Читать книгу After You Fell - J.S. Lark - Страница 20

The glossy white door with the fox-head knocker and the brass number twenty-two is in front of me, staring at me from across the street.

The only difference in the view I am looking at, compared to the day Google’s street view captured this image, is that there are no flowers planted in the boxes attached to the railings in front of the house. In the Google image, this house has full flowerboxes bursting with scarlet-red pelargoniums, white euphorbia and trailing ivy. But now, they have all gone.

I think this is the door that Louise Lovett walked in and out of day after day. The door to her home.

I feel as though she’s holding her breath, waiting and watching inside me, with fear and hope. I know she wants me to be here, but I do not know what she wants me to do.

I lean back against the cast-iron Georgian railing that edges the park on the opposite side of the street from the house. The action crushes the rucksack hanging from my shoulder. The rucksack contains a raincoat and umbrella. But today the rain has stayed away.

The five-foot-high iron bars of the railings are topped by pointed fleur-de-lys shapes and so my head rests against a sharp cold fleur-de-lys design. One foot lifts to settle on the stone that the ironwork is embedded in.

This is an old street. In the park behind me are half a dozen plane trees with broad shady canopies and thick trunks over a metre in diameter. The trees must have been planted around the time the houses were built. The park was made to be a garden for the rich who lived in these houses in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The people who live here today must appreciate it even more because there’s a road behind them, and a supermarket beyond that.

I glance at the watch on my wrist then look back at the door, breathe in then exhale slowly. I have been standing here for twenty-two minutes and there’s been no movement in the house.

The street has a dead end, so even though on the other side of the park there’s a noisy main road, here there are no people or traffic, just parked cars and closed front doors.

My foot slips off the stone and I walk forward with a sudden urge to respond. It’s not a choice to move, it’s a need. Louise’s impatience, not mine.

I cross the road, mount the pavement, walk up to the door and grip the doorknocker. The brass fox-head drops onto the metal plaque with a heavy clang. I lift and drop it again.

I need to know if there’s life in this house – if the children are here.

Louise wants whatever she has brought me here for to begin.

The button of a modern doorbell is on the doorframe on the left, as though it’s hidden to prevent it spoiling the appearance of the frontage. I press that, holding it down for seconds. The property is five floors tall, including the windows of a cellar in the area behind the railings.

I step back so I can look at the windows, trying to see someone moving in the house.

One thing is obvious about Alex Lovett: he has a good amount of money; he must do otherwise he would not be able to afford to live in this property.

Noisy footsteps echo beyond the door with the hollow sound of wood.

Someone is running down bare wooden stairs.

I step forward as a chain rattles on the inside of the door. There’s a scrape of metal. I imagine a door-chain being slotted into its holder to prevent the door from being pushed fully open.

When the door opens, the face of a young woman peers through the gap. ‘We don’t buy anything at the door …’

There are high-pitched shouts and small feet running in a room upstairs. There are children in the house somewhere.

The sound of them breathes emotion through my heart, as though Louise’s lips have pursed and blown a kiss, as gentle as a blow on the sails of a paper boat.

My children, a voice in my head declares.

I smile in a way that tries to reassure. ‘Is Alexander Lovett in?’ I don’t know what I will say if he is in. But the one thing I do know is that Louise wants me to find a way into this house. This family.

The thought sends a sharp pain through my middle.

My black hole stirs, like a waking dragon. Opportunity and hope are being absorbed. It consumes every thought other than those that focus on the children.

A family here have a space for me, and I have a space for them. It is a jigsaw puzzle left on a table waiting to be completed with the last piece.

The last piece is me.

‘He’s at work. Can I take a message?’

‘No. I’ll contact him at the studio.’ I don’t give her a chance to answer. I don’t want to hear her try to put me off the idea. I know what I need to know from this house. The children are here and I need to find a way into their home.

I walk back to the centre of Bath caught up in a dream, the rhythm of my heart setting the pace as I stride through streets packed with tourists. People bump my shoulder or legs with their shopping bags.

Alex’s studio is on the other side of the city centre, in a side street near the Holburne Museum.

Once I’m on the other side of Pulteney Bridge, the density of tourists dissipates and the road widens into a broad avenue of high, pale-stone terraced houses. There is a fountain in the middle of the road. I turn left there and look at the numbers on the buildings.

My fingers grasp the shoulder strap of my rucksack as I walk to the studio’s front door. My legs and arms are shaky. I’m nervous, but I will not run from this.

There are three polished brass plaques inscribed with the names of different companies that have separate intercom systems.

I press the intercom for Alexander Lovett Photographic Services and Studio Ltd.

‘Hello, can I take your name?’ A female voice crackles through the speaker.

‘Helen Jones,’ I lie.

‘Are we expecting you? You’re not on the list.’

‘No, I’d like to make an appointment.’

‘People usually ring to make an appointment.’

‘I want to see Alex Lovett. Is he there?’

‘No. Alex is working in London today, but I can help. Come in.’ There’s a buzz, then a click.

I push the heavy door. It opens.

The doors on the first and second floor are for the other businesses. On the third-floor there is another brass plaque for Alexander Lovett’s studio.

The door opens into a reception area, with brown leather seating and photography lining the burgundy walls.

A woman, who I presume is the person I spoke to through the intercom, is sitting behind a curved dark wood desk. ‘How can I help you?’ She is tapping the end of her pen on the desk.

The strap of the rucksack cuts into my palm as I grip it tighter. ‘I’d like to talk to Alex about photography for a wedding.’ The second lie slips out easily, although I might be blushing.

She’s his gatekeeper.

The pen is raised like a spear as she stands on guard. She’ll send me away if she doesn’t think I have a good reason to meet him.

He is the gatekeeper for the children.

She smiles; a customer-service smile. ‘Alex rarely gets involved with weddings. I can put you down to talk to one of the others? They’re all very good. I can show you their portfolios if you would like to choose someone?’

‘It’s not my wedding.’ I sit down in the chair on the opposite side of her desk, my jeans sliding on the leather seat. I am under-dressed, in jeans and canvas daps. ‘I’m a wedding planner and I have a large society wedding scheduled for next year. I want the best photographer. These shots will be on the mantelpieces of stately homes for generations.’

A dubious gleam twinkles in her eyes. She judged my clothes when I was standing and now she’s judging my scarce make-up and un-kempt hair and she knows I’ve lied. I don’t look wealthy enough to be a society wedding planner. I would be dressed in a figure embracing, tailored, deisgner suit and I would not have even come in person, I would have rung first.

Anger overrides the nervousness. I square my shoulders and the lies become even easier to say. ‘No one else will do. That is why I have come in person, to express how important this event is. The bride’s family won’t accept one of his assistants.’

She stares at my face while she decides what to do. ‘Okay, I can book you in for a quick chat with him, say an initial quarter-hour, and he can make a decision if he wants to do it or not. But I’m not promising. Alex is in demand.’

‘Yes, I’m aware.’

She flicks through pages in a paper diary, the sweeping sound of the paper stirring the air in the small waiting room. ‘His diary is full for weeks,’ she adds as she continues looking. ‘Ah. Here’s a small slot. Four weeks’ time. He won’t charge you for a first appointment.’ Her gaze drops down as she reaches for a card and writes the time and date on it. Then she looks at me. ‘Here.’ She holds out the card.

‘Thank you.’ I stand again, re-exposing my jeans that are faded from over-washing, not fashionably bleached, and the jumper that has pulls in the threads where it caught on the wall in the car park in Swindon.

‘Goodbye,’ I say to fill an awkward moment.

I am given another bland customer-service smile. ‘Good—’

I shut the door on her last syllable.