Season of Desire: Complete Edition (5 page)

My eyes are more accustomed to the gloom now. Still shaking violently with cold, I gaze at him. He looks over at me, and his cheerfulness fades a little.

‘Right,’ he says with determination, ‘let’s get going.’

He leads me to one of the roughly made beds and I can see that there are sleeping bags on each one. He helps me to sit down, grabs one – a greasy-looking blue bag – and starts to unzip it.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

‘I told you, we’ve got to get you warm. This will help until I can get a fire going.’

‘No!’ I push the bag away as he tries to wrap it round my shoulders. ‘How disgusting! How many people have slept in that? It looks filthy! I don’t want it.’

His eyes turn flinty. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. What does it matter? You need it.’

‘No, I don’t, it’s horrible. I’ll be fine,’ I say. I don’t know why it matters to me, but the thought of that sleeping bag around me makes me feel ill. I’m sure I can smell it – sweaty, dirty, fuggy with the scent of unwashed bodies. He tuts impatiently and tries to push the thing around me. ‘No!’ I shout, flailing out with an arm. ‘Stop it!’

He pulls back and we stare angrily at each other. I wrap my arms tightly around myself and drop my head. ‘I don’t want it,’ I mumble.

‘For God’s sake, you stupid—’ He breaks off, glares at me, then tosses the sleeping bag aside. ‘Have it your way. You’ll change your tune.’

He moves away from me, his good mood entirely gone. I sit there, helpless with fatigue and pain, as he gets to work in the hut.

Things are looking up,
I tell myself.
We’re out of the storm. We’re somewhere dry. I’m not alone. Maybe we won’t die.

But depression is engulfing me. I ought to be happy that we’ve found this place but I’m wretched. I hate this. I want it to stop. I can’t understand the powerful angry frustration that’s building up inside me, but there’s nothing I can do about it. The thought of Jimmy waiting for me at LAX, ready for the two of us to zoom into town in his convertible and hit the bars of downtown LA together, so we can laugh and tell stories and he can help me get that shit Jacob out of my system . . . The thought of not being there and not being able to do anything about it is almost more than I can stand. I watch the bodyguard as he lifts down the second box and begins going through it and instead of feeling glad that he is there, taking charge, I’m filled with furious resentment towards him.

It’s his fault we’re here. If he hadn’t lost control of the car, we’d have got to the airport before the storm hit us. He’s supposed to be a hard-ass SAS guy and he can’t even drive down a mountain!

The bodyguard works quickly. I watch, alternately miserable and angry, as he clears some of the ash from the middle of the fireplace. He finds a stash of old newspapers next to it and screws sheets into balls, placing them together in the hearth like a nest of little crinkly grey eggs. Then he takes some slim bits of wood from an old crate and lays them carefully across the paper. He lays larger bits on top of them, making a criss-cross pattern. When it’s all arranged, he takes the matchbox and strikes a match. The little yellow and purple flame on the end of the match is the prettiest thing I’ve seen all day. I watch as he holds it to the edge of one of the paper balls; the flame strokes at the old newspaper, then bites into it, flickering along the paper’s edge as it takes hold. He lights the paper in a couple of other places, before the match gives out. Now the flames are growing as the fire consumes the paper and becomes large enough to start on the kindling.

‘That should do it,’ the bodyguard says, ‘as long as we look after it. A fire is a delicate thing. You have to feed it just what it needs at the right time, or you can stifle it. We’ve got to create a hot heart. That’s the only way you’ll get a decent fire.’

I stare over at him, still shaking with cold, wondering if he can sense that I’m seething with fury at him.

Who cares about your stupid fire? It’s your fault we’re here!

I know in my head that we need the fire and that he’s doing exactly the right things, and he’s doing it to help me. But my heart is racing with ire at our situation.

He doesn’t seem to expect an answer. Instead, he looks beneath the other plank bed and pulls out a large chest. He opens it easily and whistles. A little of his good humour seems restored as he glances over at me and says, ‘Supplies.’

As soon as he says it, I realise that I feel empty. I haven’t eaten since breakfast and that was little more than a bowl of a muesli with yoghurt and coffee. It must be hours ago now. I haven’t been thinking at all about how we are going to eat. I feel a vague relief that this problem seems to have been solved – though I’ve no idea what supplies he’s found.

I doubt it’s sushi,
I think bitterly. I’d been planning to go to the sushi bar at the airport, to have a light lunch with a glass of champagne.
Now look where I am.

‘You know what, this place is actually pretty good,’ he says conversationally. ‘We’ve got a fire going—’ he looks over at where the fire is beginning to crackle now as it takes hold of the wood ‘—we have some food and some water and there’s a pot and a kettle too.’ He gestures at a couple of black items at the side of the hearth.

I don’t know why but his attempts at optimism only make me feel worse.

‘They look disgusting too,’ I snap. ‘You can’t seriously expect me to eat or drink anything out of those. When were they last cleaned? There could have been rats or mice in here!’ I shudder. ‘This is all just too vile for words.’

He stares over at me, and I can see barely repressed irritation in his face. He’s sitting on the floor, seeming not to care about the dirt there, the wooden chest open in front of him. The snow is gone from his jacket but he looks damp and very cold, though he hasn’t said a word about it. His dark hair is wet from the storm and he’s run his fingers through it, leaving it in black spikes: the effect is almost boyish. But his mouth is tight with disapproval and the blue eyes are glaring at me, slightly hooded with the force of his annoyance, and the way he’s holding himself seems to hint at a great effort to rein it in.

At last he speaks, his one word dripping with scorn. ‘
What?
’

‘You heard me!’ I shoot back. ‘They’re a health hazard! I refuse to touch anything that comes out of them.’

He gives a short cold laugh and says in an almost drawling voice, the Scottish accent getting more pronounced with every word, ‘A
health
hazard? That’s priceless, it really is. Shall I tell you what a real health hazard is? Exposure, for one. And there’s hypothermia, thirst and starvation. They tend to do for you a bit quicker than a well-used saucepan, you know? Lucky for you, your risk of succumbing to the first four dangers has just been reduced very significantly. If I were you, I’d take my chances with the risk of an upset tummy. Unless you’d prefer to be out in the storm, alone, freezing to death where at least there’s no risk of
food poisoning
?’

His last words are full of contempt and my spirit flares up as if he’s just poured oil on a dying fire.

‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ I shout.

‘Are you crazy?’ His eyes crackle with anger now. ‘I would have thought that in this situation you might – just might – start letting go of that spoilt princess act of yours! I’ve always wondered if the way you swan about looking down your nose at everyone is really you, and until now I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt. I’ve heard that things haven’t always been that easy for you, and you’re young. But this . . . this is really taking the piss.’ He’s on his feet, then in one stride he’s next to me, bending down, his lips set. Then he says in an ominously quiet voice, ‘Listen, honey. You don’t have to take anything from me. You don’t have to drink water, eat food, or sleep in a sleeping bag. You can walk out of here, if that’s what you want. It’ll be suicide, but that’s up to you. I’ve done my best for you but I can’t force you to accept it. I’m going to tend to this fire, make some dinner and then think about what to do when this storm is over. You’re welcome to join me.’

I stare back at him, furious. ‘If you carry on talking to me like that,’ I say in as menacing a voice as I can muster, ‘I’m going to fire you.’

He raises his eyebrows and, despite himself, laughs. ‘What?’

‘You heard me. I’ll fire you. Right here.’

‘Oh, okay.’ He nods as though he’s in agreement with me. ‘Yeah, sure. You fire me, and I’ll just head off into the night, and leave you here. Then you can get on with the important business of being a spoilt little girl in peace.’

‘I’m your boss!’ I yell. I feel powerless. I want to exert some control in this situation. ‘If my father isn’t here, then you take orders from me. Do you understand?’

‘Right,’ he says, his deep voice half sarcastic, half amused. ‘You’re the captain, are you? All right, then. What are your orders? And please don’t ask for chilled champagne, I’m not sure I can stretch to that right now.’

I cast about for something I can make him do, something to impose my authority. He needs to know that I’m in charge. My family pays his wages. He’s standing up, and I don’t like the way he’s looming over me like some kind of parent over a crouching child. Then it comes to me. I lift my chin up high and say loftily, ‘Fetch my scarf.’

He frowns, his blue eyes puzzled. I notice that there’s a dark shadow of stubble over his jaw. ‘What?’

‘I’m cold and I want my scarf. I’ll need it as a pillow if nothing else. I can hardly put my head down on bare boards.’ I wave a hand at the plank bed I’m sitting on. ‘I want my cashmere scarf.’

‘Well, where the hell is it?’

‘I left it in the snow as a signal. You remember where you left me when you found this place? It’s there.’

He stares at me in silence and then says at last, ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? It’s snowing out there. It’s getting dark. The scarf will be buried by now. And even if it isn’t, it’s a crazy risk to take.’

‘I want it,’ I say obstinately. For some reason, it’s become a matter of great importance to me that he does what I say. I’m the boss. He needs to understand that.

‘It’s a crazy stupid bloody risk,’ he says softly. ‘I’d be mad to do it. The thing will be sopping wet now anyway.’

I jump to my feet, and shout, ‘Do as I say, dammit!’ Then I crunch over in agony as my chest feels like it’s being squeezed by a huge and relentless hand.

He has me by the arm in a moment, holding me so I don’t fall. ‘Are you okay? Where does it hurt?’

I manage to get the words out despite the pain. ‘My . . . my chest.’ He puts his arm round me to support me, while I pull my own arms close to my chest, trying to relieve the pain. I look up into his eyes beseechingly. My rage has vanished in a fresh wave of fear. ‘Do you think I’m dying?’

The fact that he doesn’t answer at once makes me even more afraid. Then he says in a grave voice, ‘It’s possible that you could have a cracked rib.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ I say through short, shallow, panting breaths. ‘Do you think I’ve punctured a lung?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll need to look at you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ll have to let me examine where it hurts. I’ve had some basic medical training. It might help.’

I blink, taking this in. The pain is right in the centre of my chest, and that would mean taking off my top. ‘I . . . I’m not sure . . .’ I stammer.

‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll be very gentle. I won’t hurt you.’

I turn my face away so he can’t see that I’m reddening with the thought of undressing in front of him. ‘I . . . don’t think so.’

He’s quiet for a moment, then he takes his hand away from my arm and says quietly, ‘All right. I understand. I’m going to get some food on. We’ll get the scarf tomorrow when it’s light.’ He nods his head to the small window. The white outside has darkened to almost black. The little room is lit by the orange glow of the fire. ‘The sun’s gone already.’

‘What time is it?’ I say. I feel so tired, I can barely continue to stand.

‘It’s nearly four thirty.’

We left the house only a few hours ago. That’s all it’s taken for my life to spin entirely out of control. I sink back down onto the bare planks of the bed. My puffy jacket is the only comfort I have now and I retreat down into it as much as I can. The fire is burning well and the bodyguard goes over and feeds it with more wood from the crate by the hearth. He looks round at me.

‘By the way, if you need to pee, there’s a bucket over there in the corner.’

I follow where he’s pointing and see the gleam of a grubby aluminium bucket tucked between the plank beds. I’m horrified. ‘What? With you here?’ As soon as I think about it, I realise that I do need to pee, and that I have for some time without acknowledging it.

‘Yes, with me here. I don’t mind. I won’t look.’

I bite my lip anxiously.
I can’t use that bucket!
I can just imagine the racket I’ll make squatting over it, peeing against the metal. It would be too humiliating.
I’ll just have to hold it in.

He’s watching me, his eyes a little softer than they’ve been for a while now. ‘Listen,’ he says, prodding one of the small logs so that it turns into the flames, ‘I’m going to see if there’s a wood pile outside, okay? If you need to use the bucket, you can do it then.’