A Lesson in Desire: Season of Desire Part 3 (Seasons Quartet)

by Sadie Matthews

  ‘It wasn’t just luck. It was Miles too.’ I try to keep my tone and expression neutral. I don’t want anyone speculating about us, not when I have no idea myself what is happening between us, but I can’t help talking about him.

  ‘Miles?’ says Summer, frowning. Then her face clears. ‘Of course – you set out with the bodyguard you can't stand.’

  'I know. And I'm counting my blessings I did.' I tell them about the crash and how it was the most frightening thing that’s ever happened to me. They listened in wide-eyed silence as I describe the sensation of the car leaving the road and the impact that followed. I describe Miles getting me out of the car just moments before it slid off the plateau to vanish in the snowy valley below, taking our phones with it. I’m almost reliving it as I tell them about the terrible weather, the icy, penetrating cold, and the sense of fear and despair as Miles disappeared into the storm to look for shelter.

  Summer’s eyes are wide as she listens intently. She says, ‘That must have been weird. You hated him – and he saved your life!’

  I nod. ‘Yeah.’ I try to sound casual and laugh lightly. ‘I suppose he’s not so bad after all. I owe him a lot.’

  Flora has been gripped by my narrative and she leans forward to say urgently, ‘But what happened? Did he find the shelter?’

  ‘Of course!’ I laugh again. ‘Do you think I’d be in such good shape if he hadn’t? We had the most amazing piece of luck.’ I tell them about the shepherd’s hut and they are gripped by my description of its privations.

  ‘Tinned food,’ says Flora, pulling a face.

  ‘No running water!’ breathes Summer, her eyes wide.

  ‘No nothing,’ I reply. ‘No bathroom at all…’ I look at them both meaningfully and they gasp as they take in the implications.

  ‘So how did you…?’ Flora can’t articulate it but we all know what she means.

  ‘A bucket.’

  They both gasp again and Flora shudders. ‘How awful,’ she says. ‘In front of the bodyguard?’

  ‘He went outside.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ Flora says and Summer nods in agreement.

  ‘Luckily we weren’t there for too long. I didn’t think I could stand going without a shower for much longer.’

  Summer says, ‘You were so lucky though. Thank goodness for that hut.’

  ‘And the fact that Miles is trained in arctic weather and mountain survival.’ I can’t resist saying his name. I know that the real story of the crash is not the filthy sleeping bags and the nasty food or even surviving the storm against the odds, but I don’t want to give them any clue of what is, so I start to describe the rescue and they are quickly diverted. When I finish, I realise that Flora is crying.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask. ‘I’m fine, you don’t need to cry!’

  ‘I know, it’s just…’ She gulps and sniffs. ‘You could have died if hadn’t been for those bits of luck that saved you – the car landing on the plateau, and then finding the hut. I can’t help thinking that someone was looking out for you.’

  I get up, sit down next to her and wrap my arms around her. She clings on to me and sobs.

  ‘I think that maybe… Mama was protecting you,’ she whispers.

  I feel my own eyes fill with tears and a tightness form in my throat. I can’t speak. The same thought had occurred to me but I’d hardly acknowledged it until Flora said it out loud.

  Summer gets up and joins us, clutching my hand and Flora’s. ‘Maybe Mama is your guardian angel,’ she says.

  I say, ‘If she’s looking out for me, she’ll be looking out for all of us.’

  Flora sobs again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s a happy thought, not a sad one, and yet…’

  ‘I understand,’ I say quietly, hugging her tighter. ‘We all do.’

  We sit quietly for a while, bonded by the memory of our mother.

  I barely have a moment to myself for the rest of the day. Not surprisingly, I’m inundated with calls and messages as soon as I switch on my phone. I find myself telling the same story over and over until I begin to suspect that it’s taken on a whole new life that is completely removed from what actually happened. Everybody is clamouring to see me, to invite me here and there, but I have no appetite for it. I put them all off, telling them I have to rest and get back to my old self, which seems to satisfy them.

  When my father gets back from shopping with Estella, he calls me to his study so that I can recount the whole thing again from beginning to end. I go there excited, hoping that Miles might be there, but he’s not. Instead, I’m treated to the grizzled, menacing presence of Pierre, who listens in silence as I tell my story. I know that they’re trying to discover exactly what Miles’s role in the whole thing was, so I make sure that I play up the way he saved my life, the fact that his training and knowledge brought us safely through the whole ordeal, along with a helping of good old-fashioned luck. I paint the relationship between us as that of a damsel in distress and the heroic, utterly chivalric knight who saves the day and protects the maiden and her purity with complete, unquestioning devotion. By the end, my father seems happier. It’s impossible to tell what Pierre thinks; his face is so creased and lined and battered that it’s difficult for emotions to make any impact on it, but that doesn’t really matter. He’ll follow my father’s orders. As long as Dad is happy, that’s all that counts.

  Dad sits back thoughtfully behind his huge desk and frowns. ‘Well, as it seems as if Murray did play a crucial role in getting you through this.’

  ‘I’d be dead without him,’ I say frankly.

  ‘Yes but…’ He presses his fingertips together. ‘That doesn’t change the fact that it was his driving that took you off the side of the mountain. That’s the problem for me. The whole thing was his fault, even if he managed to save you from the consequences.’

  I lean towards my father and say urgently, ‘No, Dad. You’ve got to believe me. It was my fault. Don’t blame Miles. I should never have demanded to be taken to the airport, or insisted he speed up, in those conditions. He was obeying my orders.’

  Dad glances over at Pierre and they seem to exchange meaningful looks but I can’t work out what they’re saying by them.

  ‘Where is Miles?’ I demand, unable to wait any longer. The whole day he’s been on my mind, lingering in the shadows of it, like a dark and delicious secret. ‘I want to see him.’

  ‘Why is that?’ my father asks.

  ‘Why?’ I shoot him a look of frustrated bewilderment. ‘Because he saved my life! I haven’t had a chance to thank him properly yet, that’s why. Once we were rescued, we never had another moment to speak. And—’ I’ve tried to be calm and persuasive but I can feel anger building up in me now. Why won’t my father treat me like an adult? ‘I want to make sure that you haven’t sacked him or decided to punish him for this! I’ve told you that it wasn’t his fault. Do you believe me or not?’

  Dad looks at Pierre again and then back at me. ‘Of course I do, sweetheart,’ he says slowly, as though I’m a child needing to be pacified. ‘I know you want to protect Miles Murray, and that you feel strongly about it. But you’ve been through an ordeal and it’s our job to make sure that this is what it seems, that’s all.’

  I frown, trying to decipher what he’s saying to me. ‘You mean – you think that there might be more to this than just an unfortunate accident? You’re crazy! I was there, and I can tell you exactly what it was like. That car was completely out of control. It was only Miles’s skill that managed to stop us being killed in it. I was frightened – really and truly frightened! There was no fakery about it, I can guarantee it.’

  ‘We know what you believe, honey,’ my father says, and the patronising tone in his voice just infuriates me more.

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ I declare. ‘You’re paranoid!’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ my father replies. ‘Remember what happened in the past.’

  I go quiet, not knowing what to say to this. Things that h
appened long ago still have the power to leap out and control the present. They’re still shaping my future too. I close my eyes for a moment as powerful emotions grip me: a mixture of fear, confusion and horror. Things I’ve tried to block out of my memory rise up and clutch at me, delighted to be resurrected and to prove their power to control me no matter how hard I try to escape. My hands ball into fists and my nails cut into my palm. I’m glad. I want the pain to bring me back to the here and now. I open my eyes and take a deep breath. ‘That doesn’t have anything to do with what just happened to me. I know it – with my whole being.’

  Pierre speaks at last. ‘We have to investigate.’ His harsh, rasping voice, heavy with its French accent, always sounds as if it’s rusty through lack of use. ‘We have to be sure.’

  I turn to him. ‘But you hired Miles. You investigated his background. You know that he’s one hundred per cent trustworthy.’

  Pierre stares back at me, impassive as a rock. His face, craggy and scarred, repels me.

  ‘Well?’ I demand. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  ‘We have to be sure,’ he repeats, with a finality that tells me he won’t be saying any more.

  I swing back to look at my father. ‘Dad, tell him all this is a waste of time. Where is Miles? I want to see him.’

  ‘Miles will be staying here until we’ve concluded the investigation,’ says my father, his voice grave. ‘But I’m sorry – you won’t be able to see him.’

  ‘Why not?’ I stare at him, horrified. I’d been sure that I would see Miles today. It’s all I’ve been hanging on to.

  ‘We have our reasons.’ My father speaks in a tone I know well. It means I won’t be getting anything more from him. ‘And once I’m satisfied that you’re all right, I think you should leave here. You’ll be better off somewhere else – a change of scene – until we get this sorted out.’

  I gape at him, appalled at the idea that I might be separated from Miles for… how long? For ever?

  No! I have to see him!

  ‘Dad,’ I say urgently. ‘Please… just five minutes with Miles…’

  He shakes his head. ‘No, honey. I’m sorry. I can’t allow it. It’s not going to happen.’

  I go back to my room in a daze, trying to think everything through. My father evidently has very strong suspicions that something is going on and that Miles might be involved.

  I remember the television reports and their suggestion that my crash was faked. What’s wrong with everyone? Why do they have such vivid imaginations?

  I don’t know what my father thinks might have gone on, or how he believes Miles hoped to profit by the whole thing, but that’s not my main focus right now. I’m horrified by the realisation that I’ve been forbidden from seeing Miles. I didn’t dare beg too much in case it made my father even more suspicious. After all, beyond common politeness, why should I be so concerned with seeing Miles again? According to my account, he’s just a member of staff who was doing his job. A hero, maybe – but he’s paid for his expertise. My father would expect no less from him.

  Oh God, what am I going to do? How am I going to see him?

  I throw myself on my bed and groan. My longing for him is so intense I can hardly stand it. He’s here, somewhere, in this very building. I wonder if he’s thinking about me, wondering how I am. Maybe he’s seen that nonsense on the television – I imagine how that will make him laugh and say something cutting in the Scottish accent that always gets stronger when he’s being sardonic, with a lift of that eyebrow to underline his scorn.

  I close my eyes and begin to dream of him, remembering every inch of his skin, his taste and his feel. The events of the day have exhausted me and I quickly slip into sleep, and the most vivid dream I’ve ever known. I’m lying asleep on my bed, just as I am in reality. A presence comes into the room and even though I’m not awake, I’m alert to it, aware of it approaching me, coming closer to the edge of my bed. It’s a vast, massy presence but I can’t turn to see it. Instead I feel as though I’m paralysed. I wonder who or what this presence is. Friend or foe? I long for it to be Miles come to find me, but if it were him, surely he would speak to me, and this presence is silent apart from the sound of regular breathing. It’s closer now, sitting down on the bed. I feel the weight of it close to me on the mattress. The breathing is louder. I want to speak and move but I can’t. I’m frozen, my limbs as heavy as lead, and a sense of horror grows inside me as I realise that whatever is with me is not a benevolent presence but something that means to harm me somehow. My heart races with fear, I try to scream but I’m unable to open my mouth or even move a muscle. Panic begins to overwhelm me as I feel that great shape leaning over me, closer and closer…

  My eyes flick open and I’m awake, panting, my heart pounding. I’m alone in my dark bedroom. The presence is gone. I dreamed it. I must have. It’s the only explanation.

  I clutch at my chest, trying to regulate my panicked breathing. Oh my God, that was horrible, horrible…

  Despite my efforts to reassure myself that it was just a dream, I’m still shaky with the after-effects of my fear. I get up. It’s late, after one o’clock in the morning. They must have decided to let me sleep and not disturb me for dinner. I open my bedroom door and look out into the corridor, lit with the gentle glow of lamps at intervals along the hallway. It’s so quiet out there. Everyone has gone to bed.

  I step out into the corridor and without really thinking what I’m about to do, I walk quickly and quietly towards the elevator. A little red light flashes near the ceiling and I notice the security camera, small and black, tucked away by the coving. I walk close to the wall so that it will catch as little of my image as possible, although it’s futile to try and hide completely. As soon as I stand in front of the elevator doors, I’ll be visible, and inside there’s another camera. Whoever is observing the CCTV screens will be certain to see me.

  But why should I be afraid of that? This is my home! I should be free to move around as I like.

  I summon the elevator, and when it arrives, I step inside. I stare at the buttons for a moment and then press the one marked ‘2’. A floor I’ve never visited before.

  What the hell am I doing? This is crazy.

  But I can’t stop myself. The doors slide shut and the elevator glides downwards, coming to a halt with a tiny chime. The doors open again and I’m looking out into another corridor, but where the ones in the main house are lit by the golden glow of lamps, this is lit with the cold grey light of recessed bulbs: functional but unwelcoming. I step out, looking around me. No one is in sight. I start to walk down the corridor, wondering what I’m doing. I don’t even know what’s on this floor, but I’m guessing that the first floor will be more utilitarian, and this floor will have the staff bedrooms on it.

  I glance up and see more red lights twinkling on the side of CCTV cameras, their dark glass lenses observing the corridor. I can’t go anywhere in this place without being seen. I think suddenly of the hut, its utter remoteness and isolation. It was completely private. No one could track me there or watch my movements.

  Voices spill from an open doorway but as I get closer, I realise it’s a television. I stop by the doorway and glance inside. The interior is semi-lit, partly by the bright glare of the television in the corner and partly by the grey light from the bank of screens that show the images from the cameras throughout the house. A security guard sits in front of the screens but he’s not looking at them at all. His attention is completely focused on the television and the late-night show he’s watching.

  That’s good. He might not have seen me leave my floor and arrive here. I guess it’s a boring job looking at corridors that are empty most of the time.

  I take the opportunity of a burst of noise from the television to dash past the doorway. It’s like being some kind of spy. I have to remind myself that I’m in my own home. I have a right to be here. Or do I? This feels disconnected to the life I know upstairs, with its light and luxury. I have a feeling the staff would n
ot be happy to see me on their territory, and I hope that they’re all asleep.

  I pass a kitchen, a large dining room with half a dozen or so small tables each set for four people, and then a sitting room, where another television is playing and a man I don’t recognise is asleep in front of it in an armchair.

  I had no idea my house was so full of strangers.

  I’m obviously in the staff quarters but how am I going to find Miles? I turn a corner and come to a wide hallway, with a table against one wall and above that, some rows of pigeonholes, a few stuffed with envelopes. I go over and examine them. Each pigeonhole has a name and number below it. This must be where the staff receive their post and internal communications. I scan them quickly, my heart beating faster. At first, I can’t see Miles’s name and have to calm myself and look again more slowly and carefully. Then, I find it: M. Murray. There’s no number next to his name. The numbers must be room numbers. Why isn’t there one for Miles? The pigeonhole is empty.

  I look quickly at the other names. There are at least two dozen. Is that really how many people it takes to run my family’s life? And that’s just here at the mountain house. There are more throughout the world at my father’s many properties. All this staff, just to look after four people. I shake my head at the oddness of it, and push it out of my mind as I do a quick process of elimination on the numbers I can see against the other names. The numbers seem to run from one to twenty-five, and three numbers are not listed: 17, 21 and 24. So if Miles doesn’t have an allocated room, perhaps he’s in one of these others.

  This is completely crazy. But I’m going to see what I can find.

  Two corridors lead off from the hall, one labelled 1–15 and the other labelled 16–25. I head down the second one, guessing the labels must be directing towards the room numbers, and sure enough I soon pass a grey door numbered 16, then another, number 17. This place is like a dour hotel, I think, stopping in front of 17, the first of what I guess are the unoccupied rooms.