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Authors: Kevin Wignall
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contemplated, and because he hadn’t even lived—college, traveling on his own. He’d never even had a real girlfriend.
She jumped up from the bed, eager to escape the snare of thoughts that lay in wait there. She found her way into the bathroom and washed her face, then jumped as a roll of thunder cracked overhead, the wooden frame of the house vibrating with it.
She turned to walk back out and smiled as she noticed two neat white bathrobes hanging on the back of the door, like in a hotel. It made her wish she was majoring in psychology, to know what it meant for a man who wasn’t used to visitors to put this much effort into his guest room.
Putting one of the robes on, she stopped to listen for Chris’s slow, rhythmic breathing before continuing out of the bedroom and up to the living room. A small lamp was on up there and as she reached the top of the stairs, she could see Lucas standing out on the balcony.
Ella saw him turn to check who’d come up before switching his attention back to the storm. She walked over to him and said, ‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’
‘No.’ She automatically expected him to ask a typical small-talk question, like why couldn’t she sleep; it was still catching her out, the lack of conversational glue in his speech. For a second, they were both illuminated like they’d been hit by a strobe in a nightclub. The thunder exploded overhead, the long aftershock of a plane going through the sound barrier.
When the noise had died down, Lucas said, ‘It was during a storm that Mary Shelley started Frankenstein . Lake Geneva. The same evening, Polidori started work on one of the precursors to Dracula .’
‘Yeah, I knew that. It was Byron’s idea. Some people think Byron wrote the Polidori book.’
‘Oh.’ He turned, captured, it seemed, by a piece of information he hadn’t heard before. ‘I haven’t read The Vampyre . Didn’t like Dracula much. I loved Frankenstein .’
‘Really? I found it hard work.’
He didn’t respond at first but then, as if remembering his responsibilities as a host, he said, ‘Would you like a glass of milk or something?’
‘What’s that you’re drinking?’
‘Cognac. Want some?’
‘Please.’ He went back inside and she walked in and sat within the pool of light that came off the small lamp.
There was a photograph in a simple frame next to the lamp, inconspicuous, but she noticed it now because the rest of the room was dark. It was a girl of about her own age, maybe a little older, very pretty, long fair hair. It had been taken on a beach or at least near the sea, the girl’s smile carefree, like she’d been caught in the middle of a laugh.
It was the only thing she’d seen in the whole house that was suggestive of him having contact with another human being, attachments, people who mattered to him. When he came over with the drink, she thanked him and said, ‘Is that your daughter?’
He looked at the picture and said, ‘How old do you think I am?’ She wasn’t sure. He didn’t look that old but he’d talked about her father and she’d started to imagine them being the same age, which they obviously weren’t.
‘How old are you?’
‘I’m forty-two, and she’s an old girlfriend. Someone I knew a long time ago. I don’t even know why I keep it.’
She looked at the picture and back at him, daring to tease him a little.
‘Perhaps because she still means something to you?’
‘Maybe. Maybe you don’t know me well enough to analyze me.’
She shrugged it off and sipped at the cognac, fiercer in the mouth than she’d expected. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Madeleine,’ he said, sitting down.
‘That’s a nice name.’
‘Yes, I think of Proust every time I look at her.’ She could tell he’d made some kind of joke but she didn’t get it and couldn’t see how it was meant to be funny.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing.’ He looked apologetic, maybe acknowledging that it hadn’t been that funny. ‘She was
She jumped up from the bed, eager to escape the snare of thoughts that lay in wait there. She found her way into the bathroom and washed her face, then jumped as a roll of thunder cracked overhead, the wooden frame of the house vibrating with it.
She turned to walk back out and smiled as she noticed two neat white bathrobes hanging on the back of the door, like in a hotel. It made her wish she was majoring in psychology, to know what it meant for a man who wasn’t used to visitors to put this much effort into his guest room.
Putting one of the robes on, she stopped to listen for Chris’s slow, rhythmic breathing before continuing out of the bedroom and up to the living room. A small lamp was on up there and as she reached the top of the stairs, she could see Lucas standing out on the balcony.
Ella saw him turn to check who’d come up before switching his attention back to the storm. She walked over to him and said, ‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’
‘No.’ She automatically expected him to ask a typical small-talk question, like why couldn’t she sleep; it was still catching her out, the lack of conversational glue in his speech. For a second, they were both illuminated like they’d been hit by a strobe in a nightclub. The thunder exploded overhead, the long aftershock of a plane going through the sound barrier.
When the noise had died down, Lucas said, ‘It was during a storm that Mary Shelley started Frankenstein . Lake Geneva. The same evening, Polidori started work on one of the precursors to Dracula .’
‘Yeah, I knew that. It was Byron’s idea. Some people think Byron wrote the Polidori book.’
‘Oh.’ He turned, captured, it seemed, by a piece of information he hadn’t heard before. ‘I haven’t read The Vampyre . Didn’t like Dracula much. I loved Frankenstein .’
‘Really? I found it hard work.’
He didn’t respond at first but then, as if remembering his responsibilities as a host, he said, ‘Would you like a glass of milk or something?’
‘What’s that you’re drinking?’
‘Cognac. Want some?’
‘Please.’ He went back inside and she walked in and sat within the pool of light that came off the small lamp.
There was a photograph in a simple frame next to the lamp, inconspicuous, but she noticed it now because the rest of the room was dark. It was a girl of about her own age, maybe a little older, very pretty, long fair hair. It had been taken on a beach or at least near the sea, the girl’s smile carefree, like she’d been caught in the middle of a laugh.
It was the only thing she’d seen in the whole house that was suggestive of him having contact with another human being, attachments, people who mattered to him. When he came over with the drink, she thanked him and said, ‘Is that your daughter?’
He looked at the picture and said, ‘How old do you think I am?’ She wasn’t sure. He didn’t look that old but he’d talked about her father and she’d started to imagine them being the same age, which they obviously weren’t.
‘How old are you?’
‘I’m forty-two, and she’s an old girlfriend. Someone I knew a long time ago. I don’t even know why I keep it.’
She looked at the picture and back at him, daring to tease him a little.
‘Perhaps because she still means something to you?’
‘Maybe. Maybe you don’t know me well enough to analyze me.’
She shrugged it off and sipped at the cognac, fiercer in the mouth than she’d expected. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Madeleine,’ he said, sitting down.
‘That’s a nice name.’
‘Yes, I think of Proust every time I look at her.’ She could tell he’d made some kind of joke but she didn’t get it and couldn’t see how it was meant to be funny.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing.’ He looked apologetic, maybe acknowledging that it hadn’t been that funny. ‘She was
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