A Lesson in the Storm: Season of Desire: Part 1 (Seasons Quartet)

by Sadie Matthews

  ‘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.’

  ‘And leave it full of pee?’ I shudder.

  ‘We’ll cover it up with something.’ He looks at me with something like sympathy for the first time. ‘I know. It’s not what you’re used to. But believe me, it’ll be fine. We all have to do it. I won’t think any the less of you for needing to pee.’

  My defiance flares up again. ‘That’s not what I’m afraid of,’ I retort. ‘I’m just used to living like a human being, that’s all. Maybe you’re happy to perform your private bodily functions in public, but I’m not!’

  He holds up his hands, laughing softly. ‘Okay, okay! I know – you’re far better than all of this. I’m a peasant and you’re a lady. But even ladies need to answer the call of nature. So I’m going to look for that woodpile now, all right?’

  He stands up, picks up the torch and heads for the door. As he opens it, the howl of the storm outside ratchets up several decibels. I feel suddenly deeply relieved that he hasn’t obeyed my orders to go looking for the scarf. My anxiety levels are rocketing just watching him step out into the freezing darkness. He looks back over his shoulder, and his expression is playful as he says, ‘I’m just going out. I may be some time.’

  ‘What?’ I say, fearful. ‘How long? How long will you be?’

  ‘It’s a quote… Captain Oates. You know, on Captain Scott’s expedition?’ He smiles and shakes his head at my baffled expression. ‘Never mind. I’ll tell you all about it one day. I won’t be long. But you’ve got plenty of time to use the ladies’ room.’

  I frown at him, wishing he hadn’t brought that up again. But as soon as he’s shut the door behind him, I get up, slowly because of my chest, and reach into my pocket. My fingers curl around a fresh packet of tissues. Good. Nothing worse than drip-drying. Suddenly, now that relieving myself is a possibility, I’m desperate. I almost hop to the bucket, pull it out into the open and start to undo my jacket. I’m not so cold now, I realise. I’ve stopped shaking quite so violently. The little room has filled with warmth from the fire and it’s been gradually seeping into my bones without my noticing. I revel in the sensation of being liberated from that teeth-chattering cold. My fingers and toes are still numb but I’m warming up gradually and I can imagine being warm again at some point in the future.

  I undo my jeans and shove them down to the tops of my boots, then I try and sit over the bucket. It’s difficult to balance and hold my coat out of the way, but somehow I manage and at last I’m able to let go but at once I’m mortified because the noise is truly astounding, like a rainstorm pelting on a tin roof. Surely he can hear, even outside? Even though I know rationally that he can’t, I’m scarlet with embarrassment but there’s no way I can stop, I have to let everything out and it clatters away until I’m finished. I sort myself out with the tissues and pull up my jeans again.

  I literally cannot believe I’ve just peed into a bucket that’s sitting on a dirt floor in a terrible hovel. My life isn’t like this. It’s full of luxury and indulgence and absolute comfort. I’ve never suffered like this in my life. But what choice do I have?

  By the time the door of the cottage opens some minutes later, the bucket is back in the corner, covered with a piece of old newspaper, and I’m sitting back on the planks, watching the fire dance and feeling simultaneously sleepy and incredibly hungry. The bodyguard comes in, carrying some wet, snow-covered logs under his arms, the torch beaming in one hand. His hair is dotted with snow, as though someone has thrown handfuls of white confetti over him.

  ‘Success!’ he says, smiling at me. ‘There’s a pile in the area at the side. It’s hard to spot it but I had a feeling it would be there. It’ll need to dry out, of course.’ He looks at me. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I say a touch primly, embarrassed again. I’m horribly aware of the bucket in the corner, but I try to brazen it out. ‘I’m glad you’ve found some more fuel.’

  He walks over to the fire and puts the logs close by on the hearth so that they can begin to dry out. The flames are well established now, and he throws on some more of the dry wood.

  ‘Time to eat,’ he says. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m ravenous.’

  My stomach rumbles painfully in response but I don’t know if he’s heard it or not. I watch as he takes two tins from the food supply box and empties them into the blackened saucepan. I’m so hungry now that I really don’t care what state the pan is in, and while the brown slop that pours from the tin doesn’t look in the least appealing, the smell of stew that begins to float upwards as the heat hits the bottom of the pan is simply delicious. My mouth is watering hard. I really am hungry.

  I am hardly ever this ravenous, I realise. My life is about having every need answered almost before I really feel it. Meals are served without my lifting a finger, and if I’m hungry I give an order and a moment later, whatever I want arrives. It might only be a salad or a dish of fruit, but whatever it is, it’s mine at the merest wish: a tray of oysters, caviar, a plate of smoked salmon, truffle-infused scrambled eggs, salade niçoise...

  Now I’m slavering over a pan of cheap beef stew! I know that I would turn my nose up at this stuff in horror if I saw it prepared for me at home. But I’m so anxious for the meal now that I can hardly think of anything else.

  ‘It’s ready,’ the bodyguard says cheerfully. He pours some of the stew back into the tin and passes it to me. ‘Be careful, it’s hot. But it’ll be an excellent way to warm your hands.’

  I take the tin, staring into the dark depths. I need my jacket sleeves over my palms to be able to hold it. ‘How will I eat it?’ I ask. ‘Where’s the cutlery?’

  He shrugs. ‘No cutlery. You’ll have to use your fingers.’

  I’m silent, aware that I haven’t washed my hands since using the bucket.

  ‘It’s not perfect, I know.’ He pauses, evidently in thought, and then passes me the lid of the tin. ‘Use this. Watch out for the sharp edges.’

  I take it, and start to scoop out the stew, sucking it carefully off the tin lid. It’s gloopy and far too salty but it’s also delicious, the thick meatiness filling my empty
stomach and warming me inside. As it cools a little, I begin to wolf it down and it’s gone all too quickly.

  The bodyguard is eating too, scooping up the stew from the pan and swallowing it down almost without chewing. He grins over at me. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’

  Maybe it’s the food that has lifted my mood but I feel suddenly full of utter contentment. The bodyguard… Oh what is his name? Yes, that’s it… Miles… Miles is sitting in front of the fire and I can see a hint of steam rising off his jacket where it’s drying out. He’s illuminated by the firelight, his form outlined in gold and an orange glow lighting his straight profile and strong chin with cinematic effect. He is utterly unconscious of it, which makes it all the more beguiling. I can’t help being entranced by the way his features are lit, with the dark shadows beneath his cheeks and over the hoods of his eyes. His eyes glow and when he smiles, his teeth look astonishingly white.

  He’s not just good-looking. He’s handsome. Very handsome.

  He’s talking now, unaware of what I’m thinking, not realising that every movement of his head is showing off the fine shape of his face and the strong line of his shoulders against the glowing heart of the fire. He seems to fill the small room with the bulk of his body and his strength.