. It’s why I usually keep photos of them hidden away in the bedroom. But this move to London is a new start for me in more ways than one.
Moving to a kneeling position, I begin to fix the photos to the upper door of the fridge-freezer, using tiny magnets to keep them in place. When there’s no space left within reach, I get to my feet and continue adding photos until the whole of the door is covered. I stand back to admire my handiwork, and the two of my sister and parents leap out at me from amongst the others. I look around the kitchen; it still needs more colour so I fetch a pile of cookery books from the dining room, which I’ve lined with bookshelves. As I pass the sitting room, I glance through the door and smile when I see that Leo has laid the ‘New Home’ cards face down on the mantelpiece, his little joke after our conversation yesterday.
Back in the kitchen, I stack the cookery books along the worktop. Later, I’ll cut some flowers from the garden and put them on the table, in the red gold-lipped jug I found in a charity shop.
I’m still not dressed so I go upstairs, pausing when I get to our bedroom, still thrown by the size of the room. With the last of the boxes unpacked, and Leo gone, it seems sparser than usual. Overwhelmed by a sudden need to get out of the house, I look through the pile of clothes neatly folded over the back of the chair for my white sundress. The forecast for the rest of the week said to expect cooler temperatures, so today is probably the last time I’ll be able to wear it. But it’s not there. I know it’s not in the laundry basket because I wanted to get another day’s wear out of it. I must have put it back in the wardrobe.
I reach into its vast interior and look through the clothes on the rail. I still can’t find my dress so I pull out some blue shorts and a vest top, noticing that my neat rows of shoes on the wardrobe floor have become jumbled up. I bend to straighten them, wondering if I could go and see Eve. She blogs for a living, mainly about beauty products, and works as much or as little as she wants each day.