Page 23 of Grotesque Love

I make my way downstairs, following the tempting aroma that leads me to the kitchen. A saucepan bubbles on the old Aga, but there’s not another person in sight.

I’ve only ventured into the kitchen a few times, the lack of appetite and losing days to exhaustion meant it was neversomewhere I found myself. It's a shame, I think, as my fingers move over the solid oak table that sits in the centre of the space. The huge arch windows frame the fading light, the uneven cream walls and high ceiling beams with all the woodwork, give the space a rustic fairytale feeling.

She would have loved this.

I can picture her sitting at the table with her mug of coffee, pale blonde hair pinned up on top of her head in a messy bun, a smile ghosting on her lips as she gives me another lecture about making a mess in the kitchen.

No.

That was pre-Lady Clifton. Lady Clifton wouldn’t have been seen dead with a messy bun. She only wore her hair in elegant chignons.

It should have been me.

I ignore the nasty thoughts starting to creep in, like vines taking root. Instead, I focus on the grain of the wood beneath my fingertips.

Breathe, Ari.

The table is set for one, with a bowl and a silver soup spoon, a glass of juice and even a small vase with some wildflower buds in it. There are always flowers.Did the groundskeeper do all this for me?

Crossing to the stove, I turn off the gas and quickly grab the bowl from the table and serve myself a generous portion of soup. It smells amazing, rich and savoury, with chunks of tender meat and colourful vegetables swimming in a golden broth. My mouth waters as I take my first spoonful, savouring the warmth spreading through me.

I flip through a newspaper I find on one of the counters as I eat. I used to hate eating alone, but I grew used to it after Carver came into our lives. They were always out to dinner or charity events or political conferences.

The front page story is about a missing woman in London, and when I glance at her picture she looks vaguely familiar. Ibrush my fingers over the woman’s picture. She’s pretty, with light brown hair. I tap the paper.

It’s not her.

She’s gone.

No more fancy dinners.

I decide the missing woman, Lucy Jones, is a stranger. It was only her eyes – blue eyes that for a moment, at first glance, reminded me of my mother.

The food is delicious, and I quickly find myself draining the contents, my spoon making a small noise as it clatters against the rim of the bowl. It was the best thing I've tasted in so long, and I have to stop myself from going up for seconds. I learned my lesson with the pancakes, I need to pace myself.

After rinsing the bowl and spoon, I decide to head out of the kitchen to explore a little more – the kitchen isn’t the only room I’ve neglected during my stay here. I’ve barely seen beyond my bedroom and the route I take to the solarium and so, with a renewed sense of energy after the comforting soup, I wander through the corridors, amazed at the grandeur of the manor house.

The high ceilings and intricate woodwork are breathtaking, and while large parts of it have fallen into disrepair, I can see how it must have looked. The faded, peeling wallpaper with weaving flowers and animal patterns would have been beautiful once upon a time, and the ornate furniture may be worn or wonky now, but it wasn’t always like that. I poke my head into what appears to be storage rooms, a mud room, and a room that contains more crockery than I’ve ever seen in my life. They don’t interest me, so I continue down the long corridor.

Portraits and art line the walls, like patchworks of dusty faces. It isn’t until I stop, and gently try to wipe the grime from one that I realise that the paintings are macabre. Faces fade into skulls, mouths are open in silent screams, bugs pour from crevices, while vines burst out of chests. Whoever hung these down the corridor must have had an unusual sense of taste.

The hairs on my arm rise, and somewhere in the house, there’s a thud. It’s as if the very walls are whispering secrets to each other as I pass by.

Which is crazy.

“Silly girl,” I mutter as I try to shake the feeling of being watched. “There are no such things as ghosts or monsters.”

If there were….

Then she would have haunted me. She would have taken any form. Driven me mad. I begged her not to leave me in this abyss. But even as I peer down the dimly lit corridor, I know I won’t find her here.

Silence.

There’s a stillness that starts to feel oppressive, like a weight on my chest. I reach out for a door to my left, only to find it locked. I rattle the handle, trying to turn the antique knob again but it doesn’t budge. Glancing around, I realise I’ve wandered near the west wing of the house.

Didn’t Carver say something about this wing?Remember, Ari.I rack my brain, but nothing comes back to me.

With a glance over my shoulder that reveals nothing but an empty corridor, I decide to go in search of the groundsman, eager for some human interaction in this quiet, sprawling estate.

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