My foot firmly to the floor, I race down the drive, barely taking notice of the road on the other side as I swing out to the left. It’s early in the morning. I know the roads will be desolate. I’m so sure in fact, that I take the liberty of driving down the centre of the road, giving me freedom to burn rubber and scream incessantly with my eyes half shut.

 It’s starting to rain now and a wind is picking up (mirroring the chaos) and I see lightening in the far distance. I know I should go home but I cannot bear it. How I wish I was working tonight. I look at the clock and realise I’ve been out for a little over half an hour. I ease my foot off the accelerator and roll down my window to breathe in the hot humid air. I love the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. The air is electric with suspense and an innate energy that means the world could shift at any moment. The air is heavy with possibilities. As a child I used to believe that if I wished hard enough during a storm, I could go to sleep and wake up in a completely different place.

 Thunder clouds begin to roll in over head and the sky gets darker. A bolt of lightening flashes in front of me and the sky is ablaze in technicolor. Magic and mystery hangs in the air tonight. Completely calm now, I decide to go to the look out point, about a mile from here, and watch the magic unfold. 

 I pass the church and green grocers, the local school and dry cleaners, and then the arts centre on the edge of the village before turning into a single track road that leads out to the knoll. Rain is now coming down a torrent and my Mini is ankle deep in water and debris.

Lofty trees tower above me, intimidating, and bushes scrap their wooden limbs past my window. The wind is howling like a coyote. Water begins to seep in through the bevelled passenger’s door. Yet I am still calm. Living in a home which is full of unstable tension soon conditions your senses, and makes you aware that crises can unfold at any moment. When it does now, it rarely catches me off guard.

I stop the car and shift it into reverse. After only a moment the car begins to jar as though I’m driving over uneven terrain. This road may have a tendency to flood but it’s still fairly smooth. I roll down the window and peer through the murky water. A flat tire; great. 

 Reaching into my pocket I grope for my phone. I decide that my sister is the best person to call even though she’s at her boyfriends in the next town over. I’d rather wait here in the storm for half an hour that go back to the house and face a worse one. Where is it?

I turn out my coat pockets and all that falls onto the seat are a couple of Murray mints and a used tissue. I check the pocket of my jeans. Damn. I must have left it in my rush to get out. I sit and think for a moment, and an image flashes across my mind;

*
I grabbed my coat from the hall cupboard and walked briskly to the kitchen to get my keys. Picking them off the hook, my dad, face ablaze in temper, grabbed my arm.
‘Where do you think your going?’
‘Out.’
‘Out where?’
‘Anywhere!’
‘Don’t be smart with me young lady, I am your father and I want to know exac…’
‘You’re hurting me! Let go!
I struggled to get out of his grip and pulled my arm out of the sleeve in the process. I heard something hit the ground, but in desperation fled out of the back door.
*

I realise my phone must have fallen out of my pocket. Bloody terrific. Sitting back and pondering what to do in my predicament, I see a light up ahead. The light belongs to Mendip House, the second last place I would want to go to. Ten minutes later, and left with no choice, I tentatively open the car door and sink my feet into the warm rising water.

I am drenched within seconds. I run the best I can, splashing my way along the road, and approach a set of big black iron gates.

 I hold onto them and stare through the bars in marvelling awe. I have heard stories about this place, and pass it regularly when going to the country but, relatively, never paid it much attention. The house is made of what looks like coal black rock, and turrets protrude from the gargoyle hemmed roof. The house is situated at the end of a long winding drive, laced with bushes and flower gardens in complete contrast to the menacing beast like building lying on its foundations.

I glance to my right and see an intercom. It is omitting a silvery stream of smoke. The storm must have fried the electrics. I try the gates. They swing gently open, and the squeak of the hinges is lost in the clapping of thunder above. 

 Stepping onto the grey gravel drive I feel my blood turn to ice. My body trembles and my teeth chatter uncontrollably. I pick up my pace. At the front door I find myself faced with a gargoyle shaped knocker. Reaching up to it on my tiptoes, I rattle it as hard as I can. No-one comes. I rattle it again, harder this time and shout;

‘HELLO? HELLO IS ANYBODY IN? MY CAR BROKE DOWN I….’

The door creaks open and a shadowy figure confronts me. The man beckons me inside. After slight hesitation, I acquiesce to his kindness. 

 He leads me to a phone table in the hall and I pick up the receiver. ‘Um, there’s no dial tone. Do you maybe have a mobile phone I can use?’ I feel my face going hot even though I have never been colder in my life.

‘I do not av the mobeel phone. You can wait, if you like? In there.’ He points to a room, through which an orange glow lights up my eyes. ‘Just unteel the weather improves or the phone is whorking again? I shall make us some tea?’

I nod and thank him, inching my way closer to the room with the fire. I step through the doorframe and am immediately enveloped with warmth, as though an electric blanket has been wrapped closely around me. I peel off my jacket and place it over a wooden chair in the corner. I also take off my shoes and socks and set them by the foot of the fire; and a dog. I bend down to pat the retriever and smile as it licks my hand. I feel instantly safe. Nobody with a retriever could be that odd or dangerous.

I curl myself up on a battered armchair and look around. The room is bathed in a radiance of complete and expensive comfort. The walls are adorned with art, some of which I recognise as French, and coiled brass candle holders are nailed between them; the furniture in the room is clearly old but opulently designed and the rugs on the flagstone floors are thick and luxurious. Pink roses sit in a crystal vase on the mahogany coffee table between the armchair and the fire. A baby grand is snoozing in the far right corner of the rectangular room. The house has a gothic air to it, but the owner is clearly French classic.
 
I jump slightly, as he enters the room in a flourish of tea and cakes.

‘I ope the tea is correct. In Paris we only drink coffee.’

‘Oh coffee would have been fine!’

The man chuckles ‘No, no it would have not. The coffee is no good ‘ere. Tea is better.’

I smile back at the man, warming to his genial nature. The people in the Village often talked of how odd he was, keeping mostly to himself. Hardly anyone had ever actually seen him. Last year a young girl jumped from the top of the house and died. It was rumoured she has fallen in love with the man, but he broke her heart in not returning it.

 I take a sip of the warm sweet tea and relax back into my seat. ‘I don’t know your name.’ I look at him, a smile playing on my lips.

‘I don’t know yours?’ he replies.

‘Hannah.’ I say, putting my hand out. He takes it, and shakes it gently.
 
‘Bonjour Anna.’

I continue. ‘People talk about you. The people in the village.’

‘I know this.’ His voice is deep, steady and confident.

‘It doesn’t bother you?’

‘Not a little.’

‘Why?’

‘I do not bother myselve with the over whorkings of small minds.’ He glances over and stares into my eyes. ‘No offence Anna.’

‘None taken.’ I reply, becoming more beguiled by every syllable he uttered. We sit in silence, gulping tea from the china cups and watch the fire as though it is television. Every so often, I glance to my right and study his profile.

 He is very tall, six foot and a little more, with sallow skin, a head of dark hair which flops to one side and small but amiable dark eyes. The most remarkable thing about him is the size of his nose. It is very large, and almost beak like in appearance. Under it rests a thin moustache. He is not a handsome man, but there is certainly an allure about him.

‘Thank you for letting me in.’ I felt I should allude to his generosity again.

‘You’re welcome.’

I glance over at the piano, ‘Do you play?’

He follows my gaze. ‘A little. Mostly I write.’

‘You’re a writer?’

‘Oui.’

‘So am I, well sort of. I want to be a writer. What sorts of things do you…’

‘Poetry mostly; aimer la poésie. Paris inspires me. I find Britain quite bland. I do not spend much time here; which is why people do not see me often hm?' He winks, and I find myself smiling again.

‘Do you live alone?’

‘Oui. I am very, ah, how do you say? Independent.’

We fall into silence for the second time. Silences make me nervous.

‘Who is that painting of?’ I point to a canvas on the wall above the fire.

‘That is my father.’

I inadvertently snort. He looks at me questionably.

‘Sorry,’ I apologise, ‘it’s just I can’t imagine ever displaying a painting, or even a photograph of my father anywhere.’ He continues to stare, his eyebrows raised. ‘He’s not a very nice man.’ I explain. His head nods in understanding.

‘I suspect that is where that bruise came from oui?’

I look down at my arm. What looked like a purple stain had appeared on my arm where I had been grabbed earlier. You could clearly make out finger marks. I cover it with my hand. ‘Yeah.’ I take a deep breath and gulp down the last of my tea. I then begin to bite my nails. I can feel him staring at me.

 Sensing movement I glance out under my eyelids and see him amble towards the piano. He sits down, breathes in deeply through his sizeable nostrils and plays.

I knew an artist at work when I saw one. As he played we locked eyes and sparks of energy darted between us. My heart began to race. It became difficult to breathe. The room began to swim and swirl as I lost myself in the music.

The storm eventually seized. My sister met me at my car. I returned home late that evening and fell asleep, in a happy and contented daze.

*

 Skipping down the stairs I think about the previous night. I smile as I think about the way he played and beam as I touch my fingers to my cheek. I could still feel where he kissed me goodbye. Is it possible to fall in love with someone you’ve known for such a short time? 

 As I step off the bottom stair, the doorbell rings. I wander down the hall, still beaming, and answer it. No-one is there. Shrugging I make to close the door, when my eyes catch something at my feet. It is a package addressed to me in big swirly writing. Intrigued, I pick it up and rip the envelope open. I pull out a pink rose, and read the letter enclosed.