Chapters (82)
- Cover
- Praise for The House of Whispers
- Title Page
- Note to Readers
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Twelve
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Twenty-Five
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Forty-Two
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Forty-Eight
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Priory Hospital North London: 20 December 2019
- Acknowledgements
- About the Publisher
I was juggling two jobs at the time. I’d managed to get a part-time internship at a nearby gallery and was looking for a ‘proper’ job when I’d mentioned to Grace that the art supply shop I used was looking for staff. She’d pushed me to apply for that too, saying, with a bit of a look, that it would do me good ‘on every level’. I didn’t love the job, but it just about paid the rent, offered a good discount on art supplies and kept me ‘out of trouble’, as Grace put it.
At the shop, there was a bell on the door, and I often glanced over when it tinkled. The clientele was a mixed bunch: grimy students from the university and the odd artist, but chiefly urban mums buying supplies for their kids – sketchbooks, paints, brushes, watercolour pencils, canvases.
Anyway, that day, the bell tinkled, I looked up and there he was: Tom. Not that I knew his name at the time, but what I did know was that right there, shaking rain out of his hair like a dog, was the person I was meant to be with for the rest of my life. It may be a cliché but time slowed and I grasped onto a shelf to stop myself from crumpling to the floor. Love at first sight? Who believes in it? But, as this man entered the shop, there was a pull, like gravity, running from me to him and I felt, rather than saw, the two of us together forever: laughing, loving, parenting, growing old. And while this movie of our life together carouselled through my mind – while fireworks went off in my soul – this person, this man – Tom – just carried on acting as if nothing had happened. He was new to the area, he told my colleague. He needed supplies. He was overjoyed there was an art shop so close to home. We’d better get used to his ugly face, he joked, because we’d be seeing a lot of it.
I tried to keep my feelings to myself to begin with, watching covertly as he shopped, letting the other staff attend to him while I waited for the avalanche of feelings I had to die but, when, after weeks, they didn’t – when I found myself lying awake at night fantasising about my life with Tom and I couldn’t contain it any longer – I confided in Grace.
‘You dark horse!’ she said. ‘How long has this been going on? All this time and you haven’t even said hello?’
‘What shall I do?’ I fretted at the tassels of the cushion I was hugging on my lap. ‘How do I let him know I’m interested? He doesn’t even know I exist.’