Chapter 9 Nina

Chapter 9

?Nina

The next half level down, James shows me the bedrooms, three in total. A large, clean, impeccably designed and fitted master bedroom. The other two rooms smaller but no less perfect. The rooms are seemingly without personal effects, but I decide that I will scour the place—cupboards, wardrobes, shelves—for anything and everything once James is gone. I am shown the bathrooms, the wet room, then down another flight of stairs.

To the indoor pool, a mirrored spongy-floored gym, a cedar-scented sauna, a sterile white utility room, and then James brings us to a halt in front of another much more substantial-looking white metal door. Unlike all the others in the house, this door's lock panel glows blue instead of green.

"Blue means it's locked?" I surmise.

James gives a brisk nod. "Yes, we've had several firms out to look at the problem but, as yet, no luck. It appears to be jammed. No way to remove the door without substantial damage to the surrounding walls and structure. We weren't keen to move forward with that work without your prior consent."

He waits for me to say something and when I do not, he continues. "We have been in contact with the company that created the security system and they've agreed to reconfigure it free of charge, if that's something you'd be interested in arranging."

"Um, yes, I guess so," I tell him, taken aback at the oddness of the situation. "Sorry, just to clarify. What exactly is in this room?"

James frowns, pauses, grimaces, and then sighs. "Well, that's the question, really, isn't it," he says finally.

"Excuse me," I say as silence descends between us.

James clears his throat. "Well, I imagine: a home office, perhaps?"

I give him a moment longer but nothing comes.

"You imagine ?"

"Yes," James replies simply.

"Okay, and what do the floor plans say is in there? There must be architectural plans?"

James straightens, still not quite on stable footing. "Ah, well, as I said earlier there are no structural plans. Well, rather, we haven't been able to locate specific structural plans. Of course, the recent survey only took into account the accessible areas of the property, but as you see, access to this particular room has been an ongoing issue. Once the door has been reprogrammed, though, I'm sure we can amend the plans. If that would be something you would be interested in doing?"

I try to wrap my head around what he is telling me.

"So this house, my dead father's house, has a locked room that doesn't appear on any architectural plans of the building and no one has been able to access it since his death. And that is not a cause of concern to anyone, potentially?" I stop abruptly, the urge to explode into hysterics almost unmanageable—with all my father and this house's high functionality and modernity, it is clear that, at the end of the day, nothing can open a locked door except perhaps a large hammer.

I take a breath and regroup before continuing. "Does my father's will mention anything about the room—a code or something? Anything? You mentioned Melissa might pass on a letter of wishes?"

James gives a tight smile and pats his pockets performatively before the soft crush of paper reveals itself. He pulls a thick duck-egg-blue envelope from his inside pocket and hands it to me. "Yes, here we are. Though as I said it isn't of a personal nature. Purely a division of assets and so forth. His last will solely for the executors, you understand."

He watches me thumb the grained paper. I feel exposed, triggered by the sight of my father's handwriting in my softest of soft spots, I clear my throat decisively and pop the envelope directly into my bag.

"Yes, right. Probably best to take a look later."

James takes a step back from the door. Suddenly I can't think of anything else I want more than to get rid of him—and to his credit James seems to feel the whisper of it himself.

"If we wander back up, I can talk you through security company options for the property," I hear him say, but I am already mentally unpacking the house, scouring its rooms for traces of my father. Besides, security hardly seems an issue if it's impossible to even get into some of the rooms in the house. "Almost all the properties along the coast of this size and value," he continues, "have some form of security staff. Perimeter, gatehouse, grounds. We've been running a minimal ghost service to keep the insurance valid but you might want to consider something more robust."

"Of course," I say as we reach the hall, orange-tinged sunlight streaming onto us through the vast windows as nightfall approaches. "Can we pick this up again when you bring the final documents over next week?" I hope he will pick up on my flagging focus and just leave me in peace.

"Not a problem," he says, his expression understanding but a little cloying. "The bulk of the paperwork I have left in the living room. You have the letter and the gate fob; you're entered into the biometric system. Everything in the house should be explained in the materials provided: oven, electrics, all that fun stuff. But you have my number."

I give him a weary smile, by way of thanks. "Thank you, James. You've been fantastic. I think I just need a day or two to acclimatize to it all, to have a think. I mean it's all obviously so incredibly beautiful, but practically, well, my life is back in England. I can't imagine staying here longer than this trip. I just want to get a feel for it before…He built it after all."

"Yes, understood. Well, take your time. We are here, whatever you need. If you decide you want to place it on the market, or whatever you decide, just call."

—

Silence descends as James's reassuring presence disappears down the steep stone staircase to the car park and gatehouse far below. I close the glass front door and squeeze my tired eyes shut, thankful there will be no more talking for a while.

Through the vast sitting room window, the sun is dipping toward the horizon, the sky now alive with peaches and pinks, breathtaking and calming. I watch the colors deepen until the sun slips into the sea, the house's exterior self-illuminating when darkness finally falls. The house glows in the new night air.

I fetch my suitcase from the hallway and wheel it across the marble, pausing to fully take in the Bacon triptych.

Astonished I did not place it sooner, I see it is a three-paneled screen: The Three Furies. The three goddesses of vengeance: Unceasing Anger, Vengeance, and Jealousy. But the triptych is beautiful, still, becalmed, with the pretty panels rendered in muted 1930s abstract geometric forms.

Odd subject matter for Bacon, and clearly well before his screaming-blurry-man period. This art is soothing more than anything.

Then my eye falls to a small ebony sculpture, a woman about to be engulfed by some unseen force, on the table beneath it. The figure's posture is tensed and ready for a wave that will never come. The air-conditioning catches on something hidden beneath it. An edge of white paper, flapping every so often as the fan's flow hits it.

I walk over, tilt the sculpture, and pull the paper out from beneath. I unfold its thin page. It appears to be some kind of invoice for electrical work undertaken. A small pencil-filled docket.