Owen

HEADING BACK FROM THE BEACH I cut through the walled garden toward the private courtyard that leads to our apartment. There's a guy in expensive-looking workout gear doing an affected little jog along the paths. Bloody idiot. He's got the whole estate to run around, what's he doing here? I hope he trips and brains himself on a raised bed, drowns in the carp pond.

It felt like an invasion, yesterday, when the first cars began gliding up the driveway. I didn't build any of this for them—it's all for her. Think I managed to convince myself they'd never actually arrive. Well, here they are. Less than twenty-four hours and already it feels like they're tarnishing this place. Leaving greasy fingerprints on the glass in the Seashard, scuffing the finishes, dumping their towels in damp mushrooming piles around the pool, ungainly bodies thrashing about in the water, blurring the clean lines of the design. It feels like a personal insult. I know they're a necessary evil. I understand that they're the point of The Manor. But if you ask me, it was a whole lot better before they moved in. When it was finished and perfect, our vision fully realized and unspoiled. I created something transformative here. Not just for this old building, not just for Fran, but for me, too. Something that began to heal me.

The guests are like an infestation. They're insatiable. And why do they all look so fucking miserable? Faces like smacked arses, my dad would say. The faces of people waiting for a bus in the pissing rain. They're staying in "the hottest new rural getaway." They've paid hundreds—some thousands—for the privilege. They have everything they could ever need.

Christ... and there'll only be more of them, soon. It's why we're building into the woods with the Treehouses, which are already booked out for the autumn despite being massively behind schedule. My stupid fault... I kept fucking up the designs. Strange, but every time I went into the trees to visualize them my thoughts just scrambled. Didn't realize Fran had already opened up the calendar. We have to begin construction now and not a moment later. I know she's less than thrilled about it happening during opening weekend but I've tried to persuade her it could work to our advantage. The celebrations will provide a distraction for the guests while we do the loudest of the work: excavating the deep roots of the felled trees to make way for the new foundations. This way we haven't had to close bookings at all. Fran may look like a free spirit, but she's an extremely canny businesswoman.

My walk back from the beach took me past the sad spectacle of Tate's Holiday Camp: a blot on the landscape. I can't wait to get cracking on Fran's plans there—a glamping experience, picturesque shepherds' caravans with outdoor rain showers. But we're charging more for the Treehouses, so they took precedence.

Running guy's now doing stretches on one of the ironwork benches between the beds, really lunging into them. His shorts are smaller than any bloke's should be. I'm sure I'm about to be assaulted by the sight of a sweaty, free-swinging ball.

Not even the hidden cove is sacred from the guests, apparently. That woman on the rocks just now. How the hell did she find her way there? Half the locals don't even know it exists or if they do they don't bother with it because of the hairy descent. In the mornings I have it to myself; that's how I like it. It's the only place beyond the grounds I really like visiting.

When I first learned The Manor was looking for an architect I knew there was no way I could do it. I'd barely worked in the UK full stop. Recent builds included an Icelandic actor's holiday home in the Western Fjords, a hotel in Costa Rica. But I couldn't stop thinking about it.

"Don't you feel," my therapist said, "it might be worth exploring why you say you ‘can't'? Sometimes doing the things that scare us is how we conquer those fears."

"I'll send a brief pitch," I said. "I'll do that much."

I went to that first meeting braced to meet my demons. But instead I met my angel: caught in a ray of sunlight through the window, golden hair rippling around her shoulders.

A few sessions later, I told the therapist.

"The way you talk about her... is it fair to say you've been searching for a mother figure?" she asked.

"She is nothing like my mother," I spat. "Fran's perfect."

"Is anyone?" my therapist mused. "That's a difficult label for any human being to wear."

Cereal box pop psychology crap. I canceled my next sessions. I didn't need a therapist by then. I had Fran.

Oddly, though, when I'd calmed down, I could see that there were things about her that reminded me of my mother's better attributes. The beauty. The big dreams. But unlike my mother, my wife is all positivity. All purpose. When I look back, I can't be certain which I fell in love with first: the project, or Fran. I've certainly never been so connected to my work before.

Behind one of the espaliered pear trees I stop, check quickly that I'm not being observed, then tug a loose brick out from the wall. Tucked into the recess is my emergency stash of baccy. I make a sloppy rollie. In spite of everything I still buy the same Benson Hedges rolling tobacco. Nothing else tastes right. Fran thinks I gave up ages ago. I doubt she's ever even tried a cigarette: that's how pure she is. Well. Except in the bedroom.

When I walk into the private courtyard I stop, frown. Something's hanging from the door that leads up to our apartment. Something white and ragged. Small sections of it are half detaching and fluttering in the hot breeze.

The taste of the tobacco is suddenly rancid in my mouth.

I step closer. My flesh is crawling all over, though I'm not yet sure what I'm looking at.

Another step. I can smell it now and I know that smell in the animal way we probably all do. It's a dead creature.

Jesus Christ. The realization of it shrieks through me. It's a bird. Someone has nailed a dead bird to our door. Not just any bird—it's the white cockerel from the run in the walled garden. The one Francesca was photographed with in Harper's Bazaar.

I'm not squeamish, but I take a step back when I notice a maggot crawling from one of the empty eye sockets. Jesus. My first thought is: I need to get rid of this thing before Francesca sees it. She's got too much on her plate.

I start trying to free the dead creature from its nail, bile rising in my throat at the stink of it. The heat won't have helped. I look down to inhale and see a small white envelope tucked beneath the bottom of the door. I bend down, shove it into my pocket, then turn my attention back to the bird. The things I do for Fran. But then I do everything for Fran, because she's everything to me. Without her I am nothing.

"Hello, Owen."

I swing around.

Oh for Christ's sake. Not again. I turn unwillingly to catch Michelle's gaze sweeping over me.

"Warm, isn't it?" she says—I feel like I'm in some bad porn, all of a sudden. "Bet you wish you were still out on the water."

On the face of it there's nothing particularly odd about her words. It's hardly a secret that I'm out on my board early most mornings. But something rankles me.

"Oh, goodness." She's looking at the thing on the door behind me.

"Yeah," I say. "Someone clearly has a really twisted idea of a practical joke." Though I can't help but feel it's not a joke, not at all.

"I'll go and get Francesca," she says. "She should see this."

"No you won't." I almost shout it. This is the last thing Francesca needs. Surely the stupid woman can see that?

I rip off my shirt. Italian linen, I have a whole wardrobe of them now. Then I gather up the grisly bundle and carry it to one of the big waste bins outside the staff entrance. When I dump it inside, blood is already oozing through the shirt fabric.

I turn back and have to resist a shudder: Michelle's watching me, a slight frown on her face. "You've got something," she says. "Just there." She snatches out a hand before I can duck away, runs a finger along my collarbone. I feel her nail lightly score the skin. She holds out the fingertip to show me a smear of crimson.