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She can see the blueprint of future wrinkles in his anxious face;
She’s always been amazed by Will’s capacity for absorbing this kind of intricate detail and fact. It makes her feel safe, somehow, secure that he has all the answers.
Elin looks to Will to fill the gaps. She finds small talk like this an effort.
There’s no bravado in it, it’s just how his mind works—rapidly breaking an issue down into logical, manageable chunks. A list, some research, a phone call or two—answers found, problem solved.
Somehow, though, their differences complement each other. Will accepts her and her foibles, and Elin is acutely aware that not everyone would. She’s grateful.
He’s been waiting for this moment—the views of the landscape, the first glimpse of the hotel. She knows these images will be toyed with on his laptop later. Critiqued. Tweaked some more. Shared with his arty friends.
With him, she did new things: galleries, museums, underground wine bars off the quayside in Exeter. They talked art, music, ideas. Bought coffee-table books and actually read them. Planned weekends away with minimal fuss. None of which she was used to. Her life had, up until this point, been resolutely uncultured:
Laure was secure in who she was. There was something definite about her, a solidity anchoring her to the world that Elin envied. She was the opposite; she cared too much, fretted about every little thing: Was she too quiet? Too loud? Not enough?
Only people with influence, money, possess that kind of inbuilt belief that they have the right to take up that much space.
Sometimes she wonders if he saw her as a bit of a project when they first got together, like one of his old buildings that needed renovating. A small redesign, one more push, the final fix, and she’ll be shiny and new. Except she isn’t, not yet—she’s falling behind schedule—his schedule, and he doesn’t like it.
This is revealing: the complete lack of flaws, of being able to show herself as anything other than living a perfect life, indicates an insecurity.
The police . . . they aren’t coming.” His voice is low, urgent. “There’s been an avalanche. The road is blocked. They can’t get through.”
What’s happened here, it isn’t logical, rational, something that can be explained. Elin knows it has its roots in something dark, something so dark it feels almost tangible, a presence in itself.
