Love at first fright, p.13
Love At First Fright, page 13
“I’ll apologise for thinking you can’t handle yourself, but I won’t apologise for chasing away that guy, he was laying it on far too thick.”
“Maybe I liked that. It was…honest.”
“You like people to be honest with you.”
“I do. Less complicated.”
“Well, in the spirit of honesty, I don’t actually smoke.”
“Good, it’s a horrible habit.”
“I just needed a breather. Between Vincent and Lance arguing about Oscar nominations and the sound of that bachelor party by the bar, it all got a little much. Sometimes I take out this lighter and tell people I’m going out for a cigarette so I can have a moment to myself. Works wonders at parties.”
When he smiled at her like that, she could barely focus. How could he be so unaware of what he did to her? And why was he here with her in the first place? He had a girlfriend. She was not about to get in the middle of that mess, whatever they had going on. Rosemary gazed back out at the green, breaking eye contact.
Slowly, timidly, it began to rain. It pattered on the wooden roof above them, the gentle hum of rain on leaves and grass. It grew heavier, pulling the pub and its sounds of people into the distance until all that was left was the pearlescent curtain of rain and the heat of Ellis’s body beside hers. Neither of them spoke, but he reached out, almost brushing a finger on the curving tattooed vine on her left wrist. The near-touch was agony. He paused, then said, “I’ll trade you a secret.”
Rosemary nodded, barely trusting herself to speak.
“I’m not really dating Jenna.”
“What?” she spluttered.
“It’s part of some harebrained scheme my agent Brody does every now and again. He pairs me with an actress, we ‘date’ for a few weeks, just enough time to get her industry cred and get her a starring role in whatever picture she was auditioning for, and then we amicably call it quits.”
“Ellis, that is so fucked up.”
“I am aware.”
“Why do you let him do that? He’s using you as some kind of…celebrity dating pawn.”
He sighed. “I know. But trust me when I tell you that if there were a way out of this, I would have taken it already.”
Rosemary couldn’t quite comprehend the absurdity of his agent’s scheme, and she suspected there was more to it than Ellis was telling her, but a rather large part of her brain was busily engaged with throwing a giant party, complete with imaginary fireworks, to celebrate the fact that Ellis was single.
“Now you tell me your secret, Rosemary.” This time he did touch her hand with his, the side of his palm to hers, lingering, resting on the banister of the bandstand.
“What do you want to know?”
She felt Ellis’s eyes on her, scorching. “What do you like?”
Her heart was going to beat its way out of her chest; she could feel her pulse fluttering where he touched her.
“In, um, what context?”
Ellis levelled his hungry gaze at her. “You know what context.”
Rosemary squeezed her thighs together, not that it helped. She was a goner.
“I like power play, you know, being submissive.”
Ellis exhaled. She watched as his hands gripped the railing. When she turned her eyes to his face, the pair that met hers were all pupil.
“It’s not that odd, you know,” she babbled, “to want that sort of thing. It’s actually very common. Power dynamics. And it doesn’t mean I have a submissive personality. It’s just that I like what I like, okay, and—”
“Stop, love. You don’t need to justify yourself to me. I understand it. More than you might expect.”
Here, in the cold October rain, unsaid words suddenly became too big. She wanted. Here, in the quiet space of the bandstand, insignificant things became significant: Ellis’s breath on her face, the small silver scar above his eyebrow, the droplets of rain that haloed his hair. He moved his hand to cup her jaw, and brushed his thumb over her lips. It nearly broke her apart. Rosemary leant closer.
“Why did you tell me all this?” she asked, her voice wavering.
“You don’t know?”
Her eyes widened. “I—”
A crash sounded from the pub entrance, the door swinging wildly on its hinges as a drunken Lance, arm in arm with Arthur and Vincent, stumbled out singing a bawdy French song. They tripped onto the road, spitting curses at the pavement for daring to trip them. The secret moment between Ellis and Rosemary was over, even if she didn’t want it to be.
“We better get them a cab,” he said.
14
When Lyn snapped at her over biscuits in the kitchen—Rosemary had confused Hobnobs with chocolate Digestives—and not five minutes later she had spotted Lance in an argument with Vincent out in the rose garden, she knew something strange was happening.
It had been getting steadily worse over the last couple of days; everyone in the cast and crew was moody and irritable, and Rosemary was almost certain it was the ghosts’ doing. She kept spotting them around the manor, alternately moping, crying, and entering screaming matches with each other.
Rosemary had taken to carrying dried lavender in her pockets and had slipped some into Lyn’s parka when they weren’t looking. As for Ellis, well, perhaps she’d given him a cup of nettle tea to drink, an old remedy to ward against unwanted spirits. Thankfully, Ellis’s little ghost dog seemed to act as his own kind of protective charm, and Ellis seemed immune from the sour mood. Or, at least, that’s what Rosemary thought might be the case, since they hadn’t actually spoken properly since the pub two days before. There just never seemed to be a moment, not that she knew what she’d say anyway. You don’t know? he’d said, as if that made things any clearer. And to find out that he wasn’t dating Jenna…well. It made her equal parts delighted and furious. What the hell was his agent playing at, forcing him to do that? And more importantly, what did his agent have on Ellis that made him agree to the scheme in the first place?
Rosemary blew on her red-tipped fingers and sank deeper into her scarf and oversized coat, not that it would make much difference. Her body was made for spring sunshine and humid summers, not this damp English chill. Even with space heaters and all the doors closed, the inside of Hallowvale was freezing. She wouldn’t be surprised to find the water frozen in the taps. They were filming a pivotal scene this morning: Lance’s character, the elder Parlow, would finally see the ghosts that inhabited his house, standing before him on the twisted staircase of the manor’s entrance. An ensemble cast of about thirty ghost actors stood on the stairs, shivering in their threadbare costumes.
Lance was having final touch-ups to his makeup applied as he went through something with Vincent, both of them standing at the base of the stairs. While the shot was being set up, Rosemary pulled out her phone.
Dina, do you know if ghosts can affect the mood of a place?
Her friend opened the text immediately. Like cold spots?
This whole house is a cold spot. They’re pissed off at each other and I think it’s messing with the crew’s mood.
Shit, Dina replied. Have you tried lavender?
Used all my supply.
Hmm. And I guess you can’t salt every threshold.
Not without people looking at me weirdly. Besides, this is their house, I don’t want to kick them out.
The three little dots of Dina’s reply hovered.
I think you need to speak to them. Mediate it.
I’m not good at that sort of stuff, we need Immy for that.
You summoned me? Immy replied instantaneously.
Feel like driving to the countryside to help me mediate a fight with some ghosts? Rosemary replied. She sent along the for good measure.
I WISH. But the twins are with Eric’s parents tonight and he’s taking me out on a date. And by date I mean we are going to stay in bed all night and use our newly purchased Fluffinator 3000.
Do I want to ask what that is?
She’ll tell us anyway, Dina texted back.
It’s the most powerful couples vibrator on the market.
Well, I’m happy for you both, Rosemary said.
Good luck with your ghosts! If in doubt, do what I would do, Immy said.
What’s that?
Matchmake them.
Rosemary was about to reply that she didn’t think that was a good idea, when Cecilia and Juliet came bursting through a doorway on the mezzanine landing. It was funny, in a morbid sort of way, watching them weave in and out of the ghost actors.
But this was their worst screaming match yet. Rosemary saw the actors moving out of the way, even though they didn’t know what they were scurrying from. The living had enough of a sixth sense to know what wasn’t good for them.
“You lied to me! After all this time!” Juliet screamed at Cecilia, who looked as if she’d been slapped. If it was possible, the room darkened, as the winter sunlight that had been dappling the tiles fled behind cloud. Rosemary could see her breath, and she felt the prickling of something at the back of her neck. Like all the anger and frustration from the ghosts had seeped into the living world. A sharp, bitter feeling entered her core and Rosemary felt as if they were on the precipice of something. She felt it before she heard it. A gentle snap. A soft sound of ripping.
“Vincent, Lance, move!” Rosemary shouted. Everything happened too fast. Vincent saw it first, and pushed Lance backwards onto the stairs, ducking out of the way himself. The grand chandelier, the crown of Hallowvale’s entrance hall, shattered onto the tiles not far from Rosemary’s feet.
Glass and tile exploded, and Rosemary swivelled away, reaching an arm up to protect her face. In the seconds after, no one spoke. All Rosemary could hear was the blood pumping in her ears and the sound of broken glass ringing as it settled on the floor.
“Is everyone alright?” Vincent shouted, getting his bearings faster than anyone else. Rosemary heard some muttered curses, but thankfully no one seemed to require medical attention.
“Definitely haunted,” she heard one crewmember mutter as she made her way over to Lance, sitting on the stairs where Vincent had pushed him out of the way.
“Are you alright?”
“Never been better.” He grinned, but allowed Rosemary to help him back to standing. “Thanks for saving my life, darling.”
“Don’t be dramatic.” Rosemary laughed.
“I’m an actor, that’s all I do.”
* * *
—
Once the chandelier had been cleared away and Rosemary was sure everyone was uninjured, she left the entryway in search of Juliet or Cecilia. This had to stop. Their arguing wasn’t just ruining the mood, it was turning into poltergeist activity that was a danger to everyone working at Hallowvale. And Rosemary was the only person who could do something about it.
She wandered through the rooms of Hallowvale, following a gut instinct. It got colder and colder the nearer she was, as if she were playing a reversed game of hot or cold. She finally found Juliet in a small morning room in the west wing of the house. At first the ghost didn’t notice her come in, and Rosemary took a moment to look around the room.
There were two deep armchairs by the fireplace, an old-fashioned pianoforte, and bookshelves that lined one wall. Framed watercolours of the manor hung on the wall, but there was one picture that drew Rosemary’s eye. It was undoubtedly Juliet, sitting in this very same room with its blue damask wallpaper, reading a book. The painter had given Juliet a soft expression of contemplation, one so different to the anguish she displayed now. There was a single letter, C, written in pencil at the bottom right of the watercolour.
“Is privacy a foreign concept to you?” Juliet sniffed, finally noticing Rosemary’s presence.
“Are you serious? You’re the one who’s making a fuss and disrupting everyone. Do you realise you could have killed someone with your little poltergeist stunt? Do you even care?”
“Hmph. You’re very forwards.” Rosemary felt that even though Juliet was sitting and she was standing, the ghost was looking down her nose at her.
“Yes, well, welcome to the twenty-first century.”
Rosemary paused. You have to mediate—Dina’s words came back to her. She sat down beside the ghost, watching how the light made her look almost translucent from some angles, the delicate amber cross pendant she wore glittering. She had to be more civil if she was going to gain the ghost’s trust. “You didn’t seem surprised I could see you the other day.”
Juliet shrugged. “I used to have a maid who was spirit-touched, too.”
“Could you tell me what’s going on, with you and Cecilia?”
“She ruined our friendship and now nothing will ever be the same.”
“How did she ruin it?” Rosemary asked.
Juliet remained still for a long time. Rosemary began to wonder if the ghost had decided to ignore her, an impertinent little American, but then she spoke.
“She accepted an offer of marriage.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Yes,” Juliet hissed. “We always said we weren’t going to marry until the last moment, when we would be practically spinsters.”
“What’s that, like twenty-five?”
“Don’t be silly. Twenty-two.”
“Ah, of course.” Rosemary tried to conceal a smile. “So, spinsters?”
“We would find and marry two old clods so that when they died, we’d be able to travel Europe. Ceci, I mean Cecilia, was going to be an artist.”
Rosemary spotted another watercolour on the wall, of Juliet again. She had been painted seated at the pianoforte, her hair coiffed in blond curls, and she was looking directly at Rosemary. Or rather, the painter. Could Cecilia have painted them, if she was an artist?
“And you?” Rosemary asked.
“I would have seen the world with my dearest friend. But she had to go and get engaged to a lord. A young one.”
“I’m sure she had her reasons, Juliet.”
“Don’t presume you know anything about us,” Juliet snapped. “We promised. Either we’d marry old or we’d go and join a nunnery somewhere remote and live together as old biddies. I wouldn’t even have discovered her treachery if I hadn’t found the letter stuffed into an old naval chart last week.”
“The letter?”
“From Cecilia’s brother to Lord Davenport, her betrothed, detailing her dowry. And she’d hidden it from me for all this time.”
Rosemary recognised that Juliet was just lashing out, and she had a suspicion as to why. Every painting in this room was of Juliet, or of Juliet and Cecilia together, each one signed with a C. Each painting was like a message, suffused with meaning. There was a tenderness in each brushstroke that spoke of something more than friendship. They had to be done by Cecilia, if Rosemary’s theory proved correct.
“I’d like to make a suggestion,” she said.
“Well, I’m sure I can’t stop you,” Juliet grumbled, but she turned to face Rosemary nonetheless.
“Is it possible that you and Cecilia weren’t friends?”
“What do you mean? She was my dearest friend in the world, both in life and after that dreary carriage accident.”
“No, I mean, do you think it’s possible that what you felt for each other was more than friendship? And perhaps that’s the reason you feel so upset that Cecilia accepted a proposal before you died?”
Juliet fisted her cross necklace and stood abruptly. “How dare you? How dare you suggest such a thing?”
Ice penetrated Rosemary’s veins.
“Get out,” Juliet said, steel lacing her voice.
“Okay, Juliet,” Rosemary said softly. “I’m going. But stay away from the crew, please. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. And think about what I said. I’m here if you want to talk.”
15
After that rather stressful encounter with Juliet, Rosemary was in need of a cup of tea. She was becoming positively British with her tea drinking. Unbidden, a memory of her mother came back to her. Rosemary had been little, and she’d wanted to have a proper English tea party. But the weather was so hot and sticky in Blossom Ridge, that instead of breakfast tea, her mama made sweet tea, and they sat on the floor of the living room, on their fanciest picnic blanket, and drank sweet tea from little china cups, and ate little triangular cut sandwiches. Rosemary wished she could talk to her mama about all of this. As it always was with grief, the person she most wanted to soothe her sadness was the same whose absence had caused it all.
She couldn’t let the grief settle into her bones, not right now. She pushed open Hallowvale’s front doors to escape back to the Gatehouse for a bit, and was met with a heavy onslaught of rain. Great. She looked around the foyer for any spare umbrellas—none. She would have to make a run for it.
Rosemary dashed out into the rain, splashing through puddles that soaked her up to the ankles. Within seconds, her hair was slick to her neck and face, her clothes drenched and clinging to her. It was fucking cold, too; even running she felt shivers beginning to rack her body. But at least the cold helped wipe away the lingering touch of grief on her heart. It was hard to feel too sad when you were focusing on getting warm and dry as quickly as possible.
Rosemary made it to the Gatehouse and pushed on the door to open it. Except it was locked. Why was it locked? She knocked, already knowing that no one was home. Shit. Maybe the back door into the kitchen would be unlocked?
As Rosemary made her way around, wiping rain from her eyes, she spotted an alternative. The sash window to the living room had been left open a crack. If she could push it open further, she could climb in. Thunder cracked the sky above her and, if possible, the rain grew even harder, hammering on her chilled skin. She needed to get inside right now.
