Beneath the Water

by Sarah Painter

  In her dream, Stella is in her favourite café in Camden. She knows she is dreaming but Ben is sitting opposite her and she remembers that this really happened. She tries to wake up, doesn’t want to relive the scene. Dream Ben lingers, pouring his coffee with the sunlight picking out the blond in his hair. She isn’t strong enough to push him out.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Ben asks, and Stella looks past his face to focus on the door of the café. She could get up and leave. She could walk out of this place and just keep going. She could start all over again, but she knows she doesn’t have the time. Her heart is a ticking clock.

  He takes her hand. ‘We’re such a good team.’

  He’s right, too. Which is frustrating. And Stella wants to make a life with him. Worse still, she doesn’t think she can make one on her own. The ticking sound is deafening and Stella looks around, can’t believe that other people can’t hear it.

  ‘What’s stopping you?’ Ben leans forward. ‘Tell me. Maybe we can solve it.’

  ‘I want children,’ she says, knowing it will end the conversation. End the relationship, too. She thought she would feel like crying but she doesn’t. Stella is cold and smooth all over, like stone.

  He doesn’t hesitate. ‘We can do that.’

  Stella realises that he’s known all along that it would come to this and that he’s already thought it through, made the calculation. Anger surges. If he’s known, why didn’t he bring it up? All of the misery and the soul-searching and the worry. If he’d known that she was going to force this issue, before even she knew, why didn’t he put her out of her misery? Stella knows the answer, but she doesn’t let the thought form.

  ‘We would make beautiful babies,’ he says.

  His face is perfect. She never tires of looking at it. His voice is soft and earnest and, in that moment, she can believe that he wants children. That he wants them with her. She is kidding herself and knows that she is doing so, but her desire is greater. ‘We would.’ Stella feels the smile on her face.

  ‘Let’s get married, too,’ he says. ‘Make it official.’

  ‘Are you proposing?’

  ‘Shall I get onto one knee?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Stella says. And then she wakes up.

  Stella spent the morning working through more of Jamie’s backlog of emails, dutifully filing the ones from Nathan Schwartz as ‘Urgent’. She refused to think about her dream, filing Ben along with the emails in a folder marked ‘Later’.

  At lunchtime, Stella walked into the kitchen, hoping there would be bread and cheese so she could make a toastie. Jamie had mentioned food being included but not whether it would consist entirely of the vegetables she had seen in the fridge.

  The room looked different to the day before, as if a secret doorway had been opened by the signing of the NDA, revealing a fundamentally different place. Lined up along the worktop were jars and bottles, tubs and pill packets. A few medical-looking gadgets in the standard beige-plastic hue sat in the middle, next to sealed packets of testing strips. The only sign that Jamie was still in residence was the row of empty glasses on the side of the sink, grass-coloured slime dried to the sides. At once Stella felt the strangeness of her situation. What was she doing here? How did she end up in this man’s kitchen and how long was she going to borrow this life?

  ‘There you are,’ Esmé said, as if Stella had been hiding. ‘Mr Munro asked me to give you this.’ Esmé passed her a keyring with a large brass key and a couple of Yale types, and a piece of paper with four digits printed in the middle. ‘Those are for the house, in case you need access when we’re out. We’re never both out at the same time so you won’t need them. And that’s the code for the lock on the shed. You won’t need that, either.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t lose your keys. Don’t lend your keys.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Stella said, wondering how she had managed to piss this woman off already.

  ‘No guests in the house.’

  ‘Right—’

  ‘And I don’t know whether Mr Munro mentioned this, but no guests in the cottage, either. Treat it as an extension of this house. It is not your private domain and you have no rights to it whatsoever. If you do not vacate the premises immediately whenever you are told to do so, we will bring the full force of the law down upon you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ Stella said. ‘Have you had problems with tenants before?’

  ‘You are not a tenant,’ Esmé said darkly. ‘You are a visitor.’

  ‘Jamie says I’m part of the team,’ Stella couldn’t resist saying, sick of the woman’s curt tone. Gratifyingly, Esmé’s rosy cheeks went one shade darker.

  ‘Mr Munro is not himself right now. He’s not thinking clearly.’

  Stella hesitated. Jamie didn’t look unwell. His skin was a healthy colour, not pale or yellow-tinged, although he did have shadows underneath his eyes. Stella smothered her automatic alarm. When she had been little, she had been kept away from people with colds, sore throats, flu – which, given how often kids got snotty, had meant a great deal of alone time. Things were different now, she reminded herself. She was fine. She needn’t be afraid.

  ‘What are these?’ Stella gestured to the gadgets.

  ‘You’ll have to ask Jamie about that,’ Esmé said. ‘It’s up to him what he tells you.’

  ‘Not if it will affect me directly,’ Stella said. If Jamie Munro had something contagious, threatening, she needed to know. She had to be able to do a risk assessment.

  Esmé gazed at her in silence for a few uncomfortable moments and then turned away. ‘Oh,’ she said, turning back like Columbo, ready to deliver her killer blow. ‘Don’t try to pet the dogs. They’ll have your hand off.’

  Jamie remained cloistered in his office for hours at a time, and now that Stella’s laptop had arrived via courier, she was similarly enclosed in the second office. She left the door open so that if Jamie wanted her, he could simply yell through. She could hear him pacing the room, and sometimes a rhythmic thudding, as if he were throwing a ball against the wall or punching something.

  Jamie emailed a list of tasks, which included viewing the videos of his ice baths. She was to log that they had been independently reviewed in the spreadsheet, and to note any changes in behaviour or consciousness. Stella clicked on one of the videos at random. She recognised the grey-and-white colour scheme of the main bathroom. The claw-foot tub was rendered in glorious HD, and when Jamie spoke, his voice was clear. ‘Eight a.m., morning ice bath twenty-seven,’ he said from behind the camera. The image zoomed in on the bath, showing it three-quarters full of water and ice. Then it zoomed back and Jamie appeared in a towelling dressing gown, holding a bucket. He showed it to the camera, before adding it to the bath. The sound of ice cubes splashing into the water was surprisingly loud.

  Stella felt herself shivering in empathy as Jamie disrobed and climbed into the bath. She felt like a voyeur and couldn’t help noticing the view of Jamie as he got into the bath, wearing just snug trunks. His broad back, the muscles in his shoulders, the lines along his thighs. She knew she ought to look away, but instead she had the urge to press rewind and watch him again.

  There was a small noise as he got into the bath, an involuntary ‘oh’ that was barely audible. Then he did something Stella hadn’t been expecting: he sunk beneath the surface, submerging his entire head, even his nose disappearing beneath the icy water. Stella was light-headed and she realised she was holding her own breath. She had expected him to sit up in the bath for a moment or two, like one of those charity people sitting in a bath of baked beans. She glanced at the clock, wondering how long it was safe for him to stay like that. Which was ridiculous. The video was a recording. She knew Jamie was all right. She could hear him moving around in the room next door. Finally, he broke the surface, sitting up and wiping water from his eyes with one hand, holding on to the side of the tub with the other. He stood up and climbed out of the bath, grabbing his robe. Then he sat
on a chair and clipped something to his finger. She leaned towards the screen instinctively, trying to work out what it was for.

  ‘Pulse oximeter.’

  Stella hadn’t heard Jamie walk in and she jumped slightly.

  ‘I take it before and after every bath. And my blood so that I can test for DHEA, testosterone, and cholesterol and triglyceride levels, too.’

  ‘Have you come to any conclusions yet?’ Stella looked back at the screen, where the recorded Jamie was taking a pinprick of blood from his thumb. She hoped she wasn’t blushing.

  ‘A few. It’s too early, though. I need more time.’

  ‘Don’t you have enough for the book?’ Stella said, aware of another irate email from Nathan Schwartz.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got loads of stuff. More than enough, really. It’s just I keep thinking of something else. And then I think, What if I’m just about to find out something big? and I put off finishing again.’

  ‘You could always publish a follow-up. It doesn’t all have to go into this one.’

  Stella wasn’t sure if Jamie had heard her; he was watching the video on her screen with a small frown. ‘It’s not ready.’

  ‘The deadline is—’ she began.

  ‘I know,’ he said sharply. ‘You don’t have to remind me.’

  Stella bit back a retort, watching the rest of the video with dedicated concentration and updating the spreadsheet with the results.

  ‘Day fifteen, done,’ the more pleasant, on-screen Jamie said, and the video cut out.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jamie said. ‘I just can’t think about the deadline. I’d rather the book was late than rubbish.’

  ‘I understand,’ Stella said. ‘It’s your name on the cover.’

  ‘I don’t want to release a rehash. I want to provide something genuinely useful.’

  ‘I know,’ Stella said, looking at him now. ‘Really, I get it.’

  ‘And it’s not just a book anymore. I don’t want to just write a new book.’

  Stella nodded, although he had lost her.

  ‘I want to do real research. I want to make a difference, like James Young Simpson or Alexander Fleming. People think that’s all ancient history, but it’s not. We benefit every day from the leaps made by those people.’

  ‘I’m agreeing with you,’ Stella said. She pointed at herself. ‘Look. I’m nodding my head. I agree it’s important. It’s interesting.’

  ‘People think everything big has been discovered already, but that’s not true. One person can still make an impact. Can you imagine, knowing that your life is going to affect thousands of people down through the generations. Don’t you want to be part of something big?’

  ‘Maybe. Not medical stuff, though. I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime, thank you very much.’ Stella felt that she was grateful and that ought to be enough. She didn’t want to think about the procedures which had saved her life, or put herself in any situation that required a check-up. She knew that the heart-lung machine, which had been invented in the 1950s, was the only reason she was alive. Without it, the surgeons wouldn’t have had the time to complete the tricky procedure. That piece of information was enough; she didn’t want to think about the operation any more than that. With an effort of will, Stella resisted the urge to put her hand to her chest, to feel her heart thudding away.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Stella looked away. ‘What is this?’ She picked up a contraption which appeared to be two smooth pieces of metal held together with springs.

  ‘Grip strengthener. You’re changing the subject.’ He moved closer and took the device from her, slipping it into his palm and squeezing.

  ‘Why do you need a strong grip?’ Stella said.

  He sighed as if she were being obtuse, which she was. ‘Why won’t you talk to me?’

  ‘I understand why you think research is important, but I don’t understand why you feel compelled to experiment on yourself, especially considering . . . I mean, why not donate money to a research programme? I don’t agree with your method so it seems more polite to stop talking.’

  ‘That’s not a reason not to debate. That’s exactly the opposite. What do you mean, especially considering? Considering what?’

  ‘Well, what does your doctor think about all this?’

  Jamie grinned. ‘She thinks I’m nuts.’

  ‘Well, then,’ Stella said. He was still smiling and maybe it was that momentary transformation that made the words fly from Stella’s mouth. ‘What do you have?’ The question, one Stella and her fellow patients had asked each other all the time – the sick kid version of ‘what are you planning to study at uni?’ – suddenly sounded very bold. ‘Sorry,’ she began, but Jamie’s brows were drawn down.

  ‘What have you heard?’ His voice was low and urgent. Furious.

  ‘Nothing.’ Stella took an involuntary step back.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ He shook his head, one sharp movement like he was trying to clear it. ‘Why do you think—’

  ‘All the medical supplies. Those machines in the kitchen . . .’

  ‘I use them to monitor my blood cholesterol, triglycerides, sugar and lactate. I haven’t got anything,’ he said. ‘I’m optimising my health, not trying to cure anything specific.’

  ‘You don’t need to do any of it?’

  ‘I do if I want to make advances.’ The frown was back.

  Stella put a hand to her chest and felt her heartbeat. Her mind was reeling. He chose all of this. He chose needles and physical therapy and drugs. Why would anyone choose all of that?

  ‘You don’t agree with my methods?’

  Stella took a breath before she spoke. ‘You are very tiring.’ She forced a lightness into her tone, determined not to reveal her feelings. ‘Do you never just let something go?’

  ‘Not when I’m interested,’ Jamie said. He was watching her intently and there was a part of Stella that was flattered. It was nice to be so completely in somebody’s beam of attention. She could see why people were lining up to be interviewed for his books and research. It wasn’t just the publicity, they were flattered by the intensity of his listening skills. What they didn’t know is that he would move on as quickly as snapping his fingers. Stella had no desire to be a ten-minute diversion, a footnote in his research.

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘I will find out, Stella Jackson. I don’t give up.’

  ‘I’m not that interesting,’ Stella said. ‘I promise.’

  He tilted his head. ‘There, you are mistaken.’

  Esmé pushed the door open, her arms filled with a large brown box. She scowled at Jamie. ‘Nathan has sent a UPS delivery. Again. It upsets the dogs, you know. They hate that brown van, and I can’t work out why.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Jamie bounded over and took the box, putting it on the table and leaning in to kiss Esmé on the cheek. ‘I know he’s a pain. You’re a saint.’

  ‘None of that,’ Esmé said, her cheeks pink.

  ‘Why do you put up with him?’ Stella asked once Esmé had left the room. She assumed that Jamie would be able to get a new agent if he wanted. He was successful enough, after all.

  ‘We’ve been friends for years,’ Jamie said, opening the box with a penknife. He began pulling out packages of coffee and a bottle of amber-coloured liquid.

  ‘Whisky?’

  ‘Cinnamon liqueur,’ Jamie said. ‘Made in Palo Alto. It’s really good with tequila.’

  ‘We have coffee and booze here, or does he not know that?’

  ‘He’s trying to remind me of San Francisco, of what he thinks I’m missing. He thinks if I go back, I’ll stop getting distracted and turn the book in.’ Jamie glanced at Stella. ‘He’s a good guy.’

  Stella opened her mouth to say something rude, then shut it again.

  ‘I know,’ Jamie said. ‘He hides it well. But he’s loyal and that’s not something you just throw away.’

  Stella thought about Ben. She’d been loyal to him but that hadn’t been enough.


  CHAPTER SIX

  1st November, 1847

  My dearest Mary,

  I do not care for it here and wish to come home. There are evil spirits in this house and no amount of fine food or cheerful faces can erase that fact or make me forget it.

  Two nights ago, a knocking awoke me in the small hours. It was the door to the rear of the house, the one which leads to the scullery and backstairs, and a mob of low men made a tremendous noise, wrestling a heavy burden which they dropped on more than one occasion. They were all the worse for some drink, I believe, and did not have the wit to keep themselves quiet. I was very frightened and believed we were being invaded by some picky-fingered nicht walkers. By the time I kent they were delivering a package, I was frozen with fear to my spot at the turn in the stair, and there I stayed, praying that I would make it through the ordeal unmolested.

  Mary, I cannot speak of what they brought into the house. It is most ungodly and the souls of us all are in peril.

  Please send the money for my passage home. I cannot stay here. I must not stay here.

  Your loving sister,

  Jessie

  By Friday night, Stella was ready for some company. She arranged to meet Caitlin and Rob at the pub in the village, but when she got there the whole group was there, enthusiastically drinking. Rob seemed to have started early, though.

  ‘Celebrating the weekend,’ Caitlin said apologetically.

  Rob was tipping the remains of a bag of crisps into his mouth, but most of it ended up down the front of his T-shirt. ‘More cheesy ones,’ he said, stabbing a finger at Doug.

  ‘They’re all out,’ Doug said. ‘I already told you.’

  ‘That’s because you bastards ate the lot.’ Rob spoke into his shirt, dabbing at the crumbs with a finger shining with spit.

  Caitlin nudged Rob. ‘You need to get home before one of the parents sees you.’

  ‘How’s the lord of the manor?’ Rob fixed his red eyes upon Stella.

  ‘Great,’ Stella said. She tried to move Rob’s pint away from him, but he held on to it with a fierce grip.