‘Shh,’ she whispers. ‘Just wait a little longer.’
He still looks unimpressed but does what she says, like always.
Amelia
Time freezes when Adam says he knows who the chapel belongs to.
I look around the secret study, thinking it might reveal the answer before he does, but all I can see are more dusty books, an old desk, and my husband. His handsome features have twisted into a disappointed frown and ugly scowl. He looks more angry than afraid. As if this is all somehow my fault.
I think when you feel abandoned by your own parents, it’s impossible not to spend the rest of your life suspecting people of plotting to leave you. It’s something I always feel anxious about with everyone, even Adam, despite how long we’ve been together. Whenever I get close to someone – partners, friends, colleagues – there inevitably comes a point when I have to back away. I rebuild barriers, higher than before, to make myself feel safe. A constant fear of abandonment makes it impossible to trust anyone, even my husband.
I’d managed to calm my breathing when I found him in here, but this new anxiety is pressing on my chest.
‘Writers are a peculiar breed of human being,’ Adam says, still staring at the antique desk as though he is talking to it, not me. It’s so cold in this room that I can see his breath. ‘There are people I’ve worked with over the years – people I trusted – who turned out to be nothing more than…’
The light from the stained-glass windows casts shattered fragments of colour on the parquet floor, and he seems too distracted by them to finish his thought. I try to think of anyone he has fallen out with since I’ve known him, but there aren’t many. He’s had the same agent since the beginning. Everyone loves Adam, even the people who don’t.
‘Do you remember the film Gremlins?’ he asks. I’m glad he doesn’t wait for a reply because I don’t know what to say or see how this is relevant. ‘There were three rules: don’t get them wet, don’t expose them to bright lights, and don’t feed them after midnight. Otherwise bad shit happens. Authors are like Gremlins. They all start off like Gizmo – these individual and interesting creatures that are fun to have around – but if you break the rules: if they don’t like the adaptation of their book, or they think you changed too much of the original story, authors turn into bigger monsters than the ones they write about.’
‘What are you talking about, Adam? Who owns this property?’
‘Henry Winter.’
I freeze. I’ve always been afraid of Henry, and not just because of the dark and twisted books he writes. The thing that scared me the most the first time I saw him were his eyes. They’re too blue, and too piercing, almost as though he could look inside a person, not just at them. See things he shouldn’t be able to see. Know things he shouldn’t know. My breathing starts to get a little out of control again.
‘Are you all right? Where’s your inhaler?’ Adam asks.
‘I’m fine,’ I insist, grabbing the back of the chair.
‘The Daily Mail wanted to do a feature on where Henry wrote his novels when the last film came out. He wouldn’t let them send a journalist or heaven forbid a photographer – he always hated those. I’d known him for years by then, but he wouldn’t even tell me where he lived when not in London – always obsessively worried about privacy for reasons I could never fully understand. I only ever saw one picture of him in his study – which the newspaper said was “supplied by the author”。 This is it. The room where he writes. I remember the picture of him sitting at this desk,’ Adam says, touching the dark wooden table. It’s a peculiar old thing on wheels, with lots of little drawers. ‘It once belonged to Agatha Christie, and Henry paid a small fortune for it at some charity auction years ago. He became quite superstitious about it; once told me that he didn’t think he could write another novel anywhere else.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Look at the shelves in this room.’
I turn and do as he says, but the bookcases that line the back wall of the study look exactly the same as the ones in the lounge. Then I notice the spines of the books, and I see that they are all written by Henry Winter. There must be hundreds of them, including translations and special editions. It’s a giant vanity wall and exactly what I would expect from a man like him.
‘So, what is this? A prank? A bad joke?’ I ask. ‘Why would Henry send an email from a fake account, telling me that I’ve won a weekend at his secret Scottish hideaway? Why is everything covered in dust? Where is he? And where is Bob?’