Chapter 8

My arm was starting to ache now, and I was losing my grip. I set the roller down on the paint tray and flexed my fingers.

“What date is it today?” I wondered, straying to the window and massaging my wrist.

“I can’t remember.”

“Or what day of the week, even?”

Cory shook his head and carried on painting. The roller made a sticky, sucking noise as he swept it back and forth across the gallery wall.

“You know why we’ve lost track?” I said. “It’s because we haven’t left the house for so long.”

The greens and greys of the garden were like balm on my eyes, and I fell into a trance. The emulsion we were working with—the shade Cory had chosen for his gallery walls—was called “Pamplona Red.”

“We’ll go for a walk later,” he said. “Let’s just get this first coat done.”

I suppose it was the way the drive was angled, but from my vantage point the trees and shrubberies appeared to encircle the house entirely, like a fairy-tale forest, and it looked as if there were no way through. Recently I’d begun to suspect—as I used to suspect when I was little—that the world didn’t exist beyond what I could see of it.

I hadn’t spoken to Dad in ages. I was scared of what would happen if I mentioned the invitation to the opening, and scared of what would happen if I didn’t. I tried to call Tom a few evenings ago, on a whim, but Cory came back from the bathroom as I was starting to dial, having forgotten his towel. I jumped when I saw him standing in the doorway, and nearly dropped the phone.

“Oh!”

We stared at one another. He must have climbed into the bath before realising about the towel, because he was naked and dripping, and the thin scars were shining on his damp arms.

“Sorry, Freya. Were you phoning your dad?”

“Yes.” I lied without hesitation as I put the receiver back. “He didn’t pick up, though. He must have gone out.”

Cory returned to the bathroom, and while he was there I concocted a tall tale about my father going away on holiday and leaving his mobile behind, and a family friend calling me up to pass the message on. It took twenty-four hours of internal practice before I could recite it with conviction, but I did it.

“So you see, I can’t talk to him about the exhibition until he gets back, and I’m not sure when that will be . . .”

Cory didn’t take it well, but I’m almost sure he believed me.

“Are you all right there, Freya?” Cory was refilling his roller and starting on a new section of wall. “Not tired already?”