But then he stops and looks at me, suddenly unsure.
“I need to tell you a secret,” he whispers, his arm still holding the door shut. “I’ve never shown anyone inside here. Do you promise not to judge me?”
The question pulls me up short, a trickle of fear inside me.
I stare at the door and suddenly I wonder if Matt is Simon Hughes. If he is the one who has Anna locked up, here, downstairs.
There is a world in which Matt is a murderer, I realize, a world in which he is about to show me a hundred rooms, each with a padlock, each containing a girl. And yet surely I would get a feeling, an inkling. It just seems so unlikely.
“I won’t judge you,” I say.
He grins. “You know what? I really believe you wouldn’t,” he tells me, then opens the door and takes my hand, leading me into the darkness.
Matt bends every now and then as we go along, flicking on more high-wattage clip lights angled through the hallway. Sections of brickwork and plasterboard burst into vision, the darkness beyond them instantly darker by contrast.
“I haven’t made a start on the living room yet. I want you to see the back, though, which is pretty much done?” he asks, his hand tightly around mine. I feel safe, held by him, protected in the shell of this dusty transitioning building.
We descend three steps and Matt pulls back two thick layers of plastic sheeting that block the doorway into the kitchen.
I try not to think ofAmerican Psychoas he reaches through the plastic, and suddenly overhead lights burst on.
An enormous, brand-new, immaculately designed kitchen pops into view.
The vast extension is finished, everything in it still plastic-wrapped, but I can see how beautiful it is—will be—regardless.
It is much larger than his current house, the design of the glass box sharper, more sculptural, the budget clearly much bigger. I remind myself not to compare it to his current house, as Matt has no idea that I’ve seen inside that one.
“Oh my God,” I sigh in admiration. He smiles and releases my hand, letting me wander the vast floor space. My fingers trail over the cool, swirling marble. “It’s huge.”
At the back of the building, the double-height glass orangery yawns out into the darkness of the garden.
I look up, and above us hangs a mezzanine level suspended in the air, its glass rail glinting in the light of a sculptural chandelier.
Out of the back windows, there is only darkness; trees must block out the neighbors’ lit windows here, because none are visible.
I catch my own reflection in the glass, and Matt behind me watching me, studying every move I make.
“It’s beautiful, Matt,” I call back to him. “What you’ve done here is astounding.”
His expression is unreadable in the glass. “You like it?” he asks, forearms resting on the plastic-covered marble island.
“I like it. Very much,” I say, turning back to him. I take him in, his muscular frame, his rumpled sweater, and those brown eyes with their hint of sexy sleepiness.
“Do you want to show me the rest?” I ask. He smiles.
“Don’t tempt me. I’d show you everything,” he says, moving away from me, hand stretched out. “Come on,” he coaxes.
Upstairs, on the first floor, he pulls back more plastic sheeting from a doorway and flicks on a light to reveal the large open-plan mezzanine level.
On the floor here lies a large picnic blanket, spread out. The walls are festooned with glimmering fairy lights, and velvet cushions dot the blanket’s edges.
Beside the blanket is a bucket of chilled Champagne, the ice long melted but the metal still beaded with condensation.
He planned all of this. He knew I’d come back with him before I even knew.
The sexual confidence is oddly refreshing after nearly two decades of Ben, if not a little exposing.
At the blanket’s center a ceramic platter is covered in blood-red, gleaming strawberries. I cannot hold back a smile.
