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A review by 3vi333
The Engagement by Chloe Hooper
5.0
this book was incredible and claustrophobic and haunting. beautifully written and completely thrilling, the ending left me shaken up. below are just a few sections i ended up highlighting and coming back to:
What was not happening between us had a presence of its own.
*
Talking about what he knew - meat - seemed to relax him. I wondered if he was entirely serious or whether this butchery chat was a way of dealing with his shyness. Either way, Alexander could not disguise a hopeful look: the introvert's pleasure at the prospect of being drawn out.
*
Still I waited – there was the faintest ripple of glass as the wind charged by – and only slowly did I realise: the sound of his watch was in fact my watch, with its cheap mechanism; the sound of his breathing was really my own lazy breath, the heartbeat belonged to my body. This room now seemed to shrink, closing in until it was as small as a room in my head. He had been here, and now he was not. Turning off the lights, Alexander had disappeared, leaving me to lie alone in the pure dark.
*
Old houses make me self-conscious. I knew no one could see me, but somewhere there were eyes. I made the bed, straightening the frayed satin edge of the blanket, plumping up the vintage pillow – admiring the frugality of rich people – and I did these things as though a camera were embedded in the ceiling’s cornice.
Everything now was performative: I was brushing my hair, dressing neatly. Then I was closing the door quietly behind me and walking down the grand staircase, through the house’s formal area to the servants’ quarters.
*
...how close a nightmare can be to an exquisite dream. I almost wished I was not so filled with horror.
What was not happening between us had a presence of its own.
*
Talking about what he knew - meat - seemed to relax him. I wondered if he was entirely serious or whether this butchery chat was a way of dealing with his shyness. Either way, Alexander could not disguise a hopeful look: the introvert's pleasure at the prospect of being drawn out.
*
Still I waited – there was the faintest ripple of glass as the wind charged by – and only slowly did I realise: the sound of his watch was in fact my watch, with its cheap mechanism; the sound of his breathing was really my own lazy breath, the heartbeat belonged to my body. This room now seemed to shrink, closing in until it was as small as a room in my head. He had been here, and now he was not. Turning off the lights, Alexander had disappeared, leaving me to lie alone in the pure dark.
*
Old houses make me self-conscious. I knew no one could see me, but somewhere there were eyes. I made the bed, straightening the frayed satin edge of the blanket, plumping up the vintage pillow – admiring the frugality of rich people – and I did these things as though a camera were embedded in the ceiling’s cornice.
Everything now was performative: I was brushing my hair, dressing neatly. Then I was closing the door quietly behind me and walking down the grand staircase, through the house’s formal area to the servants’ quarters.
*
...how close a nightmare can be to an exquisite dream. I almost wished I was not so filled with horror.