The Island Affair

by Helena Halme

  How many times has he done this? Taken a girl to an island that belongs to a friend?

  'Lie down beside me,' Patrick says, reaching out to Alicia with his hand. She can't resist him.

  Patrick brushes hair away from her face and looks deeply into her eyes.

  'Is this OK?'

  Alicia melts, 'It's lovely. You've thought of everything.'

  Patrick nods, but he's not listening.

  'Can I kiss you?'

  Alicia bows her head, already mesmerized by his strong arms, blue eyes and his soft voice. And those velvety strong lips. She wants to melt into them, into him and never leave.

  When they come up for air, Patrick says, in a hoarse voice, 'Let's get back onto the boat?'

  Alicia smiles into his eyes. Ever since she saw the white sheets of the small cabin below, the image of Patrick's body lying there, naked, has been haunting her. She wants to examine every detail of his strong chest, arms, thighs and legs. She wants to run her fingers along his tummy, to follow the line of hairs on his chest to the place between his legs. The desire in her is making her feel faint.

  Patrick practically carries Alicia back over the rocks to the boat. Pulling his jacket and white shirt off, he places one hand on Alicia's neck and uses the other to take off her jacket. He then reaches under her dress and along her thigh to her knickers, which he deftly pulls off. As they tumble onto the bed, Patrick turns Alicia around, saying, hoarsely, 'You'll hit your head.'

  He enters her almost as soon as their bodies hit the sheets. Feeling his hardness inside, she gasps and arches her back. He moves in and out, then stops for a moment to remove her dress and pull down her bra. He gazes at her breasts. It feels as if his eyes are caressing her skin. Taking one nipple in his hand, he pushes hard into her. She finds his mouth and they kiss, but then he pulls away to suck on her nipples, one by one. Unable to hold on any longer, she comes. Her pulsating grip makes him groan and he also climaxes.

  Afterwards, as they lie between the sheets, Alicia examines the ceiling of the little alcove containing the bed. They are lying with their heads toward the galley, underneath the bow. Alicia smiles as she remembers how Patrick had turned her over and around when they fell onto the bed earlier. She’d felt like a rag doll in his grip.

  She cannot remember sex like this. She hadn’t thought about anything but Patrick, and how to satisfy and please him. She places her hand on Patrick's flat, hard tummy, and then on his thigh.

  'Again?' She can hear a smile in his voice, even though she can't see his face from where she is lying in the crook of his arm. She's fully sated, and although she knows this sense of overwhelming warmth and mellowness will eventually disappear, she is determined to enjoy it to the full. She lifts herself onto her left elbow and glances down at Patrick's erection. 'Do you have time?' she says.

  * * *

  'Now I need something to eat!' Patrick throws his jeans on, leaving his boxers on the floor of the cabin, where he threw them earlier. Alicia hears him clattering on the upper deck and soon he's back with his rucksack. From the bed, she watches him set out red wine, bread, ham and cheese in the galley. Suddenly, she is also ravenous. She slips on her dress and sits down opposite Patrick at the teak table. He pours the wine into two glasses taken from a cabinet over the small sink in the corner.

  ‘We could live on this boat, couldn't we?' Alicia says between bites of her open sandwich.

  Patrick looks at her in alarm. His mouth is full of food and he puts a hand over his lips, still gazing at her. His blue eyes seem more piercing somehow.

  Alicia is embarrassed. 'I didn't mean ...'

  Patrick takes a gulp of wine and looks down at his food.

  'Look,' he begins, lifting his eyes again. 'I'm not sure you understand my situation?' He has a serious expression on his face.

  Alicia is staring at him.

  This is it. He's going to say, 'This was fun', next. And you have no knickers or bra on under your dress because you thought he would want to have sex again after eating.

  Patrick bites his lower lip.

  Alicia panics. She can't hear this. She gets up and, picking up her pants and bra from the floor, rushes into the tiny toilet in the corner of the cabin.

  'Alicia,' Patrick says, but Alicia isn't looking at him. She's trying to get into the small space, but the door won't open.

  'Let me,' Patrick says behind her. She can feel his hot breath on her neck, but she ignores it and waits for him to unlock the door. It seems you have to pull it toward you and then turn the handle.

  'Thank you,' Alicia mumbles into her hands, which are holding her underwear. Inside, she sits on the toilet seat and puts her head in her hands.

  Mustn't cry, mustn't cry.

  She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. What does Connie, her grief counsellor say? 'You can always breathe; it's natural. When you feel overwhelmed, just stop and concentrate on your breathing. Think of nothing else, just air going in and out, in and out.'

  After she's calmed down a little, Alicia has a quick pee, washes her hands and face, and puts her underwear on. She struggles in the small space, but finally manages to pull her dress over her bra and knickers and step out of the bathroom.

  'You OK?' Patrick says. He's bent over, not able to fully stand in the cabin.

  Alicia smiles at him, holding the sides of her mouth up even though all she wants to do is flee the boat and swim to the nearest shore. She knows she needs to keep calm, appear cool, and let Patrick take her home.

  'Could you take me all the way back to Mariehamn?' she says, trying to appear calm and collected. She doesn't add, 'As soon as possible,' but Patrick seems to get the message and fusses with ropes and pulleys to make the boat ready, while she clears the galley and puts the food and wine back in the rucksack. When she hears the engine start, she realizes that he intends to take them back with horsepower. Much less romantic than sailing.

  This was a big mistake.

  Thirty-Two

  Hilda is in the back room, unpacking two boxes of summer wear that have just arrived from her supplier in Italy. When the door chime sounds, she shouts, 'Just one moment, I'll be with you shortly.'

  When she enters the shop, she's surprised to see a man. Men very rarely—if ever—visit her shop unless it's to buy something from her small line of jewellery and handbags as a present for their wife or girlfriend. She can count with the fingers of one hand the number of male customers she's had during the five years she's owned the shop. The man looks foreign, Russian, and immediately she takes a couple steps back. He's wearing a light beige bomber jacket with a pair of cotton trousers and an expensive pair of loafers without socks. There's a single gold stud in one ear and a small, black tattoo on his hand, between his thumb and forefinger. He also wears two rings on his fingers, both heavy, shiny gold. He's a large man, and he fills Hilda's little shop with his bulk.

  The man crosses the room and comes to stand close to Hilda. He is so tall, and his chest so broad, that he obscures her view of the street. The man bends down and puts his lips close to Hilda's ear. 'We have a mutual friend,' he says.

  Cold shivers run down her spine. She reaches out her hand to support herself on one of the rails of special offer tops in the middle of the shop.

  The man is now looking around him. 'Where are your most expensive dresses?'

  'Why?' Hilda whispers.

  'Our mutual friend needs a small gift for his lady friend.' He continues, his cold eyes on Hilda, 'Because you have been a naughty girl, haven't you?' The man gives a brief grin, but soon this becomes a mock sad face.

  'I am going to have a very good month, so I can catch up ...' Hilda stammers.

  The man looks around the shop, 'You busy?'

  There was no one there. No customers, not even tire-kicking Swedes, who pull the clothes off the rails to hold them up against themselves, glancing briefly in one of the long mirrors on either side of the shop. They never buy, or put the garments back in the right place again.


  'It's a slow day today. The week after Midsummer always is, because people are out in the archipelago with their families. But they'll soon get bored of each other and come into town. People argue when they are on holiday and then they need to buy something to make themselves feel better,' Hilda realizes she is talking uncontrollably, but she can't stop herself. 'Tomorrow will be very busy and ...'

  He places one fat finger across his lips, interrupting her. 'Shh.' The man bends down so that his face is very close to Hilda's again. He smells of alcohol and cigarettes and very strong aftershave. 'No talking, just doing. We need money next week.'

  Hilda nods. 'You will have it, I promise.'

  'I said no talking,' the man whispers, and he straightens up. He glances around the shop and his eyes fix on three dresses displayed close to the till.

  'But now, a small gift to keep our friend calm, yes?' The man says.

  Hilda nods and moves toward the items the man is looking at.

  'You like this dress?' she asks, picking out a silver lamé thing she had foolishly bought in three sizes at a Stockholm fashion fair last fall. With a price tag of 495 Euros, it hadn't had any takers in Mariehamn. The one person, a very pretty blond girl from the islands, who liked the dress, lifted it off the rail and exclaimed, 'That's more than my monthly rent!' Hilda's margin on the dress is now just 25 Euros. She should really charge more like 600 Euros for it.

  'What size?' she turns around and asks the man.

  He looks blankly at her.

  'Is she 36, 38 or 40?'

  When the Russian doesn't reply, Hilda adds, 'What size is the lady?'

  'I take all,' the man says and Hilda gasps.

  The Russian grins and says, 'You put them in silk paper, make look nice.'

  For a moment, Hilda hesitates. It occurs to her that the cost of the three garments comes to over a thousand Euros and that she should be able to deduct that from what she owes the Russians, but she keeps quiet. Her heart is beating so hard she can hardly hear herself think. With shaking hands, she packs the dresses one by one into her special pink tissue paper and then into one large plastic bag. She should, according to the law, charge the man for the bag, but again she says nothing, just hands the package to him.

  'Tell him I will have the money next week.' Hilda says with a dry mouth.

  'He know,' the man says, and takes the bag. Again he gives one of his brief grins, and says, 'Nice doing business with you.' Then he walks into the street.

  Hilda leans against the counter. She wants to cry, but she lifts herself up and brushes her brand-new Birger et Mikkelsen skirt with her hands to calm herself. She will be fine. She always manages and she will manage this situation too.

  * * *

  Uffe walks along the edge of one of his fields. The earlies are nearly in flower and look healthy. His eyes follow the line of the dark green plants and then stop at his house. The white structure looks magnificent with its new paint and dark copper roof, which gleams in the late afternoon sunshine. He's proud of this house, the home where he was born and which his father built with his friends and relatives from the village. Would his parents, long gone now, approve of all the modernizing Hilda had instigated during the past two decades? Her standards are high, with every detail—a door handle, the color on the walls, kitchen appliances and bathroom fittings—having to be just so. Nothing but perfection will do for Hilda.

  Uffe has lost count of the times they've argued about the works. When Hilda greets him at the door with a look like a storm warning, her arms crossed over her chest, he finds it best to say nothing. She will soon tell him how he is at fault. Usually he hasn't seen some minor mistake that the builders made while Hilda was at the shop. He's got tired of pointing out that he could not afford the time away from the farm, especially from supervising his laborers, most of whom spoke no Swedish. But to Hilda, his time in the fields didn't count as any kind of useful excuse, even though the land provided all the money Hilda spent on the house. And everything else.

  But this is the limit.

  Uffe nods to one of the Romanians standing smoking a cigarette outside the red cottage and then turns away from the house, deciding to take another tour around the fields. He shakes his head. How can Hilda be so stupid as to get into debt? Credit cards were one thing, she'd been there before. Uffe can't remember how many times he has bailed out Hilda from that particular trap. But this; this is different. No amount of money will ever get Hilda out of this bind. To accept a loan from a man like that?

  He curses under his breath. He knows this is his fault. He should never have got involved with the man, but he thought Hilda had more sense than to accept money from him. Besides, when and where did that happen? Uffe was too upset to find out the details. He had stormed out of the house when Hilda, tears in her eyes, finished the tale of her latest financial catastrophe.

  At first, he had stood in front of her, mouth open, not able to utter a word. She must have seen in his eyes how bad it was. Of course, she had only told him because she had no choice. He is—as always—the last resort. She said that she was three payments late and that there had been threats. She assured him that the article in the Journalen by Patrick Hilden would bring in customers from Stockholm, and she could then start the payments again, but frankly, Uffe doubts it. Even though he knows nothing about fashion, something Hilda has repeatedly told him, he knows enough to understand that no woman would come from the capital of Sweden to buy clothes in a tiny shop on the Åland islands. As usual, Hilda is being naive—some might say stupid.

  'You are incredible,' was all Uffe said. He couldn't trust himself not to shout at her, which he would never do. It isn't right. His father had never in his life raised his voice to his mother and had taught Uffe to respect women in the same way.

  But Hilda is testing his patience to the limit. When he left Hilda standing alone, he heard her shout after him, but he’d ignored her. He knew she wouldn't run after him and make a show of herself in front of the farm workers, but all the same, he turned on his heels as quickly as he could, put his rubber boots on and walked rapidly along the edge of the closest field to the house. He had now walked two rounds, but he's still not calm. He needs more time to think, so he decides to do another round. He knows the two young lads will be watching him from the red cottage, wondering what's up, but he doesn't care.

  * * *

  Hilda is fuming. The one time she reaches out to her husband, who promised to love and honor her, Uffe flees and doesn't say anything. Hilda needs a glass of white wine. It's only 5pm, but she has to have something to calm her nerves. It's an emergency after all. On second thoughts, when she opens the fridge, she decides on something stronger and goes in search of Uffe's drinks cabinet in the 'best' room to pour herself a whisky. The strong liquid warms her throat, and she takes half a glass more. She needs to drive later, so she better not have a third, she thinks, after gulping down the second.

  With the alcohol inside her, she can breathe more easily. The nervous anger is slowly dissipating, and she considers her options. If Uffe will not help her, she will need to negotiate with the Russians. But how to get to the main man? The thugs he sends to collect the money don't even speak Swedish properly, so how can she make them understand that she needs more time?

  Thirty-Three

  Alicia is getting ready to leave the newspaper office when Patrick appears next to her cubicle. He has his hand on the bright blue divider, where Alicia has pinned useful information such as the Intranet codes and the staff telephone lists that the personnel woman gave her. There is also a picture of Stefan taken in their garden in Crouch End in London, with him smiling into the camera.

  'You off?' Patrick asks.

  Alicia is aware of Frida, the only other person left in the office listening in on their conversation. Most people, including the editor, have gone hours ago. Alicia wanted to stay to map out a piece on Russian influence on the islands, but is hitting a brick wall each time she comes close to any useful information. Of cour
se, she knows that there are strict rules on ownership of land and assets by non-Åland residents on the islands, but she also knows that there are ways both wealthy Swedes and Finns get around those rules. Why couldn't Russians do the same?

  'Yeah, my mum's giving me a lift home,' Alicia says, not looking at him.

  'I emailed her the PDF of the article just now.'

  'Thanks, I'll tell her.'

  There is a silence. Alicia, having placed her laptop into her backpack, picks up her cotton jumper, tucks her chair under the desk and tries to smile at Patrick. What does he want? Surely the fact that she hasn’t answered any of the texts since that disastrous boat trip would be enough to make him understand she doesn't want anything more to do with him.

  She feels like she's been played.

  Before the boat trip, she thought they meant something to each other, but the way he reacted to her remark about living on his boat—as if she wanted to stay there—showed that all he wanted was a quick summer fling. She's been feeling stupid ever since, especially because Patrick said nothing about it during the journey home. She pretended to be OK, but she didn't let him kiss her when he dropped her off in Mariehamn. All of his previous bravado had been just that, showing off. It was all a game, she decided. A rich man's game to get her into bed. She's done playing games with him.

  'Any plans for the weekend?' Patrick says, his blue eyes squarely on Alicia. Suddenly she has an image of his naked body lying on the white sheets of the bunk in the cabin. She can recall the fair hairs on his chest and the thin line reaching down between his legs. Flashes of their love-making—or sex—invade her brain.

  She must stay strong.

  'Spending it with my family,' Alicia says pointedly, trying to steady her breathing and hoping the words come out without any show of emotion in them. She is aware that Frida is now listening to their conversation.