Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
I blink up at her as she tilts her head, her face straight. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” She motions to the papers. “I’ve tabbed where I need your signature.” Then she pivots and leaves.
Like nothing has happened. She was all business but with . . . a smile on her face. No scowls or derision in her expression. Does she really like organizing me and The Manor that much?
My attention falls back to the mass of paperwork before me, and I grimace, pulling it closer. It’s something to do while I wait for John and Cook. And at least I know what I’m doing. Thanks to Sarah. So I get to work, signing where indicated, filtering through all of the papers, before stacking them to the side for her. Easy as that. I pick up and scan the spreadsheets. Sam and Drew are both still on the overdue medical list. “Fucking pains,” I mutter, texting them both to remind them.
And then . . . I’m redundant. I rest back in my chair, pouting, looking around my office. This is what I wanted. No work stress. Time. Great, except my wife still has a boss and a job. I get up and go for a stroll, opening and closing doors, taking in every room, before heading upstairs and doing the same, visiting the extension last. Our suite. But I don’t take in the interior. I go to the window and take in the view, resting my shoulder on the frame and counting the trees again, only reaching thirty before I can’t see any farther. John’s Range Rover emerges on the horizon, rolling slowly down the driveway. Can he even comprehend not driving through those gates ever again? It’s been his life for longer than mine, and yet he’s never succumbed to the lure of the rooms. He’s never had a relationship either. His life’s work has been as a solid friend, first to Carmichael, then to me. He needs freedom as much as I do.
I back away from the window and leave, pausing at the stained-glass window at the bottom of the stairs, glancing up to the communal room. And suddenly, I’m climbing the stairs, my heart, weirdly, beating that little bit faster. I push through the doors and slip my hands in my pockets, glancing around. How many mornings did the cleaners find me on one of the beds, naked? How many women have I fucked in here? In my own suite? It seems like madness now, that I would even entertain such hedonism. Husband and Daddy.
I slowly wander around, spotting pieces of the new furniture amid the originals. All things I would have tried. Not now.
A noise behind me pulls my body around. John cocks his head, and I smile mildly. “I feel a bit detached,” I admit. “Like I’m looking at a past life.” I run my fingers lightly over the top of a highly polished cabinet that’s stuffed full of toys. “Like the heartbeat is dulling.” I look at John, and he nods in understanding. The communal room. The heartbeat of The Manor.
I laugh to myself, the sound low and nervous. John’s silence isn’t helping.
“You saw Beatrice,” he says, out of the blue, removing his glasses.
“Ava told you.” How much has she told him? Out of pure habit and nothing more, I pull at my collar. I don’t feel stifled. I don’t feel hot. My heart is beating a little faster, I guess. “Can you believe of all the restaurants I could’ve chosen, I chose the one they were in.” You couldn’t fucking write it. “Ava noticed someone staring at us. It was . . . tense.”
“Hmmm,” he hums, and I frown.
“What does that mean?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“No, you hummed.”
“A man can’t hum? Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
“I’ve not spoken to you.”
“You spoke to me on the phone this morning.”
“I had other things on my mind this morning.” Speaking of which, where the hell is Cook? I scowl down at my watch.
“So how did it go? With your mum, I mean.”
I glance at John. “As you would expect.”
“You’ve been drunk for the best part of sixteen years, motherfucker. If you ever saw your parents during that time, you were already drunk. You acted out. Then made a grab for more vodka. So that’s what I would expect. Except, that didn’t happen this time. So, again, how did it go?”
I pout like a scorned, challenged child. It was unbearable. Seeing how old Mum looked. Learning Dad was unwell. Hearing her pleas and not being able to block them out with alcohol. “It hurt,” I admit, looking away.
“But you didn’t drink.”
“No, I didn’t drink,” I say, heading out of the communal room, suddenly feeling stifled.
“That’s good.” John follows me, falling into line beside me as we take the stairs.
“Yes, that’s good. When did you become a therapist?”