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Authors: Adam Nevill
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mood either. He found her ‘exhausting’. The last therapist’s exercises worked if she made an effort. But only the excitement involved in
getting ready to meet Mike succeeded in finally acclimatizing her to the world she’d stepped entirely away from, on the lane before the great house of M. H. Mason.
Joan Baez on the stereo, a glass of chilled chardonnay on the dressing table. The pencil skirt and satin blouse from Karen Millen, new stockings with seams from Agent Provocateur that Mike had
given her for her birthday, all made her feel a bit vintage. And she realized that through her outfit she might even be trying to catch a tendril of what had curled out of the Red House behind
her.
The place wasn’t even remotely sexy, though it possessed mystery and elegance in abundance. But the professional opportunity the auction offered was sexy. Very sexy. If she could keep that
at the forefront of her mind, she’d get through this job. And she gleefully imagined the outraged faces of her ex-colleagues, the bitches back at Handle With Care in Soho. If Edith hired her,
the auction would make a few Sunday broadsheets, lifestyle magazines, and the national broadcast news channels. Handle With Care would crawl to her on their knees to produce a documentary about
Mason’s treasures. Catherine Howard, the misfit the quick girls hounded out of her job, and the city, would smile at them from a wreath of glossy pages, and as a talking head from local
television studios.
Lost Treasures of M. H. Mason: War Hero, Taxidermist Extraordinaire, Puppeteer. Represented by Valuer and Auctioneer, Catherine Howard of Osbernes. The Red House. The
Treasures of . . .
She’d have the rooms of the Red House lit properly for the catalogue. Best to capture them in that setting. Mike could do the photos. God knew he needed the work, as well as cheering up.
She also had catalogue copy to consider; the press release was even more of a priority. She’d get up early on Saturday and make a start. No, she’d start on a draft of a contract first.
If she could pull this off, there would be a new car in her future, and she could buy her own flat in the development for young professionals, overlooking the river, or maybe take a house in
Hallow.
Don’t get ahead of yourself.
She checked her outfit in the full-length mirror at the end of her bed. She looked good.
Was the beauty spot too much?
Edith would be aghast at the sight of her scarlet
Kiss me
lipstick, and Maude would probably grimace at the intensity of the colour against the pale skin of her face.
Jam tarts,
that’s what girls were called who wore make-up at her
secondary school in Worcester. At least the lipstick was red. She let her hair flop down and was reminded of a doll.
TWELVE
‘You wouldn’t believe it. If she’ll give us permission to photograph it, room by room, you could have an exhibition. It could be the book you’ve always
wanted to do. And the kittens! Did I tell you about the kittens?’
Is he even listening?
Mike’s face was pale and he hadn’t made an effort with his hair, but she told herself she wouldn’t mention that. He didn’t like being criticized, even in good humour.
Maybe he was thinking about what they’d
lost.
Maybe it was his turn to be sullen and withdrawn. Totally flat, so not a flicker of enthusiasm could be coaxed into life about anything.
Now that she had come back to life, maybe it was his turn to retreat.
‘You OK, babe?’
His eyes found her, then flicked away, back to the surface of his pint which looked inelegant on the table opposite her outfit, which he’d noticed with a sudden intensity when she arrived.
But he had withdrawn his attention just as quickly.
Mike had been waiting for her, uncharacteristically early and smelling of beer. Had started drinking without her. ‘Tired,’ he said, his voice almost a whisper. He breathed out and
his fingers writhed and knotted until he tucked them beneath the table. He’d been
getting ready to meet Mike succeeded in finally acclimatizing her to the world she’d stepped entirely away from, on the lane before the great house of M. H. Mason.
Joan Baez on the stereo, a glass of chilled chardonnay on the dressing table. The pencil skirt and satin blouse from Karen Millen, new stockings with seams from Agent Provocateur that Mike had
given her for her birthday, all made her feel a bit vintage. And she realized that through her outfit she might even be trying to catch a tendril of what had curled out of the Red House behind
her.
The place wasn’t even remotely sexy, though it possessed mystery and elegance in abundance. But the professional opportunity the auction offered was sexy. Very sexy. If she could keep that
at the forefront of her mind, she’d get through this job. And she gleefully imagined the outraged faces of her ex-colleagues, the bitches back at Handle With Care in Soho. If Edith hired her,
the auction would make a few Sunday broadsheets, lifestyle magazines, and the national broadcast news channels. Handle With Care would crawl to her on their knees to produce a documentary about
Mason’s treasures. Catherine Howard, the misfit the quick girls hounded out of her job, and the city, would smile at them from a wreath of glossy pages, and as a talking head from local
television studios.
Lost Treasures of M. H. Mason: War Hero, Taxidermist Extraordinaire, Puppeteer. Represented by Valuer and Auctioneer, Catherine Howard of Osbernes. The Red House. The
Treasures of . . .
She’d have the rooms of the Red House lit properly for the catalogue. Best to capture them in that setting. Mike could do the photos. God knew he needed the work, as well as cheering up.
She also had catalogue copy to consider; the press release was even more of a priority. She’d get up early on Saturday and make a start. No, she’d start on a draft of a contract first.
If she could pull this off, there would be a new car in her future, and she could buy her own flat in the development for young professionals, overlooking the river, or maybe take a house in
Hallow.
Don’t get ahead of yourself.
She checked her outfit in the full-length mirror at the end of her bed. She looked good.
Was the beauty spot too much?
Edith would be aghast at the sight of her scarlet
Kiss me
lipstick, and Maude would probably grimace at the intensity of the colour against the pale skin of her face.
Jam tarts,
that’s what girls were called who wore make-up at her
secondary school in Worcester. At least the lipstick was red. She let her hair flop down and was reminded of a doll.
TWELVE
‘You wouldn’t believe it. If she’ll give us permission to photograph it, room by room, you could have an exhibition. It could be the book you’ve always
wanted to do. And the kittens! Did I tell you about the kittens?’
Is he even listening?
Mike’s face was pale and he hadn’t made an effort with his hair, but she told herself she wouldn’t mention that. He didn’t like being criticized, even in good humour.
Maybe he was thinking about what they’d
lost.
Maybe it was his turn to be sullen and withdrawn. Totally flat, so not a flicker of enthusiasm could be coaxed into life about anything.
Now that she had come back to life, maybe it was his turn to retreat.
‘You OK, babe?’
His eyes found her, then flicked away, back to the surface of his pint which looked inelegant on the table opposite her outfit, which he’d noticed with a sudden intensity when she arrived.
But he had withdrawn his attention just as quickly.
Mike had been waiting for her, uncharacteristically early and smelling of beer. Had started drinking without her. ‘Tired,’ he said, his voice almost a whisper. He breathed out and
his fingers writhed and knotted until he tucked them beneath the table. He’d been
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