Page 39 of You Can't Hurt Me

“There—all around you?”

He turns to look at me.

“All the time. I mean not in a bad way, but she created that house and her studio; she’s kind of everywhere. Sometimes I wonder if it would be healthier if I sold up, moved on.” He bends down to pick up a stone, skims it across the waves.

“A break from the past?”

“It’s not that easy, I know, but maybe I should give it a go. Somewhere different, a new start.”

“Really? I can’t imagine that somehow,” I say, feeling a brief twinge of something I’m reluctant to define. It feels mainly like regret, that such a beautiful place will fall into a stranger’s hands, that very soon it will no longer be mine to wander around; all those rooms, her studio, Eva’s history still accessible to me—and still largely untapped.

He studies my expression. “It’s something I’ve only really started thinking about recently. Maybe it’s delving around in the past for this book. I can see how stuck I’ve got rattling around in that place. It’s not as if she was that keen on it anyway.”

“Wasn’t she? I thought she adored it.”

“She hated London by the end. She was desperate to get out. She tried to convince me that we should sell up and move here.”

“Here? That doesn’t seem very her at all.”

He looks at me oddly, the veil returning.

“But you don’t know what she was like. Not really. She was restless, impatient, completely unsentimental. She loved designing the house and the studio but once it was done, that was it. She wanted to move on.”

“And did you say yes to coming down here?”

“I didn’t want to, we argued about it. A lot.”

“Who won?”

“I’m sure she did, in the end, but I forget the exact details,” he says, vaguely. “I forget a lot these days. But maybe that’s for the best. What a curse to remember everything.”

“Well, try not to forget too much.” My hand closes around the recorder in my pocket. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Okay, come on then.” He turns abruptly toward the headland. “I’m ready for the full inquisition, but not on an empty stomach.”

The Metropole is a faded movie star of a hotel that clings to the headland, staring dreamily out to sea. Rumor has it that a Hollywood gossip columnist fell in love with this part of the coast in the ’30s, commissioning an architect to design it; a relic of American Art Deco washed up on a bleak English shore.

We sit in the curvilinear dining room, complete with wraparound glass-and-mirror ball. I find myself loving the element of faded glamour to it all. As a milky light sparkles off the sea through the blistered Crittall windows, I can half imagine Fred and Ginger tap-dancing their way across the chipped parquet floor. I glance out the window and notice the tide edging its way up the shoreline, consuming the shingle as if we’re out at sea.

“So,” he says, after our drinks arrive. “I think I owe you an explanation.”

“Really?” I say as he pours us each a glass of wine.

“Yes. For being a bit touchy when you were commenting on my notes. And for not being straight with you about a lot of things. I know it can’t be easy for you...putting up with me and now Priya.” He tapers off. “It’s going to be different.”

“Good.” I take out my recorder, placing it between us. The waitress arrives with our food. My tagliatelle, swimming in a pool of buttery cream, seems absurdly oversized and I realize I’ve lost my appetite.

“Wait.” His hand reaches across the table for the recorder at the same time as I do, his fingers grazing mine. He presses Pause, moves it to the edge of the table.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to... Come on, let’s eat first.”

“Anything to postpone the pain?”

Nate smiles, picking up his fork. “So what about you?”

“Er, what about me?”

He pushes his plate a little to one side, leans forward. “Come on. Regale me with a few details about the fascinating life of Anna, ruthless journalist-turned-legendary ghostwriter.”

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