Melinda trips back from the bathroom, all clicking heels and wafting Jo Malone fragrance. You watch as she pulls on her coat. Brahms is close and listening. You're sure he is. You wish this woman would just leave. In an effort to hurry her along, you step to the door and open it.
"Whoo! It's getting more chilly out there," Melinda breathes with a little shudder you sense is fake. "Goodbye, Y/N. Thanks for your time."
"No problem. Safe journey."
Melinda crunches across the gravel to the Audi. She gets inside, fastening her seatbelt. You're just about to close the door with relief, when you see the younger woman grimacing at you as she struggles to start the car.
"Brahms?" you hiss loudly over your shoulder, hoping he'll hear. Melinda is stepping from the car, cursing beneath her breath. The hallway is silent save for the slow ticking of the grandfather clock. "Oh, Christ..." You open the door wide as she comes up the steps.
"My battery's stone dead. God knows why. It was fine coming here. Though come to think of it I've had some trouble starting up a few times this week. Do you suppose the alternator's on the blink?"
You want to tell her you don't give two flying fucks about her alternator, but then feel a pang of guilt and dismay for being so mean spirited. Are you becoming as socially withdrawn as Brahms? Are you so insecure you think he'll find this woman more attractive than you? Would he? Does he? You glance resentfully at the wood panelling of the hallway as though your thoughts might penetrate into Brahms's mind. Why the hell doesn't he show himself? More guilt. Of course he won't show himself. He never does to strangers.
"Do you have breakdown, Melinda?"
She gives a little moue of apology. "I let it lapse only last week. How dumb am I? I meant to renew yesterday but...well...you know how it is."
No, I don't! you want to snap. Does the smoke make it to the top of your chimney? Instead, you say, "I think there's an auto mechanic in the village. I can get you the number."
"You mean a garage? Oh, yes, please."
You watch her dial, then pace up and down the hallway, chewing on one perfect nail. "Damn! There's no answer. Saturday afternoon, you see. Those mechanic types never work late, do they? Looks like I'm stuck until Monday."
"There's a Holiday Inn in Wrexham. I could take you."
She nods. "I'll get my things from the car." When she opens the door the light is already going from the day and it's started to snow. You watch her hesitate on the step, staring up at the leaden sky, then over at your implacable expression. To your horror, she bursts into tears.
"I'm so sorry, Y/N. Take no notice of me. It's just...I'm so embarrassed about this and..."
You can't help but feel sorry for her. What would it matter if she stayed a night or two? She needn't see Brahms. He and you could use the hidden passages to move around her. With a mix of trepidation and compassion you say, "It's OK. I guess, you can stay here until Monday."
"Can I? Oh, thank you so much!"
"Go get your things, Melinda. I'll show you to your room."
~
You put her on the second floor in a little used room at the end of the west wing. She slings a large holdall on the bed and you eye it suspiciously. She seems very organised for a fleeting visit. As though reading your thoughts, she says, "I never travel light. Even when I'm just going out for the day."
"I'm a very busy person, Melinda. I'm afraid I have a lot of work to do and can't entertain you...and I value my privacy." You stare her straight in the eye but she merely gazes back guilelessly with those big blue eyes. "Dinner will be at 7pm. In the dining room."
"Thank you. I have work to do to myself. I can do that on-line. I have my laptop so--"
"We have no internet here. I thought you said you knew that?"
"Oh...yes...I forgot."
"You'll find the cell connection only works in the garden some distance from the house. Feel free to watch TV in the lounge, or use the library. Give me half an hour or so to tidy up a little and then come on down. I'll show you around."
You leave the room then scuttle downstairs as fast as you can. The kitchen is empty and so are the other rooms. You enter the hidden panel in the library and make your way to Brahms's lair. He's not there. "For Chrissakes, Brahms!" You realise he could be outside, up in the attic, down the cellars, in your own room. You rush through the dusty corridors moving up until you find the door to your closet. Your own room is empty too. Across the landing, you find Brahms's bedroom deserted. Where the hell is he?
A treacherous thought niggles in your head. Is he upstairs right now, watching that woman...the way he'd watched you? What man wouldn't be curious? She's beautiful. Sexy. Would he do that? "Stop it!" you tell yourself. You hurry downstairs again, then catch sight of yourself in the hallway mirror. No make up. Hair scraped back in a pony tail. Scruffy old jeans and tee. You glance at your hands. One nail is broken, the rest are in dire need of a manicure. You realise you've not even thought about visiting a salon or hairdressers in an age. What am I become, you ask yourself inanely. Have I let myself go? There isn't time to shower and wash your hair and apply cosmetics. You realise then that Brahms has never really seen you done up to the nine's more than once. There didn't seem to be any need...did there?
Upstairs you hear the creak of the second floor staircase. You go into the kitchen, fill the kettle and lay out two cups on the kitchen table. Dinner is already prepared. Lasagne. Brahms's favourite. You pop it into the oven, fish some garlic bread out of the freezer. Christ, you need a drink! Best not. If you get drunk, you'll just give that woman a mouthful of thoughts and embarrass yourself. The kettle boils just as Melinda enters the kitchen. She's wearing skinny jeans so tight they look as though they've been sprayed on. A wide belt glistens at her hips. There's a peep of perfectly toned tanned flesh between the belt and the pink Laurent top that droops slightly off one shoulder. She's wearing no bra and her breasts don't move.
"Tea, two sugars?" you ask.
She nods glancing around the kitchen. You wonder how she can sit in those jeans. You pour yourself a strong coffee then sip it nervously.
"I'm sorry to impose on you this way, Y/N. After losing mum and dad, I have no family other than my aunt and uncle. And now even they are gone. I don't really know why I came. It was stupid of me."
"It's fine. We don't...I mean, I don't get many visitors. My folks are all in the States so I know what it's like to miss family." You watch her drink her tea, then say, "When did Margaret tell you about me?"
"Like I said, we corresponded for years. She was very impressed with you and I was glad because I know she struggled to find someone suitable. Where is the doll, by the way?"
"He's gone."
"Oh, wise decision. Creepy thing to do, wasn't it?"
You nod but say nothing. Trying to keep an ear cocked for Brahms behind the walls is impossible with Melinda's chatter.
"Did they leave you this place then? Lucky you. Mum and dad didn't leave me a penny. Not that I haven't done well. I have an Ebay shop. I'm not exactly a millionaire but I'm working on it. I sell clothing. I buy designer seconds and sell them at a profit. Got the gift of the gab as you can see." Her laugh is high pitched and unpleasant with a yelping quality that reminds you of a scavenging gull. Outside the snow is falling more thickly and it's gone completely dark.
"Come," you say, "I'll show you around. Or do you remember the layout?"
"Oh, lead the way, please."
You do and she follows, clicking behind you on those ridiculously high heels. In the library she plonks herself down on the sofa. "I vaguely remember this room. Like I said, I only visited once or twice."
You suspect she's lying. Brahms will remember her, surely? If she came here as a child he must have been a teenager. He must remember. Melinda is babbling away but you don't hear her. All you can think of is Brahms. He has form for disappearing only to reappear without warning; a habit that both perturbs and excites you. Sometimes, it's all part of the games you play. The way he materialises so silently behind you, so you shout with fright before his lips cover yours. Manifestations that never cease to surprise you, that take you unawares before he takes you. The kisses on your neck through the cold porcelain. The tingly uncertain fear you feel as his eyes shine behind the mask. Oh, where is he?
You become aware that Melinda has stopped talking. You glance over at her; at her wide eyed jaw dropped startled stare. You turn. Brahms is standing in the doorway, his lean body clad in black, the white, so white, mask gleaming in the lamplight. You realise he's as surprised as Melinda; his eyes just as wide. The three of you seem frozen in time, an awkward tableau of his shock, your dismay and her curiosity. You see Melinda's expression change as she rakes her eyes the length and breadth of Brahms. You've seen that look before. On the face of every woman who's ever desired a man. Brahms's eyes flicker over her in the same way, and your heart sinks into a pit of jealousy.