Free The Naked Room by Diana Hockley Page A

you?’
    I got to my feet and went to open the door. The dog slipped through and scuttled, nails clicking on the polished floor, along the passageway to the kitchen quarters.
    ‘Yes, well, he was here,’ I replied, watching his tail flick through the kitchen door. Mrs Fox gazed warily up into my face. I knew I intimidated most people, and that is how I have always preferred it.
    ‘I’ll give him his dinner and let him out for a quick run. I’m leaving bacon and egg pie for you in the microwave, Sir. You only have to heat it on high for three minutes,’ she said, untying her apron with quick fingers, anxious to get back to the staff accommodation before dark.
    ‘Yes, thank you Mrs Fox. Goodnight to you.’
    I went back to my study. The wood on the fire was turning to coal. I stoked it, watching as sparks flew up the chimney, and then retrieved a log from the box beside the hearth. Flames licked gratefully, bathing the room in a comforting glow. I poured another whisky and resumed my chair.
    I put my life on hold for more than two years while I searched for Eloise, but it ended in bitter memories which were, on occasions, deadened by alcohol. Eventually, I forced myself to move on and complete my degree, but I couldn’t abandon the dream we’d shared. Her words of love and encouragement stayed with me in spite of my pain and anger, so in the face of my family’s opposition, I went on to study music at Trinity College, Cambridge.
    I can’t understand how my family, the parents who supposedly loved me, could watch my life fall apart and not make any attempt to tell the truth. What sort of love was that? Even for people of their class, their actions were so viciously calculated…I wonder now how much of a part they played in my brother’s choice of wife? Alison “fits,” Eloise didn’t. Had Peter known of the deception? If so, why didn’t he tell me? Surely he would have spoken up. But I realised that the fewer people who knew, the better for the success of the conspiracy. Only my parents and Jemima would have known the truth. Our company staff would do what they were told and the university would have received a lucrative backhander.
    My sisters married obediently and well and then moved to other parts of the world, perhaps with good reason. On the rare occasion when I do visit, they always appear to be happy enough. I wonder now if I was emotionally oblivious to any problems they may have had, but as I didn’t enquire beyond the normal civilities, why would they confide in me? Dear God, what else have I been blind to?
    I met my wife, Helen at a society ball and we married after a brief, traditional courtship. Her family felt she’d chosen beneath her, which is ironic when I know now my life was devastated because my parents considered Eloise beneath me.
    We embarked upon a first affectionate, then friendly but sometimes hesitant relationship, the kind which eventually deteriorates into pleasant communication over the breakfast table, separate bedrooms and carefully orchestrated public appearances. These were to convince everyone and ourselves that all was well. This state of affairs continued until her death from cancer, ten years ago.
    We had no children because Helen was terrified of being pregnant and giving birth. With both our family’s feelings about class in mind, adoption was never on the agenda. Ironically, Peter and Alison were childless also.
    Horses and dogs made up whatever gap there might have been in Helen’s need for fulfilment. My music and growing collection of antiques and art pasted over the cracks in my heart. I put my desire for children, a private grief, to the back of my mind and decided to make the best of things.
    During her illness we became closer than at any time in our marriage. ‘Why did you marry me, Helen?’ I queried, one cold winter’s day toward the end of her life, as we sat in front of the fire.
    ‘No one else asked me, James,’ she replied wistfully.
    I looked at