by Karen Swan
‘Hanna?’ She shook her head, feeling guilty. ‘I’m afraid not. I wasn’t thinking that clearly. I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.’ She remembered the panic she had felt that he was gone too, the weight of his head in her lap the whole journey back, Mats and the crew working like devils to find the fastest way home; the way he’d stared up at her as they’d cut through the waves, the look on his face, unfiltered . . .
Concussed. She blinked it away. ‘It must have been Måns.’
He shrugged. ‘Or Cathy.’ And when she frowned, he added, ‘Dr Sorensen. She would have known Hanna’s my next of kin. She was always the point of contact when I was in the hospital. Apparently.’
‘Right. Well, either way, it’s great she’s here and can look after you for the next few days.’
‘Mmm. Maybe I’ll pretend to be sicker than I am.’ A dark gleam came into his eyes. ‘It’s nice to see she cares.’
She looked away, not wanting to be his confidante. She couldn’t pretend to be his friend. ‘Of course she does.’
She felt his stare become more focused upon her. ‘I suppose this means you’ll be leaving, then. For a while, at least.’ She looked back at him quizzically. ‘Well, if Hanna’s here to look after me and . . . chaperone Linus, you can escape this place at last.’
A residue of sarcasm traced the word ‘chaperone’, reminding her of their fight – that her very presence here offended him, that she was a necessary burden to tolerate whilst he rebuilt his relationship with his son.
‘Yeah, I guess I can,’ she said with a spark of defiance. ‘Someone will have to look after the girls. Unless of course Max is over.’
She saw the anger flash through his eyes at the casual mention of Max’s name, but she refused to look away. She was allowed to speak the truth, wasn’t she? Max’s existence couldn’t be hidden or ignored, no matter what Emil might wish. If he was going to win his wife – his family – back, then he was going to have to go through Max first.
His eyes narrowed, the mood between them changing, becoming darker again. ‘You like him.’
‘You would too. He’s a good man,’ she shrugged. ‘And a great father. He loves his kids.’
‘And I don’t?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘But you don’t think I’m a good father.’
‘I didn’t say that either.’
‘But you think it.’
She sighed, taking the empty glass from him and turning away. ‘I should go—’
He caught her by the wrist, and she felt how cold her skin was in comparison to his hand. She needed to get out of her wet clothes. She was shivering. ‘I’ve seen it in your eyes. You disapprove of how I’m trying to win back my son.’
‘It’s not my place to disapprove. I’m just the nanny.’
‘No you’re not. You’re not “just” anything, and we both know it. You’re everywhere, all the time.’ Bitterness and a hot anger spiked every word. Doctor Sorensen had warned that volatility was one of the signs of concussion, but this felt more than just that.
She swallowed, feeling a lump form in her throat at his continuing anger at her. She felt brow-beaten by it. ‘I’m sorry that you feel I’m in your way, but I’m only trying to do my job,’ she said in a quiet voice, trying not to agitate him further. Clearly this was no time for another of their disagreements. ‘I care for Linus very much and want him to be happy.’ She looked back at him with steady eyes, refusing to let them tear up. ‘. . . So could I have my wrist back, please?’
He looked at her wrist as if in surprise to find it in his grip, dropping it just as Hanna walked back in.
‘How’s the patient?’
Bell nodded, trying to compose herself, unsure of why she felt so upset. Simmering contempt seemed to be their new normal. ‘All good here. He’s just had some water.’ She walked across the room and returned the empty glass to the carafe on the table.
‘Great. It’s important to keep hydrated.’ Hanna pressed her hand to his forehead gently and Bell noticed – sure enough – she wasn’t wearing her aquamarine ring again, the shape of the band picked out by a bright tan line.
‘Hanna, I was thinking . . .’ Hanna sank onto the bed and turned to face her with a smile. ‘If you’re going to be staying here this weekend, should I . . . go back to Strommskar? Give you all some . . . family time alone?’
Emil’s hand reached for Hanna’s. ‘Family time. Just us. That sounds good.’
Hanna smiled back at him, considering for a moment. ‘Well, my mother’s at the cabin this weekend,’ she said obliquely, not saying, or having to say, that she was therefore babysitting the girls. Bell wondered where Max was, or if, in fact, he was there too, livid that his partner had been dragged over here for the weekend on account of another of her ex’s medical emergencies. ‘So listen, if you want to take the weekend off . . .?’
Bell brightened instantly. ‘Really?’
‘Of course! Don’t you agree, Emil? The poor girl needs a break. She’s worked straight through since Midsommar.’
Emil stared back at her with an inscrutable stare. ‘Absolutely. It’s been awful for her being stuck here with us.’
If Hanna picked up on the sardonic tone in his voice, she made no sign of it.
‘Can I take the boat?’
‘Of course. But listen, can we start from the morning? I could really do with the help tonight. Dr Sorensen says we have to wake him every two hours through the night and ask him some questions, and I’m not sure I can do that on my own.’
‘Måns can do it,’ Emil said, sounding terse.
‘We can’t ask him to do that!’ Hanna chided. ‘He’s in his mid-eighties.’
They really did sound like the proverbial married couple, Bell marvelled, seemingly slipping straight back into old patterns, bickering lightly. ‘What sort of questions?’
Hanna looked back at her. ‘Oh, nothing much. Chit-chat – what’s your name? Favourite song? What year is it?’ She shrugged. ‘I thought we could do every other shift, starting from, say, eleven? That way we’ll get four hours’ sleep each.’
Oh, great, Bell thought to herself as she gave an obliging smile. Her day off would only come after a night of utterly broken sleep. Excellent. ‘Sure.’
‘I’ll do eleven and three, if you can do one and five?’
‘One and five, got it.’ Bell walked towards the door. ‘Where’s Linus?’
‘He stayed down to have some supper. And then I’ve told him it’s off to bed early tonight. I think everyone’s had an exhausting day.’
‘Okay, I’ll go check on him.’
‘I’d get to bed early yourself, if I were you.’ Hanna turned back to Emil with a look. ‘It’s going to be a long night.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
What?
She blinked, her eyes fixed and unseeing upon the moonlight puddling on her floor as her hand flailed and scrabbled for the alarm. She had left the shutters open deliberately, hoping it would make this middle-of-the-night obligation easier to endure, but in spite of the full moon and open windows – the owl calling from a nearby tree – she had slept heavily the moment her head had hit the pillow. The day’s dramas had left her feeling drained, and the anticipation of some time off had set her tingling with relief. She needed to get away from here, off this island and away from this toxic situation. Him.
She had already messaged Tove and Kris, desperate for friendly company. It was exhausting being Enemy Number One. Both Tove and Marc were working shifts tonight, but they’d all be taking the early ferry in the morning, arriving at Sandhamn in time for lunch.
With a deep breath and a yawn, she pushed herself up to sitting and planted her feet on the floor, head hanging low, hair falling forwards. She could do this. She could. She didn’t even have to wake up fully herself. The man was clearly perfectly fine; he’d been more than lucid earlier, needling her into another argument. All she had to do was go down the hall, shake him awake, ask him a question, and then th
ey could all go back to sleep again. She could be back in this bed within the minute, the sheets still warm . . .
Scarcely conscious of her surroundings, but subliminally knowing there was nothing to walk into – the advantages of a minimally furnished house – she carefully opened her door and trod quietly down the landing. Moonlight fell in through the tall windows that gave onto the lawn, the world cast in ghostly shades of grey and white.
She paused at his door with a sigh. Nearly there. Twenty more seconds and she could be back in bed . . .
She opened it and looked in. He was lying on his stomach, arms up by his head, one leg bent beneath the sheet. He was wearing just boxers, and she could tell from the soft set of his muscles and the rhythm of his breathing that he was soundly off. She tiptoed across the floor, knowing it was ridiculous to make efforts to be quiet when she was going to have to wake him up anyway.
She stopped by the edge of the bed and looked down at him, one hand poised to tap his bare shoulder. But she paused, her hand hovering in mid-air before slowly, silently, she crouched down, level with the mattress. Face to face, she stared at him in a way that was impossible when he was awake. Without the resentment in his jaw, without the anger in his eyes whenever he looked her way, he was probably the most beautiful man she had ever seen. She could see Linus in his profile, that darling child.
Her eyes grazed him, remembering how she had reached over that night on the boat and how his cheek had curved beneath her palm, how his lips had felt as she’d kissed him first . . . How easy it had been in that aberrant moment when, simply strangers, they had succumbed to a momentary temptation because it felt so good. So right. So natural.
His eyes flickered open, the pupils dilated, sleep like a veil upon him still, and it struck her suddenly how cruel it was that those eyes had remained closed for seven years. How much had he missed? The world had carried on turning without him, his family’s lives had continued –
‘Bell.’ The word was an exhalation, a sigh, a fragile sound giving shape to a wish.
‘I’m . . . sorry,’ she whispered, trying to pull herself back. She was delirious, sleep-addled herself. ‘It’s one o’clock. I have to . . . I have to check you’re okay.’
His eyes had closed again and her gaze skimmed him once more with a voracious freedom never normally hers. She remembered how it had felt to lie beneath him, his weight pinning her down, his mouth on her neck . . . Her heart rate quickened and without even knowing she was going to do it, she leaned in, kissing his temple as lightly as a feather falling onto snow.
She pulled back and saw he was looking at her. The sleep was lifting and there was recognition now, eye to eye in the moonlight. There was truth. They had started something that wasn’t yet finished, lighted a flame that wouldn’t go out until they let it burn.
‘Bell.’ There was heat in the word, shape to a need, and his arm reached out, snaking around the back of her neck, gripping it tightly, cupping her head. Instinctively, she leaned into it, eyes half closing as his fingers worked in her hair. A groan escaped her as she rubbed her neck against his hand, wanting more –
He pulled her to him, his lips so close she could feel their warmth, and her body ached for that first primal touch between them again, the touchpaper that would send them both up in flames. She waited for it.
And waited.
She opened her eyes and stared straight into his. But it wasn’t desire she saw – but despair. He didn’t want to want her.
She felt her breathing grow shallow, as though the air in the room had thinned. His arm retracted, the hotspot on her flushed skin cooling instantly.
‘Bell . . .’ The word held apology, regret. Conviction.
They were both wide awake now.
She tore her gaze away, humiliated, as she rose in her t-shirt and stepped away from the bed. Without a word, she walked towards the door and closed it behind her softly as the tears began to stream down her cheeks. Not a question had been asked. No need. They both had their answer.
She blinked, her eyes fixed and unseeing upon the moonlight puddling on her floor as her hand automatically switched off the alarm. The moon had moved round, long shadows slanting on the floorboards, the owl still hunting.
It was five o’clock already and sleep hadn’t come. Though her bed had still been warm, her own impression still visible on the sheets as she fell back in, she had lain stiff and wretched, trying to make sense of what had happened: her ready capitulation, his unequivocal rejection. Had she imagined what had pulsed between them in those few moments? It had felt as real and alive as her thumping heart. And yet, could she deny that almost every day he had treated her with scorn and resentment? That he had told her plainly it had meant nothing?
She felt the tears fall again, hot on her cheeks, the pillow and her hair damp. She would have sworn, in that room, by that bed, the raw emotion in those few moments of swollen silence had been more real than any cruel word or askance look. But she was mistaken, clearly. In just her t-shirt, sloughed of sleep, she had revealed her longing to him, only to be dangled like a mouse by its tail. He had toyed with her, that was the truth. It was a power play, designed to humiliate. He couldn’t kick her off his island, he couldn’t keep her out of his son’s life, so he had brought her to her knees instead. Literally, put her on her knees.
Five o’clock and already it was bright outside, the impatient sun rising even though the moon still floated through the sky. She needed to get away from here. Her friends would be here in a few hours; she could wait for them at the hotel. Treat herself to an early breakfast, lie by the pool, read a book, forget she’d ever met Emil Von Greyers.
She pushed herself up to sitting and planted her feet on the floor, head hanging low, hair falling forwards. She could do this. She could. All she had to do was tap him on the shoulder, ask him his name, leave again. Job done.
Heart pounding, she carefully opened her door and walked silently down the hall. The first pale dawn rays fell in through the tall windows that gave onto the lawn, casting the world in shades of peach and white.
She paused at his door and took a deep breath. Nearly there. Twenty more seconds and this would be over . . . She could leave.
She opened it and looked in. He was lying on his back, one arm bent behind his head, one leg folded beneath the sheet. His boxers were on the floor and she could tell from the hard set of his muscles and the rhythm of his breathing that he was awake.
Bell felt herself freeze as Hanna stirred beside him and gave a small moan. Her blonde hair was draped across his chest, her lithe body pale in the moonlight, scarcely covered by the sheet. Emil looked down at her, then back at Bell, desire spent, despair in his eyes.
His voice was flat when he spoke. ‘It’s okay. I’m awake.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Well, some of us are living the life!’ Tove laughed, dropping a heavy bag on the sunbed and jolting her awake with a loving prod to the backside.
‘Ugh.’ Bell pushed her sunglasses up and squinted up at her. ‘I was sleeping!’
‘Billionaire lifestyle getting too much for you, is it?’ Tove threw out a towel and pulled off her sundress in one fluid movement. She was wearing a purple bandeau bikini that immediately made Bell’s yellow string one look basic.
‘How did you . . .? Oh, Kris.’
‘Oh, babe, please. I already worked it out. How many rich dudes coming out of seven-year comas do you think there are in Sweden?’
‘Oh.’ She rested her cheek on her hands and sighed wearily, watching as Tove flopped down beside her with a sigh, her lean body gleaming in the already fierce sun. ‘Where are the boys?’
‘Coming in a bit. They wanted to do a hike first before we kick off in style. You know what they’re like. Puritans. Can’t enjoy themselves without a bit of punishment first.’ She spied Bell’s Coke on the table beside her. ‘Oooh, I hope there’s rum in that thing,’ she winked, taking a long sip through the straw. ‘Fuck, there actually is!’ she splu
ttered a moment later, coughing and kicking her long legs about. ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’
‘I would have if you’d given me a chance.’
Tove stared at her. ‘You don’t drink rum and Coke at lunchtime. You’re a lightweight.’
Bell pushed her sunglasses back down, hoping to hide the bags under her eyes. ‘It is summer, is it not?’
‘Hmm.’ Tove regarded her suspiciously as she continued to drink.
Bell gave a sigh and hoisted herself back up to a sitting position, taking it before her wayward friend finished it off. ‘I was enjoying that, thanks. Get your own.’
‘How many of those have you had?’
‘None.’ Bell hoped she wouldn’t clock the two glasses on the ground beneath her sunbed. ‘And anyway, it’s party time, or hadn’t you noticed?’ She indicated the bunting that had been strung up all around the pool and bar area, every chair and table taken. Kids were playing in the pool at the moment, but that would change as the day wore on and the adults came out to play in force. The prestigious Royal Yacht Club’s Round Gotland four-day race was in full swing and the lead boats were expected to sail past the island this evening on their way back to Skeppsholmen, just outside the city. ‘It was lucky I got here so early, or we’d never have got these beds.’
‘When did you get here?’
‘Seven.’
‘In the morning?’ Tove spluttered. ‘What were you here that early for?’
She gave a weary sigh. ‘This is a circular argument, Tove. Gotland. Biggest weekend of the year. Sunbeds . . .?’
‘You’re being weird.’ Tove shrugged, reaching into her bag and pulling out a stack of gossip magazines. ‘I got you some reading material. Figured you’re probably going insane without wifi. Got to keep up with what’s going on in the world.’
‘Because Hänt mag is really hot on current affairs?’ Bell quipped, picking it up anyway and flicking through it idly. ‘Thanks, babe.’ A moment later, she tipped her head back, not remotely interested in the newest moisturizer or Enrique Iglesias’s twins. ‘So tell me everything. What have I missed?’
