Amelia

AMELIA

He holds me and I let him, while I wait for my breathing to return to normal. I think about what the marriage counselor asked at our very first session. “Call me Pamela”—as Adam nicknamed her—always sounded as though she knew what she was talking about, but I confess my confidence in her dwindled a little once I discovered she’d been divorced twice herself. What does marriage mean to you? I remember how she purred the question and I remember Adam’s answer. Marriage is either a winning lottery ticket or a straitjacket. He thought it was funny. I didn’t.

He kisses me on the forehead, gently, as though scared I might break. But I’m tougher than he realizes. Cleverer too. The kiss feels antiseptic, nothing more than something to soothe.

“How about we take this bottle to bed?” he asks, picking up the Malbec and holding my hand as he leads me out of the crypt. Sometimes it is best to let people think you will follow them, until you are certain that you won’t be lost on your own.

There is a circular wooden staircase in the middle of the library lounge, leading up to what must have been a first-floor balcony when this was still a chapel. I’m guessing the woodwork is all original, it certainly looks it, and every second step creaks in a rather theatrical way. Bob charges ahead, trotting up the stairs, almost like he knows where he is going.

I can’t help but stare at the pictures we pass on the whitewashed stone walls. The series of framed black-and-white portraits starts at the bottom of the staircase, and winds all the way to the top, like a photographic family tree. Some of the pictures have almost completely faded, bleached of life by sunlight and time, but the newer ones—closer to the first floor—are in good condition, and even look a little familiar. I don’t recognize the faces in them though. And there is no point in asking Adam, who doesn’t even recognize his own in the mirror. I notice that three frames are missing; discolored rectangular shapes and rust-colored nails where they used to hang.

A red carpet held in place with metal rods runs up the middle of the stairs—unlike the cold flagstone flooring downstairs—and they open out onto a narrow landing. There are four doors in front of us. All of them are closed and look exactly the same, except for one that has a red DANGER KEEP OUT sign hanging on its handle. There is a tartan dog basket in front of it, along with a typed note like the one we found in the kitchen when we first arrived:

No dogs in the bedroom.

Please.

We hope you enjoy your stay.

The word “please” seems like an afterthought and a little passive-aggressive on a new line all by itself, but perhaps I’m reading too much into it. Bob sniffs the bed, wags his tail, and sits down contentedly as though it were his own. My dog doesn’t suffer from separation anxiety the way I do, and—unlike me—he can sleep anywhere, anytime.

“Well, that’s him taken care of. Didn’t the note earlier say that one of the bedrooms had been made up for us?” Adam says.

“Yes, but I can’t remember which.”

“Only one way to find out.”

He tries each of the available doors, which are all locked, until the final one opens with a dramatic creak to match the soundtrack of the stairs. Along with the howling wind outside, it’s enough to give anyone a dose of the heebie-jeebies.

“This place could really do with some WD-40,” Adam says turning on the light, and I follow him inside the room.

I’m shocked by what I see.

The bedroom looks just like ours at home. Not a carbon copy—the furniture is different—but the bed is covered with the same pillows, blankets, and throws. And the walls have been painted in the exact same shade: Mole’s Breath by Farrow and Ball. I redecorated as a surprise a couple of years ago, and I’ll never forget how much Adam hated it.

We both stand and stare for a moment.

“I don’t understand what I’m seeing,” I whisper.

“I suppose it does look a bit like ours—”

“A bit?”

“Well, we don’t have stained-glass windows in London.”

“This is too strange.”

“We don’t have a grandfather clock either,” he says, and that’s true. The antique-looking clock in the corner of the room is completely out of place, and the sound of it ticking seems to get louder in my ears.

“Adam, I’m serious. Don’t you think this is all a bit weird?”

“Yes and no. They probably just got the idea from the same place as you. Didn’t you buy everything in our bedroom from one company because you got a fifty percent discount in the sale? You fell in love with a picture of a bedroom in their brochure, and literally bought it all. I definitely remember the credit card bill. Maybe whoever owns this place did the same?”

What he’s saying is true. I did fall in love with a picture of a bedroom in a brochure, and I did buy almost everything in it, despite the ridiculous price tags. I suppose it isn’t beyond the realm of possibility that whoever renovated the chapel has similar taste. The place has been beautifully decorated, despite every surface being covered in dust. Which makes me notice that—unlike the rest of the property—the bedroom is spotless. I can even smell furniture polish.

“It’s clean,” I say.

“Surely that’s a good thing?”

“All the other rooms were dusty and—”

“Maybe we should replace our table lamps with these at home?” Adam says, interrupting me and lighting one of the old-fashioned candlestick holders by the bed. He had a box of matches in his pocket, like he knew they would be here. As they start to flicker and cast shadows around the room, I can’t help thinking that they look borrowed from the set of A Christmas Carol. “They’ve still got the price stuck to the bottom. They look so old, but they must be new,” he says, lifting one.

“It all feels so … unauthentic, as if we’re in a film of our lives, and someone just dressed the set with cheap replicas of the originals.”

“I think they’re cool.”

“I think they’re a fire hazard.”

I open another door and find a bathroom that looks nothing like ours at home. Everything is genuinely old, and there are marks on the wall and floor where I’m guessing a claw-foot bath used to be. It was the same in the restroom downstairs—no bath, just an empty space where one clearly once stood. There is mildew on the wall tiles and sink. When I turn on the taps, there is a strange sound but nothing happens.

“I suspect the pipes might be frozen,” Adam says from the bedroom.

“Great. I was hoping to take a hot shower,” I reply, coming out to join him. The room is now only lit with candlelight, and it does feel cozier. I notice that he’s opened the wine and poured two glasses. I want to enjoy it this time, so go to pull the blinds, still a little creeped out that someone might have been outside watching us earlier. There is an old radiator below the window, but it’s freezing cold which explains why I am.

“There are other ways I can think of to keep warm,” Adam says, wrapping his arms around my waist and kissing my neck.

It’s been a while since I have slept with my husband.

It was different when we first got together—we couldn’t keep our hands off each other back then—but I’m sure that’s the case for a lot of couples. It sounds daft having been married for so long, but the thought of taking my clothes off fills me with dread. My body doesn’t look like it used to.

“I’m just going to freshen up,” I say, taking something from the overnight bag before retreating to the bathroom. “Check under the bed for ghosts while you wait.”

“Then what?”

“Wait longer.”

With the door closed between us, I start to feel calmer again. More in control. I pretend not to know why I am so nervous about being intimate with my own husband, but it’s one of those little white lies I tell myself. Just like we all do. I stand barefoot on the cold tiled floor in the unfamiliar bathroom, and stare at the woman in the mirror, then I look away as I remove the rest of my clothes. The new black silk and lace nightdress I bought just for this trip doesn’t turn me into someone else, but it might help turn him on. Is it wrong to want to be desired by the man I married?

I open the bathroom door, attempting to look sexy as I step out from behind it, but I needn’t have bothered. The bedroom is empty. Adam is gone.