Page 22 of Whispers of My Skin

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Thank the Lord for the wonder of Google.

I could kiss my phone when the search results appear, as it turns out there are plenty of folk willing to create free tutorials and share their expertise on just about any topic you can come up with and then some.

Knowing I’m in way over my head, I don’t rush to get started until I’ve spent some time carefully researching every aspect of my task—prepping the wood, mixing the paint, protecting surfaces that aren’t being painted—all kinds of fascinating topics.

One tutorial advises that roof repairs should always be tackled before, rather than after painting the house, to avoid damaging newly painted surfaces. That makes perfect sense to me, so it begs the question as to why the ever-practical Mr. Sadger is making me paint the house first?

Hmm. I suspect he thinks it doesn’t really matter, since he’s not expecting me to complete the task anyway, but that he’s deliberately setting me up to fail, to prove a point—that I’m a pathetic and useless creature compared to him.

Well, I’m not going to give him the satisfaction, however exhausted and ill I’m feeling right now. I do still have a modicum of self-respect, I do have a backbone, and I’m damn well going to prove him wrong.

I’ll challenge him at supper tonight, point out that it would have been logical to tackle the roof first. And I don’t care if questioning him pisses him off, because bottom line, it’s still my house.

However, I did agree to hand over control, so if he still insists I have to finish the house by the end of the week, I’ll just have to grit my teeth and get on with it.

So, I doggedly continue with my task, fighting with some thick black plastic sheeting as I attempt to cover up the brick fireplace to protect it from any paint splashes, as instructed by my YouTube tutorial.

When I’m done, I step back and observe my work with pride. It might not exactly be up to professional standards, but I feel like Michelangelo contemplating his David. Yup, I’m really quite proud of my efforts.

I’ve never done anything hands-on or practical like this before, but I find it’s a challenge I rather enjoy. It’s strangely satisfying working out the best way to tackle things, then getting on with it, and seeing the fruits of my labors.

And I have to admit, Joel was right, the house desperately needs a good coat of paint. According to my new Google friends, wooden cladding must have regular maintenance if it’s to withstand harsh climatic conditions like ours, but as far as I can recollect, the last time it received any attention was more than ten years ago, when my father was still alive to take care of such matters. No doubt about it, a fresh coat of paint is well overdue.

Before I start painting, I rub down each individual board of the outer wall, carefully inspecting each one for signs of termite infestation. My Google buddies warn that neglect could have led to the nasty little buggers taking up residence, and right now they could be chomping their way through the wood. Even I know that spells disaster, but thankfully the wood appears to be sound as far as I can tell—it’d be obvious, right?

It’s a tedious job masking the top edge of the wall, but I can’t skimp on this part of the prepping if I don’t want to risk staining the gutters or the tiles. It’s exhausting going up and down the ladder, and I’m getting a helluva leg workout.

Finally, when I’ve prepped the house as best I can, it’s time to get on with the painting. I carefully stir the paint, thankful that at least Joel provided the pre-mixed kind, so that’s one less thing for me to worry about. When I begin painting, I find the process rewarding once I start to see a transformation in the appearance of the house.

It’s early afternoon when from my vantage point at the top of the ladder, I see an unfamiliar SUV pull up in front of the house. As far as I know, we aren’t expecting anyone, but what would I know?

Intrigued, I pause from my painting to crane my neck and see who it is.

“Oh no, not her,” I mutter irritably when I see a familiar redhead getting out of the car. I have to admit to being curious though. What brings Cassandra to my neck of the woods? I can only assume she’s here to see my husband, since I can’t think of any other reason for her turning up.

She strolls down the cobbled path on her spiky five-inch heels, but when no one answers the door, she wanders around until she comes across me perched on my ladder.

Unlike me, Cassandra is dressed to impress in an elegant pink dress that shows off her impressive curves to perfection. My first thought is that I need to find out exactly what kind of relationship Cassandra has with Joel. Not that I’m jealous, you understand, I just need to fathom out her connection with my husband, what influence she has over him.

“There you are, Tara, I wondered where everyone was. Wow, what a romantic way to spend your honeymoon,” she sniggers, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looks up at me.

“Good afternoon, Cassandra,” I reply as calmly as I’m able. What business is it of hers how I spend my honeymoon, and why has is she here poking her nose in where it isn’t wanted?

“You must have had a very good night’s sleep to have the energy to tackle this.” She points to the house with a snide smile. Bitch.

“Actually, thanks to Joel, I didn’t get much sleep last night,” I smirk back. This is true enough, though sadly not for the reasons I’m implying, but she doesn’t need to know that. “Thanks for your solicitude, but married life has me energized and raring to go. This is our marital home after all.”

“Well, I suggest you make the most of your burst of energy, Tara darlin’, because Joel wants the job done as soon as possible.”

How the hell does she know that? Does Joel confide every little detail of his life—and mine—to her? Trust me, come what may, I shall be putting a stop to that with immediate effect. She wasn’t part of our deal.

“Well then, I suggest you leave me to get on and don’t waste any more of my time, Cassandra darlin’,” I smile back at her sweetly.

“Where is Joel, anyway? It’s him I came to see, and I have better things to do with my time than stand around chatting with you.” She looks around, tapping her elegantly shod toe impatiently, ignoring my comment that she should stop wasting my time.

“No idea. I’m his wife, not his keeper. Guess you’ll have to go and find him yourself.”

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