NINE DAYS IN HELL

SIXTY-FOUR

THREE YEARS LATER

Home.

My name is Amber Hare. My name is Amber Hare. My name is Amber Hare.

The bed Amber awoke upon was like a vast winged armchair. Emperor sized and upholstered in leather and chenille: comfortable, protective and nurturing. The mattress was handmade, and constructed out of fifteen hundred pocketed springs. In collusion with sheets and linen crafted from the softest cotton and layered flannel, the bed produced a comfort as close to a mother’s arms as anything manmade. She was never in a hurry to leave the bed’s embrace and warmth each morning, had forgotten how deep, restful and unbroken sleep could be. Because it had not been any of those things for the last three years.

By the end of her first week in the farmhouse, and her first week back in England for ten months, having spent fifteen thousand pounds on the bed and its accessories was bothering her less than it had at the beginning of the week.

Do people actually live like this?

Six days in residence, six whole days and nights without going any further than the garden and the fragrant interior still surprised her each morning. Right from the moment she rose from the bed, an array of scents wafting through the expanse of open space and misting over every pristine surface seemed to rush forth like eager servants to welcome her into the new day: recent paintwork, fresh plaster and the astringent traces of cut timber mingled with the pollen of new fabric released by the waffle-cream curtains and thick rugs.

Can this be mine?

If she chose to sit for a while in the living room or the dining room to admire her new home, the Aspen leather furniture that moulded her body released little welcoming puffs of exclusivity. And moving through the building put her within reach of an ostentatious tang of polish that dispersed from the hand-scraped, tobacco oak floors in the hall and ground floor rooms.

She never opened the windows of the new house, all recently triple-glazed and fitted with the best Saxon locks. She kept them closed and locked and told herself that she would not countenance the idea of airing the house because these aromas should be preserved. She also knew this was not the sole reason for keeping every point of access secure.

Amidst the scents of the discreetly luxurious she continued to observe the same ritual: wake naturally, make coffee in the kitchen, and then leisurely tour the freshly renovated farmhouse, finishing in the study. From the study she would walk to the new bathroom. Shed her briefs and t-shirt and step into the granite-tiled wet room. To shower for so long her whole body steamed until it was time to be swallowed by a white towelling robe.

After nearly a week, the various floors within the farmhouse began to issue a reassuring sense of permanence beneath her tanned feet; a stability combined with the novelty of being in a new place, particularly comforting when she feared she had become addicted to transience.

On this, her sixth morning in residence, with a mug of hot coffee in one hand, she moved again, carefully and patiently like a discharged patient returning home after a long illness, drifting through the four bedrooms on the first floor. Virgin carpets, as thick as bear fur, engulfed her feet to the ankle bone.

The floors of the house were too precious for shoes. There would be a rule about shoes. She wanted nothing from out there getting inside. Not that she was planning on entertaining anytime soon. But only on this day of her occupation did she realize that the interior felt less like a show home and more like the best room in a top hotel that she had spent a week inside. Soon it might even feel like a home.

Amber promised herself she would never take the house for granted; she would always notice and appreciate everything inside of it. She had never lived anywhere like this before, nor had she ever expected to.

When she passed through the doorway of the room selected to be the study, air sharpened by the scent of the new leather chair stung the top of her nose. As usual, she made herself look at the view, while toying with the idea of what came next: what she needed to revisit inside the room.

Through the broad double windows she watched the wind ruffle the lawn and move through the trees bordering the garden, gently swaying the tips of the branches. A seagull hovered and trembled high above, as if temporarily trapped against an invisible force-field, until it followed the current of air in the opposite direction to glide away. Before the bird sank from view its large beak opened, but Amber heard no cry.

Inside her home, the atmosphere would remain still, cool and silent in any weather. Not a single draught had prickled her skin in any part of the house.

Sealed.

Even the loudest sounds generated by the outside world seemed unable to penetrate the pristine walls, new doors, or the reglazed windows in their deep casements. Yesterday, from the kitchen windows, with her freshly pedicured feet spread on the flagstone while she made an espresso from her new Grigia coffee machine, she’d watched a helicopter pass over the house. She had strained her ears to catch the faintest whop-whop or buzzy grind of the rotors, but heard nothing.

Opening the doors of the house was like leaving a cinema to return to the grip of a briefly forgotten air temperature, and an immersion in the hectic energy of the street – what people called the real world.

Looking out across the gentle contours of the maize fields beyond the foot of her property, she wiped her eyes. She felt safe.

She would stay here.

This is mine.

Home.