Chapter 1: UNEXPECTED CALL
The buzzer on his phone was a trapped wasp against the polished silence of his office. Richard glanced at the screen—unknown number. Not unusual. He stabbed the answer button with a finger still smudged with ink from the morning’s proofs.
“Richard, what do you need?” he said, his voice a flat professional tool.
A soft laugh trickled through the speaker. “Straight to the point, eh? I like that.” The voice was familiar, a memory wrapped in smoke and summer. “It’s Chloe......... Remember me?”
The name landed like a stone in still water. Chloe. Images flashed:.Rachel’s friend. God yes he remembers, how could he possible forget. In fact for the last two months he’d thought of little else.
“Anyway,” she barrelled on, not waiting for his answer, “I was wondering if you knew anyone who could move an old printing press I need to get rid of at my studio?”
He leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing beneath him. The request was so bizarrely mundane it looped back to being intriguing. “Urm, bloody hell. Yeah, Chloe. How could I forget.” He ran a hand over his jaw. “Of course. I do know a few people, but I’d need to come and take a look at it first. I could pop over tomorrow. You’re near Rachel’s, aren’t you? Send me your address, if that’s okay.”
There was a palpable release of breath on the other end. “Of course. I was hoping you’d say that. It’d be good to see you.” A pause, filled with the faint echo of music or machinery in her background. “I don’t see Rachel. It all went a bit weird after you left, but I guess you know that.”
He frowned at the rain-streaked window. “Actually, no.”
“Look, it’s a bit crazy here today.” His voice shifted, a door closing on the subject. “I’ll see you tomorrow and you can fill me in.”
After she’d texted the address—The Old Mill, a place he’d heard mentioned but never seen—Richard sat for a long moment. The grey afternoon pressed in against the glass. He remembered Chloe most clearly, her dark hair , that intricate sleeve tattoo coiling down her arm. She’d talked about light and shadow with an intensity that could only have come from an artist. That body, those breasts..... That whole afternoon. He’d played it back in his mind a thousand times. He’d found her fascinating. He’d spoken Rachel after 'that' afternoon, it was her idea, her fantasy to watch Chloe and him, she'd set the whole thing up for God's sake. She'd seemed OK with him, he did remember she'd made some off hand remark about Chloe. He’d assumed it was a bit of jealousy.
Driving down the narrow lane the next morning, he understood the description of the mill better. It sat in front of a large picturesque lake with a mill race running loudly at the side rose from the damp woods like a squat stone giant, ivy clutching its sides, water cascading from a broken sluice into a churning channel. It was beautiful and slightly foreboding. He drove through open gates and Down a long winding drive. This place was quite beautiful and very private
The heavy timber door was ajar. He knocked and pushed it open. “Hello?”
“In here!” Her voice echoed from deep within the building.
He followed the sound through a large pair of wooden doors which lead into a large room that he gest was once used as a storage room, and the sight stopped him in his tacks. It was a cavernous space, the ceiling lost in shadows. The far wall was a curved expanse of ancient brick, stained dark by time and water. In the centre was a large printing press.
Chloe stood beside it, a monstrous, cast-iron machine, a hulk of Victorian engineering. She wore paint-spattered overalls unbuckled to the waist, a tight black vest beneath. Her long black hair was a messy knot. As she turned, the green of her eyes was almost shocking in the gloom.
“Richard. You came.” She smiled, but it was tight, edged with a nervous energy.
“You weren’t kidding about the press,” he said, approaching it. He placed a hand on a cold, flaking wheel. “This is a beast. Must weigh a ton.”
“Two, probably.” She wiped her hands on a rag, watching him. The tattoo on her arm seemed to shift in the erratic light. “I acquired it in a moment of romantic folly. Thought I’d make my own artist’s books. Lasted about a week. Now it’s just in the way.”
He walked around it, assessing. “I know a guy with a low-loader. It’s doable.” I'm guessing it'll have to be stripped and then dragged through there, before it's loaded.'' he said nodding in the direction he just come. ''Unless of course there's another door somewhere he added looking around.'' I'll get a price. let me know where it's going to''
Business completed he changed the subject.“This place is incredible,” he said, and meant it. The whole place was a chaotic work of art. Looking at her. '' It's a bit of a work in progress I'm afraid, My studio is complete and I've converted the whole of the top floor into a living space. I use it when I have deadlines to meet, plus the fact Ray is rarely in the country there seems little point in going home. I've really beefed up the security too, so it's a home from home. I'll give you a tour if you like'' she added
“So. You said things went weird with Rachel.” Chloe let out a short breath, looking past him at the dark . “After that afternoon'' she said looking directly into his eyes… you remember. ''After you left, Rachel had far too much to drink, well we both did. But the mood changed completely . She became very loud saying things about me, but for fucks sake Richard it was her idea, it was what she wanted, she said 'oh it'll be a laugh , we do this sort of thing, he'll love it', yu'know and she really pressured me into it.''
''Oh, my God, I'm so sorry I had no idea you were forced into it by her. For the record, I knew you were going to be at Racheal's, but she obviously orchestrated the whole thing. She said it would just be a meet and greet'' said Richard in genuine horror.
''Sorry.... no, that all seemed to have come out wrong. I wasn't sure about, well you know.... 'doing it' with a complete stranger while she watched. And..... it's not the sort of thing I go around doing either. But once I'd met you, well I didn't really care she'd be watching. It was partly the drink, haha a bit of Dutch courage I suppose, but it'd had been a long time since, well you know I’d been with a man and I wanted to feel desired I guess. Plus the fact there's a raging nymphomaniac bubbling away inside me'' Chloe added, half joking half serious, looking at Richard coyly.
Richard looked genuinely shocked. ''I wasn't sure about the whole thing either, however once you jumped on me I didn't have a choice'' he said with a smile
''I never jumped on you'' said Chloe, giving him a playful punch. ''I could do though'' she added and before he had chance to reply she grabbed his arm and said ''Right then, lets have this tour''
She led him through a door and up some stairs to the main studio, her hand warm on his forearm. The space was huge, with vaulted ceilings where ancient oak beams were strung with modern LED track lighting. Canvases in various states of completion leaned against every surface, explosions of colour and intricate, swirling line work. The air hummed quietly with the sound of a dehumidifier fighting the mill’s inherent damp.
In one corner was a large office area, an island of sleek technology in the rustic chaos. An array of computer screens, real high-tech stuff, glowed with vivid images. One displayed a hyper-detailed dragon coiled around a dagger, every scale meticulously rendered. Another showed a series of elegant, looping script designs.
“This is where the money happens,” she said, gesturing. She slid into the chair, her fingers dancing across a graphics tablet. “I do a lot of tattoo design commissions. Online portfolio, international clients. This one,” she tapped the dragon screen, “is for a lawyer in Seattle who wants a full back piece. He’s paying four grand for the design alone.”
She flicked to another portfolio. “And this is my fantasy artwork. Book covers, game concept art. I’ve done stuff for a few big RPGs.” The images were breathtaking—ethereal landscapes, monstrous creatures with tragic eyes, warriors with armour that looked both organic and mechanical. She spoke about colour theory and narrative composition, her earlier nervousness burnt away by professional passion. “It’s all about telling a story in a single frame. You have to make people feel the cold of the dragon’s breath or the weight of the sword.”
Richard watched her, impressed. This clearly wasn’t a hobby. This was a serious, lucrative enterprise. The bohemian artist was also a sharp businesswoman.
“Come on,” she said, standing. “Upstairs is where I actually live.”
They climbed a wrought-iron spiral staircase that emerged onto the top floor, and Richard stopped, genuinely taken aback. It was a vast, open-plan loft conversion, a stunning contrast to the industrial workshop below. One entire wall was glass, framing a breathtaking view of the lake and woods. The space was divided by clever placement of furniture and freestanding shelves piled with art books and strange sculptures.
At the near end was a state-of-the-art kitchen, all brushed steel and reclaimed granite. An enormous island with copper pendant lights dominated the centre. It flowed into a dining area with a long, scarred walnut table, and then into a lounge area dominated by a huge, low sofa draped in sheepskins and velvet cushions. The floors were polished concrete, warmed by richly patterned rugs.
“Bloody hell, Chloe,” Richard breathed.
She grinned, watching his reaction. “I did the whole design thing myself. Fancied myself as a bit of an interior designer. I’ve been lucky I suppose. I inherited the mill about ten years ago The building itself had already been sympathetically renovated so it ‘s just the interior of the building I’ve had to do. Along with the security, grounds and the Lake. So everything you see is all mine’s’. This wasn’t a boast, more confirmation of her dedication to the building.
At the far end of the space, past a freestanding brass fireplace, was an enormous bedroom on a slightly raised platform, the bed a vast low frame heaped with linen and furs. He glimpsed a sleek en-suite bathroom through an open door, all black tile and a freestasting copper tub. No expense spared. It was a sanctuary, a carefully curated world.
“It’s incredible,” he said, and meant it. It was more than a house; it was a statement of total independence.
“Coffee?” she asked, already moving to the kitchen. She worked the expensive machine with practiced ease, the rich aroma quickly filling the air. She handed him a heavy ceramic mug and led him to the sofa.
They sat, not close, but not far apart. The enormity of the space made their silence feel intimate, charged. She curled her legs beneath her, cradling her mug. The view through the glass was a moving painting of greying sky and wind-rippled water.
“So,” she said, her tone shifting from the tour guide back to the woman from the phone. “What do you think of my work in progress?”
Richard let out a low whistle, his eyes tracing the line of the glass wall to the water beyond. “Work in progress? Chloe, this is hardly a work in progress. It’s a masterpiece. Seriously. The whole place. It’s… incredible.”
A faint blush touched her cheeks, visible even in the diffuse light. She looked down into her mug. “Artists never see a project as truly finished. There’s always a line that could be sharper, a colour that could be more resonant. It’s all most a sickness.” She took a sip, then gestured with her head toward the back of the building. “You know, there are two other buildings out back you haven’t seen. Part of the original mill complex.”
“Really?”
“Mmm. One’s been converted into workshops and studios. I rent them out to a few other artists—a potter, a jeweller, a weird sound sculptor who makes instruments out of bones and reclaimed plastic. It’s almost like living in a bloody commune sometimes,” she laughed, a genuine, easy sound. “But I keep my space very private. The gate, the separate entrance. It’s my sanctuary.”
“And the other building?” Richard asked, settling deeper into the sofa, captivated not just by the space, but by the woman who had built it.
“The other one’s a ruin,” she said, her expression turning thoughtful. “Really run down. Stone shell, partly collapsed roof. I haven’t decided what to do with it yet. Too many ideas, not enough time or money. Maybe a gallery one day. Or just let the ivy have it.”
Her gaze drifted to the window, to the expanse of grey water. “The lake is fed by a fresh-water spring, you know. Constant flow. I had it dredged a few years back. It’s well stocked with fish now. Carp, mostly I think. I get enquiries all the time from fishermen’s associations, wanting to buy day tickets or a club lease.”
She paused, a slight frown creasing her forehead. “It all seemed like too much work to manage. Permits, quotas, bloody health and safety assessments and whatever. And… I felt sorry for the fish. Stupid, isn’t it? Creating this perfect environment for them just so people can yank them out with hook.” She shrugged, a little self-consciously. “So I just leave them be. I’ve got a small rowboat. In the summer, I like to take it out, just sit alone in the middle of the water with a bottle of wine. The silence out there… it’s a different kind of quiet. Not empty. Full.”
The image was vivid. Chloe, adrift in the centre of her own private world, the mill a silent sentinel on the shore. It was a picture of profound and complicated independence.
She fell silent, simply looking at him, the ghost of that shared afternoon now a solid, breathing thing in the room between them.
“All sounds idyllic,” Richard said, his voice soft.
Just as he was about to continue, his phone rang, shattering the quiet. He flinched, then glanced at the screen. His expression clicked from open engagement to focused neutrality. He swiped to answer.
“Hi Colin, what do you need?” he said, his voice instantly different—all business, stripped of the warmth he’d shown moments before.
Chloe listened to his side of the conversation. It was all trucks, a tight deadline, logistical headaches. “Right… yeah, I know the one… okay, leave it with me. I’ll make some calls and get right on it.” He stood, offering her an apologetic smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He mouthed, Gotta go… I’ll be in touch… thanks for the coffee.
He was already walking towards the spiral staircase, still talking into the phone. “No, tell him we need the hiab, the standard loader won’t get it through the gate. I’ll email the specs.”
She heard his footsteps recede, the creak of the heavy front door, and then the smooth purr of his car engine starting. She stayed on the sofa, frozen, until she saw his dark saloon slide past the window and vanish down the tree-lined drive.
The immense, beautiful space felt suddenly cavernous and terribly, terribly quiet. The only sound was the distant, relentless churn of the mill race.
“Fuck,” she whispered to the empty room.
“That didn’t go the way I’d hoped.”
She uncurled her legs, feeling stiff. The two coffee mugs sat on the low table, his half-finished, a faint smudge of lip mark on the rim. Proof he’d been here. She carried them to the kitchen sink, washing hers mechanically, then staring at his. She poured the cold coffee down the drain and washed his mug too, the action feeling like an erasure.
The nervous energy she’d harnessed all morning curdled into a blunt disappointment that sat heavy in her stomach. She’d scripted a dozen different versions of this morning in her head. In none of them did he get a bloody work call and just leave.
She walked back down to the ground floor studio, the clang of her boots on the iron stairs too loud. Through her studio and down to the store room. The printing press loomed in the gloom, a dumb, iron monument to her miscalculation. She’d used it as a pretext, a stupid, clumsy excuse to see him again. And he’d taken it at face value. Of course he had. He was a practical man. She’d asked for practical help.
She ran a hand over the cold, gritty metal of the press. The fantasy—a hazy, thrilling outline of a possibility—had felt so close. A conversation that deepened. A touch that lingered. An unspoken agreement to pick up a thread they’d both felt months ago. Instead, she’d given him a tour and a treatise on freshwater carp.
“Idiot,” she muttered to herself.
Her phone buzzed in her overalls pocket. A flicker of stupid hope made her heart jump. She yanked it out. It was a notification from her art commission portal. The lawyer in Seattle had approved the preliminary dragon sketch. That was great news. Four thousand pounds was nothing to sneeze at. But right now, it felt like a consolation prize.
She needed to do something with her hands. Thinking was a dangerous spiral. She stalked over to a large canvas on a wheeled easel, one she’d been struggling with for days—a stormy fantasy seascape that was all mood and no focus. She picked up a palette knife, loaded it with a thick glob of Payne’s Grey mixed with a touch of Prussian Blue, and stabbed it at the canvas. The colour slashed across the lower third, a brutal, angry mark. She stared at it. It was better. It had force. A direction.
Maybe that was it. Maybe subtlety was wasted. Perhaps she should have been more direct, But surely direct wasn't the best course in this instance. Richard would be in touch though, she thought, he’d said. She decided she would wait, anyway she had several projects that needed her full focus over the next month. The deadlines were going to tight so she went to her office and reviewed her list of commissions. ''Bloody hell'' she said out loud, realising the enormity of the schedule ahead.
.