The Unbreakable Trilogy. Primula Bond

and drawings ripping off the spiral spine. I bend down. My old diaries. The ones that she found under my bed one day when I was at school and confiscated, screeching and slapping at me when I got home because on every single page I’d written how much I hated her. I’m surprised to see them here. Apart from anything else I thought the house clearers had got rid of everything. And she said she’d burned them. She even dragged me outside and showed me the bonfire he’d made, with my favourite books and jigsaws thrown onto the pyre for good measure.

      I pick the books up and stuff them in my bag. I’ll decide what to do about them later. To read them will be too painful.

      ‘Well, I’m sure they will have the vision to develop this into a high-end, luxury destination for discerning travellers. And you, Miss Folkes. Well, you can expect a very healthy sum to land in your bank account any day now.’

      ‘Thanks. I’m grateful to you for dealing with all this for me. But I mean it. They should pull it down otherwise they’ll be haunted. Every brick, every cornice, every timber in this house is tainted.’

      The estate agent glances at his watch then tries to hide the gesture by folding his hands across his jacket. He backs away from my mild lunacy towards the front door. I’m guessing he’s itching to get back to the office to calculate his commission.

      ‘You’ll lock up, then, Miss Folkes? Bring the key down to the office when you’re finished?’

      ‘No. You can have it now.’ I hurry after him through the front door. The key feels as if it’s branding itself like stigmata into the palm of my hand. I toss it at him. ‘I’ve finished in here. I’m just going to take a last walk and then I’ll be along to sign the papers.’

      ‘Shame they let it fall into rack and ruin like this. It could have been a fantastic house. You could have kept it as a holiday home for you and your children. Like something out of a Daphne du Maurier.’ He bleeps open the door of his little car. ‘These buyers will work wonders with this place, Miss Folkes. They’re experienced in the trade. I just hope you can find happiness wherever you are now.’

       Thank you, Mr Estate Agent. I hope that too. It’s possible I’ve found it already, miles away from here. A fledgling happiness, cracking its way out of the shell.

      I think about my life, how it’s changed since I rode that train out of here. I call to mind my exhibition, resplendent on the white walls of that huge gallery space. The tall dark town house at the top of the garden square, the pretty French-style attic room waiting for me when I stop being so stubborn.

      And towering over all my thoughts Gustav Levi, watching me, always watching me, and not just watching but touching me whenever I think about him, touching me secretly, under my skirt, or presenting me with a silk negligee, asking me to slip it on in the privacy of his house, let it drift down over my body, only for him to lift it right up, find my secret place, and lick me there until I shudder, owning me as he touches and licks and hooks me in with his fingers.

      The estate agent throws his papers onto the passenger seat and buckles himself in, starts the engine, takes a call on his mobile.

      I wait politely on the doorstep to see him off. The lady of the manor.

      When is Gustav going to take me properly, no holds barred? When is he going to take me to bed or lose me forever, as they say in Top Gun? Arms, legs entwined like a normal couple as we move frantically together by candlelight. Is it ever going to happen, or is this always going to be an infernal game? Is he always going to circle me, hackles raised like a wolf, claws primed, but never pouncing? Does he really want me? When is he going to stop treating me like a cheap tart and kiss me?

      When am I going to kiss him?

      I watch the estate agent crank the car into gear and wave as he bumps and lurches with difficulty along the muddy, pot-holed drive leading back to the coast road. They refused to put tarmac down to make this track easier to negotiate, because they wanted to deter visitors. That’s why visitors rarely came to the house. Even burglars couldn’t be bothered.

      I start walking in the opposite direction from where he’s gone, sending up little stones and sprays of still rainwater from under my feet. My phone is silent in my pocket. I texted Gustav as I left Paddington this morning to say I would not be at the gallery because I’d been called down to Devon to wrap up the sale of the house. He hasn’t replied.

      I fear he’s angry with me. It’s two days since the private view and he expects me to be resident in his house. The key is here, on my wrist, on the bracelet I can’t get off. Presumably if he’s angry enough he’ll call the deal off, even though the exhibition has been mounted. Always that threat hanging over me like the sword of Damocles. He’s perfectly capable of ripping down all those pictures if I don’t do as he asks. I envisage the gallery space adorned with my work the other night, the throngs of visitors, the fat cheques, the bright publicity, the glossy new clothes, Gustav Levi standing proudly in the shadows, architect of my commercial success.

      Then I see a great hand from the sky coming down and snatching it away, feet stamping on it, me out on the streets in my horrible old clothes, the magic spell punctured, little match girl going from door to door with my portfolio.

      Fine. I won’t let that happen. So what is it that he’s asking? What will he want me to do once I’m in the house? How can I ever repay him for the exhibition, for the party, for enabling the sale of a quarter of my pictures in the space of an evening? Does he expect me to repay him for the two portrait commissions that came in yesterday morning, along with all the glowing magazine reviews? Do I have to express my gratitude for everything he does, and if so, how? With my mouth? My tongue? My hands? My pussy?

      I bunch my fists as I walk. Where did that word come from? That’s Gustav’s fault. It’s what he does to me. He’s made me this way. Obsessed. He makes everything zero in on that one small, closed, wet part of me.

      And I’ve earned those commissions. It’s my talent, my work, that they’re commissioning. Not his. He’s given me the platform. I’ve given him the blow-job. I allow myself a wee snigger.

      What more is to come? Just a little light petting from time to time? Another thought stabs at me. Perhaps this goes much deeper, whatever happened in his past. Perhaps he’s impotent or something? Is that what went wrong with his marriage? Did his wife mock him for his inability to perform, parade her lovers and her loving in front of him? Am I here to pander to what little he can manage? Is there a great rage in him as a result, which will rear up and hurt me if I don’t please him? Am I to cure him of some awful affliction?

      Is that my task, like the miller’s daughter, am I to spin gold out of piles of straw before the exhibition sells out? There’s always a time limit in fairy tales. Will he stamp his foot right through into the bowel of the earth like Rumpelstiltskin if I don’t?

      I rush off in the direction I’ve always gone, striding as quickly as I can, almost running through the scrubby rough grass, over the toe-stubbing boulders, the tripping roots. I want to run until I’m out of breath. I want to stop these whirling, confusing thoughts.

      I’m high up on the cliff, the sea pounding the rocks below, and here’s the little gate leading down to the beach. Another selling point the sales particulars will have trumpeted. The beach down there happens to be a little private cove belonging to the house. The perfect site for picnics, regattas, fishing, smugglers’ caves, pirates. Games of cricket. Murder mystery weekends.

      Yet I don’t have one memory of playing on that beach with them or even sitting or walking there. Not a single sandy sandwich. Not one can of Coke or Mars Bar or apple carried down there in a wicker basket or plastic shopping bag. Not a rug on the sand, or arm bands, not a cold dip in the choppy sea, no-one shrieking with laughter and cold, rushing back over the pebbles to be rubbed briskly dry with a towel.

      It was only ever me, or me with Polly on those rare occasions when she visited and the two of us came down here, swimming, smoking, even sleeping in the summer. Once I was a teenager old enough to go off on my own they didn’t care. When Polly was here they’d stand and watch where we went, but when