Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
My drive to The Manor is spent constantly shifting in my seat, checking the surroundings around me, and pushing back my nightmare past. When I pull up, John is getting out of his Range Rover. I stalk past him and go to my office, opening up my laptop, my fingers hovering over the keys. I can’t remember their address, and if I did, would they still live there?
“What’s up?” John asks.
Should I mention it? I’ve told Sarah about these episodes, but not John. He’ll be sending me to an asylum to join Lauren. “Nothing,” I say, retracting my hands from my laptop.
“Niles is here.”
“Right.”
“Shall I see him in?”
“Yeah.” I look across my desk. The mess. “Is the camera fixed?”
“They sorted three first thing this morning. The one by the garages needs replacing, but they don’t appear to be in a rush since we’re switching security providers.”
“Of course,” I murmur.
“So did she like it?” John asks.
“What?”
“Her new car. Did she like it?”
“Loves it,” I say quietly, every inch of me tingling. Am I losing my mind? “John, I—”
A knock at the door cuts me off and Niles falls into the office, literally, a box being juggled in his arms. He gets his balance, saving the box from toppling, and glances around, obviously looking for someone.
“She’s not here,” John says flatly, relieving him of the box and setting it on the table between the couches, slipping his shades up onto his forehead.
“Who’s not here?” Niles asks.
John rolls his eyes and dips inside the box. “So these are the Ferraris of the sex toy world, huh?” He pulls out a glass butt plug.
“Indeed,” Niles says. “The lorry will be here shortly.”
“Lorry?”
“With the larger pieces.” He dips into the box too and pulls out a gold-handled crop and whips the table. “Spanking benches, love chairs.”
Sex, drink, hedonism, women, play, desire, pleasure, dominants, dominatrixes.
Am I losing my mind?
Always.
I get up. “I’m just going to . . .” I point to the door as John cocks his head. “I just need—” I look out of the window, to the grounds of my manor. “Some fresh air,” I say, walking out of my office in a bit of a daze. I pass through the summer room, looking around the vast space, at the couches set out, at the curtains draped at the windows, the doors lining one wall. The tennis courts. The glass house with the pool.
The rooms upstairs, the communal room.
It’s all always been here, but I feel like I’m looking at it differently. The flowers in the vase on the table are being replaced as I pass. Not callas. Stepping outside, I breathe in deep and take the steps, stopping at the bottom and casting my eyes around the vast estate. It’s so beautiful. But so wasted. No one enjoys the grounds of The Manor, only what the inside rooms offer. I approach the fountain, laughing under my breath when I notice a cherub is holding his less-than impressive dick. The irony. I circle the stone piece, counting another five chubby angels. All holding their dicks. And never have I noticed that the water comes from their cocks. This isn’t irony. This is Uncle Carmichael.
Backing away, I turn and walk. I don’t run. I just walk. I walk every inch of the grounds, taking in every tiny thing. I see things I’ve never noticed before. Trellising up one side of a wall, roses climbing it. A stone pot carved with fleurs-de-lis that’s had a few cigarettes stubbed out in it. Some steppingstones through a nearby flowerbed.
I carry on back to the front of The Manor, starting down the tree-lined driveway, the gravel crunching beneath my dress shoes. When I make it to the first two elm trees, one on either side of the driveway, I turn and look up at The Manor. The bay windows, the bay trees lining the face of the building, the huge limestone bricks that make up the structure. The glossy black front door, the gold knocker that never gets knocked. It sparkles. Who polishes that every day?
I continue, passing under the trees, being sporadically hit with bullets of sunlight through the branches, until I make it to the closed gates. Taking hold of two bars, I look through onto the country road outside. How many times have I passed through these gates? Entered my haven?
Except, it’s not my haven anymore.
I think for a few moments before reaching into my pocket and pulling out the gold embossed business card. Spinning my mobile in my grasp, I start walking back to The Manor, punching in the phone number.
Do it, brother. Do it.
But no matter how hard I try to press down on the dial icon, something is stopping me. Guilt? I wish I could be done with guilt.
The trees above rustle as I walk on, and I squint when a bolt of light shoots through a gap. I shield my eyes, lifting an arm, blinking back the black dots as I slow to a stop. The moment I can see clearly again, I see something else new. A bench. It’s set back between two trees halfway down the driveway, tufts of grass climbing up the wooden legs. I let out a short, sharp huff, turning my body toward it. How have I gone so many years not seeing things that are right under my nose?