I stare at my ring. My dress. My home. Her face.
Confusion transforms into rage, and my fear twists into fury.
“What the fuck is going on?” I blurt out.
She tries to close the door again. “I’ve asked you to leave my property.”
“It isn’tyourproperty, you crazy bitch,” I say, raising my voice. She suddenly looks terrified and stares over my shoulder as though there might be someone standing behind me in the darkness. I look too, there isn’t, but when I turn to check I see Harrison’s car in the driveway again. “Where is my husband?”
“I don’t know who you are, or who your husband is,” she says regaining her composure. “But if you don’t leave right now, I will call the police.”
“Good. Go ahead and call them,” I tell her. “If I had my phone I’d call them myself.”
And then I hear his voice and it is such a relief.
“Is everything okay?” Harrison says, hurrying down the hallway behind her and staring in my direction. He’s still dressed in his suit from the office—the black Armani accompanied by a black shirt and tie. Despite being ten years older than me, his well-groomed appearance and immaculate dress sense often make him seem younger than his years. Some men get more handsome with age and my husbandis one of them. He’s my rock. My lover. My best friend. Whatever this is will be okay now that he is here.
She answers before I can.
“Thiswomanthinks she lives here,” she tells him. “She’s making all kinds of threats and won’t take her foot out of the door.”
I expect him to demand to know who the hellsheis and let me inside.
But Harrison stands in our doorway, places a protective arm around a woman I’ve never seen before, then glares at me before speaking.
“This is our home. I don’t know you. Please leave,” he says.
Then my husband slams the door in my face.
3EDEN
I never cared about what goes on behind closed doors until the door was mine.
I stand and stare at it in disbelief, then I pound my fist on the door.
Nobody answers and it doesn’t open.
In desperation, I try my key again but of course it doesn’t fit.
Did someone change the locks while I was out for a run?
If this is a joke, it’s not funny. I have my first exhibition tonight, I don’t have time for this, whateverthisis. I need to get showered and changed and ready. I need to get intomyhouse. I need someone to explain what the fuck is going on.
I ring the doorbell repeatedly, then I push the letterbox open and peer inside, but all I can see is an empty hallway.
It’s cold tonight and now that I’ve stopped running, I’m freezing.
And I’m trembling, but I don’t think that’s because of the temperature.
“Open this bloody door!” I yell.
Nobody replies.
Nothing about this makes sense. I need my mobile but it is inside the house, along with my purse and my car keys. I could walkto the village but where would I go? I don’t know anyone here yet. I only ever spoke to the art gallery owner over email and once on the phone. I was hoping to meet them in person and make a good impression tonight.
I bang on the door again. This time, when nobody answers, I walk around to the rear of the house. I try the back door but it’s locked, as are the windows. The closed curtains and blinds prevent me from seeing inside, but the lights are on. I know they’re in there. I’m so cold and confused and I can feel myself starting to crumble. This feels like a bad dream, but I can’t seem to wake up. Tonight was important for me, for us. I don’t know why Harrison would go along with something like this.
And then the realization hits me. He wouldn’t. At least not willingly.
