Page 51 of You Can't Hurt Me

“It’s one thing,” she says carefully, “to write about yourself, reveal your private life to strangers, share personal details, whatever. But when it’s scavenging Eva’s life too...”

Heat rises up my neck.

“Hardly scavenging, is it?” I retort. “It’s biography, a reflection on his own loss too. It’s a way of remembering her, of being true to her life.”

“If it is true. We’ll never know.”

“It’s as good a chance as any for Eva’s voice to be heard, don’t you think? Now because of Nate and this book, her work, her art, can be appreciated by a whole new audience,” I say with passion.

After all, Jade and Kath would surely be grateful we’re not telling the whole truth in the memoir, doing our best to protect Eva’s reputation. If they really knew everything Nate had confessed to me, they’d be grateful that this memoir was preserving the best of their marriage.

“I don’t think her artistic achievement is really what this book is all about, do you?” She gives me a broad smile, her tone still withering.

“Well, I think you should wait to read it.”

“My mom would like to, but Priya has never offered and neither has Nate.”

“Well, I’m sure they will at some point before it’s published. I can see why your mom might feel concerned but tell her she really shouldn’t be.”

Without answering, Jade picks up our empty bowls and carries them to the sink. There is something balletic about the way she holds herself, in the starched line of her back, the sharpness of her shoulder blades. She takes out fresh mint from the fridge, snips it over two cups of boiling water in small precise cuts. Even her posture is somehow a rebuke to me, virtuous, upright. Nate has told me how helpful she is at the Rosen, yet I can’t help wondering again what she’s really doing here, beyond hanging around the kitchen looking glum and vaguely judgmental. Tending to Nate whenever she gets a chance.

“I should be going. I’m meeting my mom for the afternoon at the bookshop.”

“Sure. I’ve got loads to do. I’ll get going too,” I say, picking up my bag. I hadn’t planned for this. Algos House all to myself. My heart beats a little faster and I can’t deny I am strangely thrilled by the idea. It’s only when I hear the click of the door as it shuts that I realize I have been holding my breath.

I exhale, flop onto one of the sofas. How differently a house breathes when there’s no one else here but me. I angle my face into a shaft of light that beams through the high glass above me, feel the prickle of velvet upholstery on the nape of my neck. Lying back, I close my eyes, put myself in Eva’s place for a moment. Imagine how she spent her days when Nate was at work; absorbing this same view, savoring this particular texture of silence, rich and dense and soporific.

I get up and go back to his study, opening my laptop at his desk. For a moment I stare back at my empty silhouette reflected in the black screen, uneasy, until curiosity gets the upper hand. I text Nate to see how long I’ve got.

Got your message. All good. I’ll catch up on rewriting chapter 25. When are you back?

Around an hour. Hope Jade gave you some lunch

I put a thumbs-up emoji by his message.Finishing off a chapter now, hopefully we can run through when you’re here. No rush.

Out the window, I can make out the angles of her studio through the trees, a strip of river beyond. It’s a tantalizing thought, Eva’s studio, where she died, but it’s out of bounds. No doubt it’s locked anyway. Safer to stick closer to home.

Instead, I’m drawn to the floor above: her bedroom. I glance over at the sofa where the cat is asleep, remembering Jade’s warning about how she must never go upstairs. I scoop her up in my arms. She wriggles, indignant at being woken, and I grip her harder. I had to go upstairs to find Nico, I could say. As alibis go, it’s not bad. My steps on the staircase are light and urgent, taking me up to the only part of the house I haven’t yet seen. I pause for a moment, motionless, the silence thrums in my ears like a radio frequency turned to high.

Ahead are a set of double doors, one left slightly ajar. I step in and deposit her on the bed, making sure she’s settled. At the far end of the room, venetian blinds are drawn up to reveal a large picture window. Weak sun slants inside, turning the floorboards caramel and the silk rug next to the bed iridescent. The walls, the scallop velvet headboard and the bedding are shades of iced teal.

I inhale: an aroma of sandalwood and paper, dry and musky, fills the air, the kind that nestles in the back of wardrobes. The potent smell of absence. It is everywhere, a tangible weight in the room, air deadened by the past.

There in the corner is one of her textured glass sculptures, a female torso on a plinth. Hung above it is a silkscreen image; Eva and Nate, her head resting on his shoulder, replicated across an acid tangerine and yellow canvas.

I move through the space, my fingers brushing the thick satin throw on the bed, into her en suite bathroom. An open door at the other end reveals another bedroom almost identical to this one, and I find myself peering as if through the looking glass. His and hers. I take it all in: his ruffled bedding, yesterday’s discarded clothes. Something stops me from stepping in there. A transgression too far, even though I’m tempted.

I can’t help registering a discreet buzz of satisfaction at the geography. Nate wasn’t exaggerating on that score. Adjoining rooms, separate beds, the froideur he mournfully described to me. Were they delineated when their marriage got rocky? Did Priya ever stay in this room with Eva? Or could it be yet another privilege of the wealthy to double up on everything, including their sleeping arrangements?

I glance at the silkscreen of them and my eye travels down to a small polished walnut bureau beneath it, its curved drawers edged with gilt. I can’t resist. I wrestle with the top drawer first. There are boxes of old makeup mixed up with vintage jewelery. Gold necklaces, paste earrings, a pretty cushion-cut emerald cocktail ring catches my eye.

I try the second drawer, equally chaotic. Nate told me how disorganized she could be, never throwing anything away. There are hair clips and old paintbrushes mixed with receipts and invoices. A vintage brooch, a pot of varnish, postcards. As I comb through the rubble of her life, I register this as another fact about Eva, her desire to collect, a magpie drawn to the next shiny thing that came her way. Other people’s stories, their emotions, above all their pain, trying it all on for size.

I try to push the drawer back in but there are dislodged papers at the back, which are jamming it. I need to clear the gap behind. Carefully, I edge my fingers around the side of the drawer and feel my way around the corner of...a pad, or a book of some sort. Slowly, I slide it back and sit back on my haunches, take a second to catch my breath.

The cover is glossy, with an intricate design of flowers and leaves. In black italics across the front is printedSelf-Reflection Journal.

I have around half an hour left before he gets back. I picture his expression if he could see me here, furtive, deceitful. The threat of getting kicked off the book project, of Nate’s disapproval—his anger, even—unmoors me, but not sufficiently enough to stop myself from opening the journal.

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