The Detective's Daughter

61

Monday, 24 January 2011

Ivan lit the candle and placed it on the dressing table where she could see it. The flame flared and steadied, triplicated in the three-way mirror and the room came to life. She was watching. He loved how she observed him, her expression unchanging, taking him in. In her presence his simplest action was witnessed. The flame nearly went out; shadows jumped and danced on the walls. The room was busy, but she had eyes only for him.

There was a draught; he had promised to locate it and block it up. She felt the cold. The house was old; there were cracks in the skirtings and gaps in the floorboards; seams ran through the plastered ceilings and sashes were swollen so that windows did not shut properly. She minded less than him about the state of the house; she agreed it would be disruptive to have workmen crawling all about the place. However, this was the room in which she spent her time and he had promised to keep it perfect. Tonight he would tell her about Stella Darnell and she would have good advice to give him.

No one had ever said no to Ivan before and he did not like it.

He risked another look and found he was right: her eyes were boring into his back, undressing him, caressing him. These days he rarely felt desire; he felt it now.

As this was her room, so the house was his special place. He had shown her his boyhood carvings in the tree, helping her so that she could climb up to the next branch and sit in the hollow. She had been more agile than him; he had not dared climb, telling her he was frightened of heights. She had laughed. She was not laughing at him, he told himself. Unlike Stella she had jumped at the chance to come.

She would not betray him.

When she had asked for his news, he had been reticent. Oh, where to begin, he had prevaricated, instead going to make her a cup of tea. Now he was putting off talking about Stella Darnell, repositioning the make-up on her dressing table, which in a minute would annoy her. Not yet; her smile was genuine. He had wanted her from the first moment he had seen her, he told her again.

It was the smile. People’s mouths were his first impression and how he judged them. He had wanted to disappear into hers.

Ivan turned from the mirror, his arms outstretched. It was his job to do what he could to keep her safe; he could say nothing of what he was thinking.

Her smile was warm, her teeth whiter than white and not once did she blink. Her hair was flaxen in the mellow candlelight as if bathed in summer sunlight.

The church bells struck eleven times. The night was young. After so long, neither of them needed to speak to communicate with each other.

Ivan knew what she wanted him to do.