The Girl Before(20)

Edward Monkford smiles and shakes his head. “I like listening to you.”

“And you?” I prompt. “Did you always want to be an architect?”

A shrug of the lean shoulders. “I spent some time working for the family business, a printing firm. I hated it. A friend of my father’s was building a vacation home in Scotland and was struggling with the local architect. I persuaded him to let me do it for the same budget. I learned on the job. Are we going to go to bed together?”

The change of tack is so abrupt my mouth falls open.

“Human relationships, like human lives, tend to accumulate the unnecessary,” he says softly. “Valentine’s cards, romantic gestures, special dates, meaningless endearments—all the boredom and inertia of timid, conventional relationships that have run their course before they’ve even begun. But what if we strip all that away? There’s a kind of purity to a relationship unencumbered by convention, a sense of simplicity and freedom. I find that exhilarating—two people coming together with no agenda other than the present. And when I want something, I pursue it. But I want to be very clear with you what it is I’m suggesting.”

He means no-ties sex, I realize. Many of the men who have asked me out in the past, I’m sure, wanted me for that rather than love, Isabel’s father among them. But few have had the confidence to spell it out so matter-of-factly. And although a part of me feels a little disappointed—I quite like the occasional romantic gesture—another part can’t help being intrigued.

“Which bed did you have in mind?” I say.

—

The answer, of course, is the bed at One Folgate Street. And if my dealings with Edward Monkford thus far might have led me to believe he’d be an ungenerous or a reticent lover—would a minimalist need to fold up his trousers before sex? Would someone who disdains soft furnishings and patterned cushions also be squeamish about bodily fluids and other signs of passion?—I am pleasantly surprised to find the reality is very different. Nor was his reference to an unencumbered relationship a euphemism for one dedicated solely to the man’s pleasure. In bed, Edward is considerate, generous, and by no means inclined to brevity. Only when my own senses are blurred by orgasm does he finally permit himself to let go, his hips bucking and locking as he shudders inside me, saying my name out loud, over and over.



Jane. Jane. Jane.

Almost, I think later, like someone trying to imprint it on his mind.

—

Afterward, as we’re lying together, I recall the article I was reading earlier. “There’s a man who’s been leaving flowers outside the front door. He said they were for someone called Emma, who died here. It was something to do with the staircase, wasn’t it?”

His hand, which is idly stroking up and down my back, doesn’t pause in its movements. “That’s right. Is he being a nuisance?”

“Hardly. Besides, if he’s lost someone he cared about…”

He’s silent a moment. “He blames me—he’s convinced himself the house was responsible, somehow. But the postmortem showed she’d been drinking. And the shower was on when they found her. She must have been running downstairs with wet feet.”

I frown. Running seems such an unlikely thing to do in the calm of One Folgate Street. “Running away from someone, you mean?”

He shrugs. “Or hurrying to meet them at the door.”

“The article said the police made an arrest. It didn’t say who. But whoever it was, they had to let him go.”

“Did they?” His pale eyes are inscrutable. “I don’t remember all the details. I was away working on a commission at the time.”

“And he talked about someone, a man, poisoning her mind—”

Edward glances at his watch and sits up. “I’m so sorry, Jane. I completely forgot—I’m due at a site inspection.”

“Don’t you have time for some food?” I say, disappointed he’s leaving so soon.

He shakes his head. “Thank you. But I’m late as it is. I’ll call you.” He’s already reaching for his clothes.





4. I have no time for people who don’t strive to better themselves.

Agree ? ? ? ? ? Disagree





THEN: EMMA

The fact is, Brian says belligerently, we can’t possibly write a mission statement until we’ve decided what our values are. He looks around the meeting room as if challenging anyone to disagree.

We’re in Room 7b, a glass-walled box identical to 7a and 7c. Someone has written the purpose of the meeting on a flip pad. Company mission statement. There are still torn-off pages from a previous meeting stuck to the glass. One says 24 hour response? Emergency warehouse capability? It looks a lot more exciting than what we’re doing.

For over a year now I’ve been angling to move into marketing. I suspect the fact that I’m here today, though, probably has more to do with being a friend of Amanda’s, and therefore of Saul’s, than because Brian actually wants me, Saul being quite high up on the financial side. I try to nod energetically whenever Brian looks in my direction. Somehow I’d thought marketing would be more glamorous than this.

Is someone going to act as secretary? Leona asks, looking at me. I take the hint and jump up to stand next to the flip pad, marker pen in hand, the eager new girl. At the top of the page I write VALUES.