The Texture of Snow (part 2)

by Hannah Persaud

Carey has showered and unzipped herself from her dress and chosen a brand-new pair of brushed cotton pyjamas from the wardrobe. She wears them with a cashmere jumper and fur lined bootees that Giles bought when he was in Milan. His suggestion that she become vegetarian was rooted in health benefits not ideology and the rug in front of the fire consists of ten thousand rabbit skins hand sewn together. As a child she had a rabbit, Smudge. She shudders slightly as she crosses the rug to reach the sofa, imagining their little claws pawing at her ankles.

The view from in here is breathtaking, the whole room curated around the lake. A bird skids across the water as if it’s frozen, another bobs up and down beside the deck. Farther away, perched on a branch in the water a huge black bird sits, wide wings splayed. For all Carey knows about birds it may as well be a pterodactyl. She resolves to familiarise herself with the wildlife. To think that Giles almost pulled out of the purchase a week ago, furious that the delivery of his jet ski was refused by the site manager!

‘Because some idiot didn’t know how to control his jet ski we all have to suffer,’ was Giles’s take away from the conversation, though Carey suspected there was more to it, she’d read something in the small print about jet skis but hadn’t been paying attention. A bad habit that she’s been cultivating increasingly. But time has taught her that it’s easiest to nod and smile and the prospect of bringing a lawsuit against the management company was exciting enough to convince Giles to continue with the purchase anyway.

Made with eco-friendly technologies and renewable materials, the house is a masterpiece in design. Set in the centre of 180 man-made lakes covering 40 square miles, they’ve bought a slice of the United Kingdom’s largest marl lake system.

‘Supporting the future of wildlife,’ Giles proclaims loudly whenever anyone can hear. Anyone he deems important, at least. Setting down her glass of Bollinger and the remainder of the bottle on the crystal side table, Carey sinks back into the Plume Blanche sofa that Giles insisted on. At least, she tries to sink back, but the leather and lacquer finish is uncomfortable and the encrusted diamonds snag her skin. One of only fifty models in the world, it’s worth more than most two-bedroom flats. Carey shifts to the floor taking care to avoid the rabbit rug and tucks her feet under a floor cushion. Checks her voicemail.

‘Carey love, when are you coming to visit? I’ll make your favourite Victoria sponge and we can have a picnic if this weather improves, wouldn’t that be lovely? I went to dad’s grave today, paid our respects. Cleared it up a bit. Anyway, let me know love, talk soon. Mum.’

Carey reaches over to the bottle and refills her glass. She should have gone to dad’s funeral; she knows she should. But Giles had such a strop, the trip to Rome already booked and the opera tickets too. It’s small change to you, she wanted to tell him, it’s my dad who worked hard his whole life to look after me and my brother and my mum, his annual highlight a trip to the seaside. Even now the smell of fish and chips takes her back to sitting on a rough wall in the salt scented wind, her dad’s leg pressed against hers. She didn’t say that to Giles though, instead sending a vast bouquet of flowers that mum struggled to fit into her front room.

She sends a message to Giles letting him know that she’s arrived, then stands, stretching. The bubbles have gone to her head.  Wandering the large minimalist rooms she gets the distinct sense that she’s not alone. The top floor offers a balcony that stretches the length of the house and Carey steps out onto it, the chill cutting straight through her clothes. The snow settles and mounts around the water’s edge; the deck below is a white pillow; the lakeside trees are monochrome. The strains of a piano filter eerily through the muffled silence. Moonlight Sonata, Carey would know it anywhere. Her fingers twitch involuntarily and she pushes her hands into fists as if by doing so she can crush her longing. The music pauses and then starts again, this time a tune she doesn’t recognise. Back inside the mobile rings and Carey goes to answer it, closing the door behind her.

‘Giles?’

‘Look darling, I presume you’ve seen the headlines…’

‘No I…’

‘Country bumpkin-fied already are we?’

‘I’ve been busy settling in, this place is…’

‘I’m in a bit of rush actually. Look, there’s a storm warning, blizzard coming in from the east, heavy snow forecast and it’s going to be difficult to get out of London before the roads clog up, I know I said I’d be down this evening but it’s looking unlikely…’

‘Oh.’ Carey looks around for her glass but she’s left it downstairs by the sink.

‘I’ll do my best to make it tomorrow but you never know, let’s play it by ear.’

‘It’s just…’

‘Look about this morning, that earring you found. You’re overreacting, it must be yours, you’re the only one darling, and you’ve got so much stuff it’s understandable that you’d forget what you own…’ Carey bites her lip. They are here again, the never-ending circle. She is tired of it. She takes a deep breath,

‘Giles, listen…’

 You’re not exactly roughing it down there anyway,’ he interrupts, ‘and obviously I can’t control the weather.’ Carey walks to the back of the house and looks out of the window at the drive. Yes it’s snowing but he’s got the 4 x 4, designed for this, better suited to here than London. ‘You understand, right?’ he says. She sighs.

‘Sure.’

‘Happy valentines my love, there’s a gift for you in your bedside drawer. Send me a photo.’ He hangs up.

·          

Carey is woken by the dawn through the window, she didn’t close the blinds. Her head thuds and her mouth is sandpaper. An empty champagne bottle is on her bedside table. Unable to face preparing a meal for herself last night, she hasn’t eaten since the cafe. Stretching out across the king-sized bed she pulls the pillow over her head, then, panicked, checks her messages and social media channels on her phone. Thankfully her last activities online were yesterday morning before she left London. No drunken tweets or maudlin posts this time. There’s a message from Giles sent at 3am. Where’s my photo? I want to see you wearing my gift with your gorgeous new blonde hair. Carey likes her natural deep copper brown hair colour, personally, but as with everything Giles managed to persuade her to try something different for a change. Dropping her phone to her side her fingers brush something and she picks it up, holding it in front of her. Giles’s valentine’s gift, red lingerie, laced with strategic holes.

In the shower Carey scrubs her skin as if she can wash away the traces of her hangover, water hot against her eyelids. Bloodshot eyes in the mirror taunt her. She decides not to put make up on, she should live with the consequences of her decisions. Something about this place makes her want to confront herself. Pulling on thermal layers and then a tracksuit, she goes downstairs, flicks the coffee machine on, finds a cup. Searches the drawers, the cupboards and the larder for the coffee capsules. To no avail. For fuck’s sake. There are literally seven three course meals and a fully stocked wine cellar, but no sign of coffee to be seen. Giles hates the stuff. Carey can live without food and possibly wine, but coffee is essential. Especially now. The Porsche is an outline of a snow-car, almost invisible.