ICY HANDS OF LOVE

Anna

Everyone knew Christopher Hanson was a lunatic, but I was going to marry him. I sat in the car, thinking about my life in a nutshell. What other thing could I do well aside from messing things up even more?

I sighed and glanced out the car’s open door. I was there, at the Hanson’s family mansion. The building rose like a giant and the intricate glassy design instilled a sense of wealth in all who saw it. It was easily the biggest building in this part of Abuja.

I checked my phone, noting the time, 9:27 a.m., fifteen minutes had passed since I arrived in the car but no one had come to at least acknowledge my arrival. One would expect that Christopher—or anyone else of importance—would abandon their coves to come to usher me in. 

Christopher. Thinking about him, I felt silly because I thought he ought to have come out to see his new wife who had been brought on a platter. Heck, the man hadn’t even shown up to sign the marriage certificates. The certificates had been packaged and sent over with Christopher’s signature scribbled on the dotted lines. 

I also had to remind myself that he was not mentally okay—everyone said that. In recent months, Christopher had become a comedic figure and an object of public scorn due to his awkwardness and questionable actions and words in public. These days, he rarely left the house anymore. I wasn’t sure how I felt about marrying him; I didn’t even consider the duration of this marriage—perhaps whenever either of us got too tired. One thing was for sure, I’d never get tired of enduring because this marriage was exactly what was needed to right my wrongs and revive my father’s sinking company. Day after day, investors were pulling out and shares were dropping in value all because of the one mistake I’d made.

I told myself that marrying Christopher was just a little price to pay to get things back in order. For my father, it was a simple business arrangement that would then pull in resources from the Hansons and help stabilize his company. I wondered what the Hansons stood to gain from the union. It was the only unanswered question I had regarding this and Dad was tight-lipped about it all. It wasn’t like we had anything they could benefit from, right? Our family was sinking into the abyss so this looked like a major favour. A really big one, even for the dad who rarely took favors because he felt they always came back to claim their pound of flesh.

After waiting for another ten minutes, I exhaled and shuffled out of the car. when I got down, I took time to arrange my dress which had—for some reason—become twisted while I was in the car. It now looked like a piece of ruffled fabric picked from the depths of a box. Shameful.

One of the domestic staff rushed over to help take my bag in. I’d brought just two bags: one had my clothes and a few essentials and the other had some shoes and files. I didn’t think I would need anything more than that. I didn’t want to arrive at the Hansons mansion looking like I was escaping from my home.

“Is he in?” I asked the girl who helped with my bags.

“Who, Miss Vendel?” she asked.

“Christopher,” I said after a deep breath.

“He’s always in, Miss Vendel. In his converted studio. I’ll show you around.”

I nodded and she led the way. I felt more and more like an intruding stranger. This was exactly why I’d hoped that either Christopher or his father, Mr. Gregory, would come to welcome me. That way, I wouldn’t feel like a tiny mouse that was venturing into a world filled with cats.

The girl showed me around the living room, and the general dining room and pointed at the garden outside the floor-to-ceiling window. “The general dining is rarely used these days because Mr Gregory prefers to eat in his study and Sir Christopher eats in his studio or his room. Most times, he doesn’t eat at all.”

I nodded, feeling that the girl was telling me more than she ought to. Then, again, I felt she was doing so because she knew I was Christopher’s new wife. The term wife sounded alien to me. Was I a wife or a piece of contract requirement? 

The girl led the way upstairs while she kept on explaining things about the house to me. I nodded at length and followed. That was the only way to keep my anxiety in check.

Further down the hallway, we met a lean, middle-aged man with greying hair who wore a white shirt neatly tucked into his blue jeans. He was leaning against the railing, a glass of wine in hand. When he saw me, he paused.

“Mr Hanson! I’m pleased to see you.” I walked over with my hand extended. To be honest, I had no idea how to show this man respect. He probably deserved more from me than an outstretched hand, but considering how he carried himself—like a youngster without any care in the world—it was hard to not go overboard.

Gregory seemed to be hit by realization before he switched his wine glass to the left hand and took my hand in a shake. “Anna Vendel? Wait, you were supposed to come today? Why wasn’t I reminded?”

I forced a smile because Dad had called him. “I thought you were told, Mr Hanson.”

He waved his hand. “Call me Greg. Anyway, how was the journey?”

“It was good.”

He looked at me for a long while, then exhaled. “Excuse us.”

The girl with my bags nodded and tried to scurry away, but I called her back. “What’s your name, please?”

She looked surprised at first, but replied, “I’m Sophia.”

“Thank you, Sophia. Just wait around there for me.”

After the girl left, Gregory said, “You know Christopher is a little…well, introverted now. You will have to stay in a separate room. Is that okay?”

I nodded. “Sure.”

After that, Gregory didn’t go into any small talk so I excused myself and went on. Sophia finally showed me his studio at my request. It was a room that was a few doors from the one Sophia pointed out as his room. 

The studio wasn’t locked and I could hear Christopher from down the hall. He was mumbling to himself, then giggling, and then grunting. It was as if he was arguing with someone.

“I’ll go see him,” I said.

Sophia was skeptical. “But he doesn’t…”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” The highest Christopher would do was yell at me. I didn’t think he’d become a beast.

Sophia waited while I went over, I pushed the door open and got in. The room smelled of oil paint, smoke, and incense. To the side, I spotted tiny candles burning and I was certain that the incense was there. Several bottles of liquor littered the floor. 

Christopher himself was standing before a huge canvas that had an incomplete drawing on it. His white singlet was soiled with paint and sweat and he held the brush tentatively. When he heard the door open, he turned sharply. I thought he was about to yell at me, but he didn’t. he just paused, staring at me as if I was a mystery.

I also got my shock when I looked around and spotted about five paintings of the same person. A portrait, a full body painting, profile view, shades of grey. My heart began to thump harder as I recognized the person Christopher had been painting. Those paintings were created in the past few days. No, they were probably months old and there were lots of them hanging everywhere!

All were paintings of me!

While my brain was trying to process why Christopher would spend his days painting me—someone he’d rarely related with—the man rushed over and hugged me tight, then whimpered, “It’s you! You’re here to rescue me!”

I froze.

nna.

Everyone knew Christopher Hanson was a lunatic, but I was going to marry him. I sat in the car, thinking about my life in a nutshell. What other thing could I do well aside from messing things up even more?

I sighed and glanced out the car’s open door. I was there, at the Hanson’s family mansion. The building rose like a giant and the intricate glassy design instilled a sense of wealth in all who saw it. It was easily the biggest building in this part of Abuja.

I checked my phone, noting the time, 9:27 a.m., fifteen minutes had passed since I arrived in the car but no one had come to at least acknowledge my arrival. One would expect that Christopher—or anyone else of importance—would abandon their coves to come to usher me in. 

Christopher. Thinking about him, I felt silly because I thought he ought to have come out to see his new wife who had been brought on a platter. Heck, the man hadn’t even shown up to sign the marriage certificates. The certificates had been packaged and sent over with Christopher’s signature scribbled on the dotted lines. 

I also had to remind myself that he was not mentally okay—everyone said that. In recent months, Christopher had become a comedic figure and an object of public scorn due to his awkwardness and questionable actions and words in public. These days, he rarely left the house anymore. I wasn’t sure how I felt about marrying him; I didn’t even consider the duration of this marriage—perhaps whenever either of us got too tired. One thing was for sure, I’d never get tired of enduring because this marriage was exactly what was needed to right my wrongs and revive my father’s sinking company. Day after day, investors were pulling out and shares were dropping in value all because of the one mistake I’d made.

I told myself that marrying Christopher was just a little price to pay to get things back in order. For my father, it was a simple business arrangement that would then pull in resources from the Hansons and help stabilize his company. I wondered what the Hansons stood to gain from the union. It was the only unanswered question I had regarding this and Dad was tight-lipped about it all. It wasn’t like we had anything they could benefit from, right? Our family was sinking into the abyss so this looked like a major favour. A really big one, even for the dad who rarely took favors because he felt they always came back to claim their pound of flesh.

After waiting for another ten minutes, I exhaled and shuffled out of the car. when I got down, I took time to arrange my dress which had—for some reason—become twisted while I was in the car. It now looked like a piece of ruffled fabric picked from the depths of a box. Shameful.

One of the domestic staff rushed over to help take my bag in. I’d brought just two bags: one had my clothes and a few essentials and the other had some shoes and files. I didn’t think I would need anything more than that. I didn’t want to arrive at the Hansons mansion looking like I was escaping from my home.

“Is he in?” I asked the girl who helped with my bags.

“Who, Miss Vendel?” she asked.

“Christopher,” I said after a deep breath.

“He’s always in, Miss Vendel. In his converted studio. I’ll show you around.”

I nodded and she led the way. I felt more and more like an intruding stranger. This was exactly why I’d hoped that either Christopher or his father, Mr. Gregory, would come to welcome me. That way, I wouldn’t feel like a tiny mouse that was venturing into a world filled with cats.

The girl showed me around the living room, and the general dining room and pointed at the garden outside the floor-to-ceiling window. “The general dining is rarely used these days because Mr Gregory prefers to eat in his study and Sir Christopher eats in his studio or his room. Most times, he doesn’t eat at all.”

I nodded, feeling that the girl was telling me more than she ought to. Then, again, I felt she was doing so because she knew I was Christopher’s new wife. The term wife sounded alien to me. Was I a wife or a piece of contract requirement? 

The girl led the way upstairs while she kept on explaining things about the house to me. I nodded at length and followed. That was the only way to keep my anxiety in check.

Further down the hallway, we met a lean, middle-aged man with greying hair who wore a white shirt neatly tucked into his blue jeans. He was leaning against the railing, a glass of wine in hand. When he saw me, he paused.

“Mr Hanson! I’m pleased to see you.” I walked over with my hand extended. To be honest, I had no idea how to show this man respect. He probably deserved more from me than an outstretched hand, but considering how he carried himself—like a youngster without any care in the world—it was hard to not go overboard.

Gregory seemed to be hit by realization before he switched his wine glass to the left hand and took my hand in a shake. “Anna Vendel? Wait, you were supposed to come today? Why wasn’t I reminded?”

I forced a smile because Dad had called him. “I thought you were told, Mr Hanson.”

He waved his hand. “Call me Greg. Anyway, how was the journey?”

“It was good.”

He looked at me for a long while, then exhaled. “Excuse us.”

The girl with my bags nodded and tried to scurry away, but I called her back. “What’s your name, please?”

She looked surprised at first, but replied, “I’m Sophia.”

“Thank you, Sophia. Just wait around there for me.”

After the girl left, Gregory said, “You know Christopher is a little…well, introverted now. You will have to stay in a separate room. Is that okay?”

I nodded. “Sure.”

After that, Gregory didn’t go into any small talk so I excused myself and went on. Sophia finally showed me his studio at my request. It was a room that was a few doors from the one Sophia pointed out as his room. 

The studio wasn’t locked and I could hear Christopher from down the hall. He was mumbling to himself, then giggling, and then grunting. It was as if he was arguing with someone.

“I’ll go see him,” I said.

Sophia was skeptical. “But he doesn’t…”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” The highest Christopher would do was yell at me. I didn’t think he’d become a beast.

Sophia waited while I went over, I pushed the door open and got in. The room smelled of oil paint, smoke, and incense. To the side, I spotted tiny candles burning and I was certain that the incense was there. Several bottles of liquor littered the floor. 

Christopher himself was standing before a huge canvas that had an incomplete drawing on it. His white singlet was soiled with paint and sweat and he held the brush tentatively. When he heard the door open, he turned sharply. I thought he was about to yell at me, but he didn’t. he just paused, staring at me as if I was a mystery.

I also got my shock when I looked around and spotted about five paintings of the same person. A portrait, a full body painting, profile view, shades of grey. My heart began to thump harder as I recognized the person Christopher had been painting. Those paintings were created in the past few days. No, they were probably months old and there were lots of them hanging everywhere!

All were paintings of me!

While my brain was trying to process why Christopher would spend his days painting me—someone he’d rarely related with—the man rushed over and hugged me tight, then whimpered, “It’s you! You’re here to rescue me!”

I froze.