Owen

I LIE LISTENING TO THE ragged sound of my own breathing. My right shoulder aches. Christ. I feel wrung out. I feel... used. A little brutalized. But in a good way. At least, I think it is?

The way Francesca is in bed—she's completely different from how she operates in every other aspect of life. You'd think it would be all candles and soft music, staring into each other's eyes, maybe a little tantra. Making love.

It's nothing like that. It's fucking. It couldn't be called anything else. It certainly doesn't feel as though love comes into it. This is wild, dark. Often a little violent. Her, not me. I'm her (mostly) willing victim.

I didn't finish tonight. I was too... what? Unnerved? I can feel the sting of the scratches she left with her nails... I think she might have broken the skin this time. Yes, when I turn my head to check, I see the marks on my right shoulder bear tiny dark beads of blood.

It's a thrill, I guess. It's certainly more to my tastes than candlelight and tantra. But it still throws me. Makes me wonder if there isn't another side to my partner. One I only glimpse in the bedroom, in the same way that you see another side to some people when they're drunk or high; some hidden part of them liberated. Fran doesn't drink or take anything, of course, so maybe sex is the only outlet. But maybe it's just sex. Maybe I'm reading too much into it.

Fran turns toward me and takes my face in both hands. "That was glorious, my beloved. Was it glorious for you?"

And just like that, all traces of the wild animal of a few minutes ago are gone. She gazes into my eyes, unblinking. I'm first to look away, always am. There are things I haven't told her about myself. I don't think you'd call them secrets. Omissions would be more accurate: omissions of those aspects that don't fit the version of myself I present to her. But don't we all do that, to an extent? Curate ourselves? I suppose being an architect doesn't hurt. The attention to detail. When you put it like that, perhaps I am my most masterful construction.

"Isn't it crazy," she says, "how the universe brought us together like this? It's like I asked for you and you walked into my life. Do you ever think about that? How Fate drew you to me?"

Well, not quite Fate. I had a telephone call—"I'm ringing from the office of Francesca Meadows..."—inviting me to pitch for the renovation project. Fran seemed confused when I mentioned it at our first meeting; told me they'd done no such thing. I've tried to remember anything about the voice of the person who called me—but I barely even registered if it was male or female, because I was so fixated on what they were saying. Tome Manor. Dorset coast. Had I ever heard of it? Would I be interested? We think you'd be perfect for the project.

I hear a crackle of laughter from the beach, a few shrieks, and, unmistakably, the thump of music, perhaps even louder than before. Dead-beat local wasters with nothing better to do. The thought of them depresses me. They've been turning up most nights since the beginning of summer. Francesca sends staff down early every morning to clear the sand—of the burned wood, the tiny glass popper vials, the empty cans of Tennent's and white cider. Sometimes I help out because I'm always the first down there: I take my morning surf not long after dawn.

Fran pulls her silk robe back around herself and drifts toward the windows to look out. "Michelle assured me she has it in hand," she says.

That woman. I make a face.

"I know you can't bear her, my love. I can't understand it. She's a godsend."

"She's a busybody. And she's a little tacky, surely, for the sort of impression you want to promote here?"

Fran wrinkles her nose. "I will have to have a word about those highlights. I could even get my stylist to come down here and work on several of the staff in a day; a few others could also do with some help." She smiles. "But you have to admit, she is so efficient."

The smile leaves her face as another shriek issues from the beach: more animal than human. She sighs. "Why can't they just respect what we've created here? I've tried with them, I really have. We even welcomed them at the locals' evening. You remember?"

"I could hardly forget." It was only a week ago, after all. An appeasing, peacekeeping mission. I absented myself for various reasons but I heard all about it. Drinks were "half price" (though I happen to know Fran ordered cheaper stuff in for them—suspecting they wouldn't appreciate the premium mezcal and artisanal gins). They came, got legless, took the piss out of everything, ran amok. It ended with someone leaving a shit in the pool. An actual human shit. Can you imagine? Fucking animals.

"It was just so... disappointing," Fran says. "And you know I don't want to make it about class. I really don't. But you just can't with some people."

Yeah, class shouldn't matter, in 2025. But it does. Maybe more than ever. And my wonderful wife—while practically perfect in every way—is perhaps a little bit of a snob. It's OK. I get it. Maybe I've become one, too. Living in this world.

Fran's always saying she wants to really know me. She wants me to "be vulnerable" with her. She's a very sensitive person (outside the bedroom). And I have shared with her, in my way. She just doesn't know how selectively. I've told her the bare bones: that I had a shitty, neglectful childhood, and it doesn't sound like her mother was God's gift to parenting either, despite the privilege. So that's something we have in common.

I pull the sheets up over me, then realize that their pristine whiteness is marked by flecks of blood, presumably from my scratched shoulder. It's OK. More where these sheets came from, finest Belgian linen and all. Because this is my life. It's crazy. Some part of me still can't quite believe I sleep here, wear ￡400 suede trainers, drive a James Bond car—a birthday present from Francesca. That I wake up every morning in this place, like some latter-day Lord of the Manor.

I'm such a fucking fraud.