Page 16 of You Can't Hurt Me

“It’s a new project, something my publisher and I are working out at the moment, but it’s about Eva, and a personal account of my grief, our relationship, lots of things. But Kath sees it as a huge betrayal, I think.” He shrugs lightly. “At least she and I are in agreement over the next inquest. Neither of us think the investigation was thorough enough. We still don’t know what really happened to Eva.”

“But we do know she died of a heart attack—”

“It’s not as simple as that. There are too many loose ends.”

“So what do you think really happened?”

“I don’t entertain theories,” he says, pointedly, flicking the cigarette end onto the damp earth where it glows and dies. I stare at a wall where a vine has spread across it, tentacle-like, suffocating the camellia beneath.

“The press seemed to wonder if someone else was in the house that day, even though apparently the inquest couldn’t prove it.”

“All speculation.” His voice falters. “It was unimaginable really, coming home and finding her, like something out of a horror film...those ruined sculptures around her. Not being able to save her.”

Nate’s features soften and he looks lost in his thoughts. I wonder how he can still live here with reminders everywhere, the shadowy outline of her studio through the cypress trees, lined up like sentries guarding a tomb.

He offers me another cigarette, exhaling a trail of silvery smoke into the damp air. I tilt my head over his lighter, cup my hand around the flame. I consider telling him about the day I spoke to Eva, but think better of it.

I remember it clearly. How my mood was jagged all morning. I hadn’t slept. Tony was staying over before he caught an early flight to New York and his noisy nocturnal presence in the apartment kept me awake, as usual. The click of the light switch in the hallway, the metallic echo of his ring on the stair rail.Clink,clink,clinkas he reached the top. Up and down, round and round, his footsteps, his tics and rhythms stalked my dreams.

I had sniped at him the next day for keeping me awake. He’d apologized but I could tell he was upset. He said he found it hard to live with me anymore, that I was always on edge. Then he turned from me, that familiar wounded expression in his eyes, a look that always skewered me with guilt. Before I could say another word, he was gone. I had sat on the sofa in the early morning light, sad, emptied out, and then my phone rang. It was her. Eva’s voice instantly lifted me from my stupor. She had talked about her therapy practices, and I felt warmed by her enthusiasm, transported. I had hinted briefly, when she asked, about the exhaustion, some familial pressures still lingering in my life, anxiety, no more than that.

“You don’t sound like someone in therapeutic need,” she reflected and for a moment I wanted to tell her about my squabble with Tony. “But I can tell you’re self-aware, thoughtful, the sort of person who’d benefit.” A pause. “I really think you are. One session at the clinic where I train, if you fancy it. For a piece? They could do with the publicity.”

My skin prickles and I rub my arms. Why is it that some people are so difficult to refuse? Nate looks at me again, pulling me back into the moment. I’m surprised by the concern in his gaze.

“Come on, let’s get you back inside. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Jade throws me a sharp glance as we walk in. She tells him he has a 2:00 p.m. conference call with a professor at Columbia and he checks his watch. “Well, we’ve got around twenty minutes left, so I’m not sure what you—”

“I’d love a guided tour.” Jade raises her eyebrows imperceptibly to Nate and walks away. He hesitates. “It would be so useful for context. No photos, I promise.” I hold up my phone, conspicuously switch it off.

“Alright,” he says finally. “Not her studio though. But I can show you the house.” I follow him down the glass stairs into the basement, which feels entirely disconnected to the space above. The ceilings are lower and it’s darker down here. Even the smell is different, a mix of old carpets and wood chippings.

“We kept as much of the Victorian cellar as we could.” He pushes open the paneled door of his study. One wall is exposed brick, the rest of the room is a dense burgundy, the floorboards are painted black. There’s a couple of Persian rugs and a worn-looking leather sofa facing a marble fireplace. “I’m the only one who worked in here,” he says, catching my expression as I notice a lock on the inside of the door.

“Ah, the man cave,” I say, looking at papers piled on a battered antique desk, dirty mugs on the floor.

“Eva loved the idea of styling everything like a glossy magazine.” He makes a face as he turns and sits down on the sofa. I place my recorder on the coffee table in front of him and press Record. My eyes flit around the room, hungry for detail. Over the mantelpiece is a row of macabre cat portraits. I’ve read about Nate’s passion for collecting Louis Wain, an Edwardian artist.

“Bit weird,” I say, stepping forward to take a closer look.

“Not really, once you know more about him,” he says, standing next to me, absorbed by the anthropomorphized creatures staring back at us, wild-eyed and garishly psychedelic. “I put them up last month. I like the way they capture the artist’s turbulent state of mind.”

“Schizophrenic?”

“Possibly. Specialists could never agree. But if you look at an MRI brain scan that’s tracking, say, physical arousal, the way the colors light up look weirdly similar.” He points to one of the more abstract florid prints, saturated swirls and curlicues.

“Sorry, before we continue, I just need the washroom.”

“Of course, second door on the left,” he says, scrolling through messages on his cell phone.

I don’t need to, really, but a bathroom break is a chance to gather your thoughts, retreat away from the watchful eye of your interviewee. Their surroundings are more likely to give them away than anything they’ll ever tell you.

Leaving my recorder on while they’re alone is another old ploy. If I’m lucky, it might pick up something in my absence; a flirtatious compliment from an aging actor, an intimate phone call, a spat with a book PR over an indiscretion they shouldn’t have let slip. Always worth a try.

I lock the door and wash my hands, catching my reflection in the mirror. My pupils look dilated, my cheeks glow, as if I’m running a fever. The room is windowless and opulent, shimmering like a dark gem; the walls are jewel-toned and the taps are burnished gold. Coppery mosaics line the floor, glittering like coins. It’s like stepping inside a Fabergé egg.

Above the sink is a small vintage medicine cabinet;Apotheke, it says in italics that curve across the frosted glass. I lift the latch. It exudes the faintest medicinal aroma, musty and antiseptic.

---