by Karen Swan
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re smirking,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘Yes, well, I just didn’t have you down as a shower singer, that’s all.’
He paused, straightening up momentarily, but an abashed amusement had enlivened his eyes. ‘Oh, I see. You heard that?’
‘Oh yes,’ she grinned, picking up her coffee and sipping from it. ‘I heard that.’
‘Do you sing?’ He had pulled out a pair of jeans and was rifling through his T-shirts.
Her throat went dry. He wasn’t going to change in here too, was he? ‘Almost never.’
‘Well, perhaps you should try it.’
‘You haven’t heard my singing voice. It’s generally considered a mercy if I don’t.’
He gave a small snort of amusement, shutting the drawers and walking over to the wardrobe. She watched, aware of the strange intimacy into which they had been thrown – her lying in his bed, watching as he gathered his clothes from his own bedroom.
‘Hey, I want to ask you something,’ she said, as much to keep him distracted from the situation as anything.
‘Okay,’ he said, reaching up and bringing down a sweater from the shelf.
‘What’s my name?’
He turned to her, one eyebrow hitched quizzically. ‘You don’t know your name?’
‘No, I know it,’ she said archly. ‘But do you?’
‘Of course.’
‘So what is it, then?’
‘Bo.’
‘Huh,’ she mumbled, regarding him critically.
‘Why are you asking me that?’
‘Because in your calendar in the kitchen you’ve written that we’re Instagram, which is pretty rude,’ she said pointedly. ‘And yesterday, you called me Goldilocks.’
‘Yes – because you had been sitting in my chair, then you ate my soup and then I found you sleeping in my bed.’ He shrugged. ‘Like the nursery story. And you are already named after one, right? Little Bo Peep. Goldilocks.’
‘Oh! . . . Well, I guess that’s pretty clever.’
He shrugged, turning back to close the wardrobe door. ‘Perhaps.’
‘So if I’m Goldilocks, what does that make you, then? The big scary bear?’
A trace of a smile twitched the corners of his mouth as he left the room. ‘I suppose it does.’
Bo laughed, holding the cup close to her face, just as footsteps suddenly sounded on the stairs. They both looked up in surprise as first Zac, and then Lenny, appeared in the doorway.
‘—Hey!’ Zac looked pulled up short by the sight of them both: her eating breakfast in bed, Anders robed.
Anders looked equally taken aback, frowning at the intrusion. ‘What the hell?’
‘W-we been down there calling you,’ Lenny said in panic as his eyes swivelled between the two of them.
Anders frowned harder. ‘I didn’t hear you.’
‘You’re late,’ Zac said to him coolly, in a voice that set Bo on edge – even though he wasn’t looking at her. ‘We agreed a ten o’clock start. It’s now half past.’
‘Sorry, I overslept.’
‘Yeah?’ Zac queried, his tone light but Bo sensed a vein of steel running through it. ‘And why was that then?’ They both knew it wasn’t the over-running of time that was bothering him.
Anders glanced back at Bo – as though asking her how much he should divulge – and she immediately wished he hadn’t. It looked loaded, complicit, as though they were guilty of something.
‘I had a bad night. Nightmares. From the fever,’ she said quickly, willing Zac to look at her instead. ‘Anders very kindly got me some water and medicine, so he had a pretty broken night too. It’s my fault he overslept.’
There was another pause as her explanation was taken and weighed up, as though it was barely plausible. ‘And how are you feeling today?’ Zac asked, finally looking across at her.
‘Better. A lot better.’ She smiled as brightly as she could manage, trying to appease him.
‘Well, it’s about time. You’ve spent most of the past two days asleep,’ Lenny muttered.
‘Yes, sorry about that, Len. I realize it’s an inconvenience to you,’ she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
‘Are you well enough to come back?’ Zac asked.
‘Oh . . .’ she faltered. She wasn’t ready to give up electricity and hot running water just yet. ‘No. Not quite. I’m sorry.’
‘The doctor’s started her on a course of antibiotics,’ Anders said. ‘She needs to rest and stay warm until at least day four.’ He walked across the room, his clothes in his arms.
‘Well, if I didn’t know better, dude, I’d say you were quite enjoying having my fiancée as a house guest,’ Zac said with a smile, but Bo saw the jealousy flaming in his eyes.
Anders stopped in front of him and looked down at Zac, knowing exactly what he was insinuating. ‘No. But it’s the right thing to do.’ And he walked out, slamming the door of the other bedroom behind him a moment later.
Bo felt slapped by the words.
Zac watched him go before turning back to her with a shrug. ‘Manners of a pig,’ he muttered, coming over to her.
‘Zac!’ she hissed.
‘What? You can’t say that wasn’t rude.’
‘You were rude first! Casting . . . aspersions about like that!’
‘Aspersions? What else am I supposed to think when I walk in and find my fiancée laughing in bed and some random dude walking around the bedroom getting dressed!’
‘First off, I’m sick. Never been less sexy, if that’s what you’re getting at. Secondly, he’s not random, he’s your guide. Thirdly, he was only getting his clothes because this is his bedroom but I fell asleep in the wrong bed yesterday and got my germs everywhere so he’s let me sleep in here instead. And finally, he’s got a girlfriend! He’s not remotely interested in stealing yours if that’s what you’re thinking.’
Zac frowned. ‘. . . Has he?’
‘Look!’ she hissed, yanking open the drawer and showing him the photograph.
‘Huh. Good-looking girl,’ Zac murmured, handing it back a moment later.
‘You owe him an apology,’ she said in a low voice, closing the drawer again.
‘Oh, Bo, c’mon—’
‘I mean it, Zac. He’s been nothing but kind – that is all.’
Zac sighed, but his jaw was jutting forward, as it always did when he was riled.
‘Zac? Promise me?’
He sighed again. ‘. . . Fine, I promise.’ He shot her a guilty look. ‘Look, I’m sorry, okay? But it’s just . . .’ He raked his fingers through his fast-growing hair. ‘Well, what am I supposed to think?’
‘Uh – trust me perhaps?’
‘I know that in principle, but it’s not easy being away from you like this, that’s all. It’s not how I thought it’d be out here.’
She softened. ‘I know. Me either. But it won’t be for long.’
‘Really?’
‘I feel so much better today. I’m definitely on the mend. A couple more days and we’ll be back to normal again, you’ll see.’
‘When you say a couple, do you actually mean . . . tomorrow?’
She chuckled. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. No promises.’
Zac smiled, his eyes soft and puppy-dog again. He took her hand and kissed the back of it. ‘And then just you wait till I get you back again . . .’ He leant in and nuzzled her neck, his breath hot on her skin.
But Bo tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Uh, Zac . . .’ she said, pointing towards Lenny, who was still standing in the doorway, watching on with a scowl on his face.
‘Oh, come on, man!’ Zac cried, getting up from the bed. ‘Seriously? Is nothing sacred?’
‘What? I’m waiting for you.’ Lenny shrugged, turning and disappearing down the hall. ‘You knew I was there.’
Zac followed after him, pushing him on the shoulders like a boisterous big brother. ‘What? You’re asking me what?’
Bo listened to th
em go, tramping down the stairs in their hiking boots, Anna’s melodious voice making a trio as they joined her in the kitchen.
A minute later the door of the spare room opened and Anders came out too, the rustle of his clothes seeming extra loud as he passed by her door and down the narrow corridor in purposeful strides. But he didn’t pop his head in to say goodbye or remind her to take her pills or offer to take the tray down.
She was an unwanted guest here, after all, and he was only doing what was right.
The day passed slowly. The unremitting exhaustion of fighting an infection had passed now that drugs were on the case, and she couldn’t while away the hours in a heavy slumber in the same way. She spent much of the morning on the sofa lying under the blankets, watching 1970s American TV and only getting up to prod the fire, but after a few hours and only one short nap, she was restless to move about. Annika had popped in again and checked her over, seeming pleased by her overnight improvement from cusp-pneumonia to ‘just’ a heavy cold, but she was busy and hadn’t stayed for more than ten minutes, leaving Bo alone again in the quiet house, in the hibernating village.
She sat at the kitchen table, stirring her soup and wondering what the others were doing. She had forgotten even to ask where they were going today, their time together so contracted as they endlessly raced against the encroaching darkness. Annika had told her the sun didn’t rise above the mountaintops at all here between December and February and Bo felt the same low light reflected in herself, like she couldn’t get up to full power.
With a sigh, she picked up her phone that had been left out on the coffee table, as she realized it had been three days since she had used it last. A new record! What had she missed, she wondered, as she scrolled through her feed again, whizzing past images of fruit smoothies and sheepskin boots, ski slopes and dogs being funny. But it wasn’t them she wanted to see. She was looking for Zac’s face – where were they all today? What were they doing without her? She hoped Lenny might have posted something, that there would be just enough signal to carry their day in the mountains down to her here in the valley.
Growing impatient, her feed was too long, she clicked on the search button and found Zac’s account. It was odd to be on the outside of her own life looking in, she thought, as his grid came up, full of action shots and sticking closely to its agenda – black granite, neon ropes, virgin snow and inky water: Zac kayaking, Zac climbing, Zac leaping across a stream, Zac eating lunch on a rocky outcrop, Zac hiking. But there was one of him and Anna that caught her eye. They were standing back to back on a boulder, the fjord just a backdrop behind them. Zac was bent forwards, Anna on his back, her legs kicking up like a beetle. She was laughing, looking to camera, the red of her jacket and the white of his teeth visually gripping. ‘Living free. #livefree #livebrave #ridgeriders #wanderlusters #norway #outdoors #ad.’
Bo felt a stab of jealousy at the sight of it. She knew that it was just a photo opportunity taken in her own absence, part of their contractual obligations to post at least one image per day; but something about the energy of the two of them chimed. The image worked. And it was getting good engagement.
She scrolled through the comments, seeing the usual litany of heart-eyes and lightning bolts, pink hearts and muscle arms. But interspersing them, she saw, were queries too: ‘Where’s Bo?’; ‘Who’s she in the red?’; ‘Did you guys break up?’; ‘OMG are they a couple now?’; ‘Marry me, Zac!’; ‘Who dat?’; ‘Everything ok with Bo?’; ‘U guys still together right?’; ‘Bo + Zac 4ever’. Ridiculously, she felt flattered that some of the followers had noticed she wasn’t in the picture at the moment, that Anna – photogenic though she might be – was no substitute for her.
Wanting more details, or another angle, she tabbed onto his Stories – it began with footage of his feet as they clomped through muddy snow, his laugh slightly too loud against the mic as he fooled around with Lenny, instigating a snowball fight which Anna then joined in too, scoring a perfect bullseye at his phone. Occasionally Anders was in shot too but he was usually hanging back and waiting to get on, turning away any time he thought he was in shot, that familiar expression of bafflement and disdain on his face seeming even more pronounced today.
Bo felt her tension with Anna transfer to him instead. It had been hovering at the edges of her consciousness all day, like a flicker in the light. Had Zac apologized to him this morning, she wondered? And did Anders even deserve it, after what he’d said about her?
She had insisted Zac do the apologizing, but only because she had needed to deflect from the stinging hurt that she had felt after his comment; it had been harsh, even by his standards. Yes, he was peremptory and almost contemptuous of their group, she knew that; he didn’t buy in to their lifestyle or pretend to understand or rate their careers. Yet one-on-one he was different . . . easy company. And after his genuine concern last night, she had thought they were even becoming friends; she had never opened up to anyone about Him before and she’d begun to think that perhaps the upside of a terse temperament was being a good listener. But his comments that he didn’t want her around, that he was only doing the right thing, had cut her. More than that, it bothered her that it upset her.
Well, he wouldn’t have to put up with her for much longer, she resolved, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead again. Her temperature was down, almost normal again and she was no longer shivering constantly; the cough was already less than it had been and, apart from a light aching of her limbs and some sinus congestion, she was almost okay. She was just about walking without a limp now that the bruise was going and if she kept up with the round-the-clock meds, there was no reason why she couldn’t leave here with the others when they came by tonight. She was in a much better state to finish off her recuperation at the cabin and she wouldn’t stay somewhere she so clearly wasn’t wanted.
She clicked onto Lenny’s profile and blankly watched his Stories too, beginning to get bored now – it was the same material but from different angles: footage on the rib; the snowball fight; Anna laughing shyly at lunch as he trained the camera on her, playfully boasting he’d make her the ‘next Bo’.
That annoyed her. As though he was the king-maker.
It was the same on Anna’s account too. Bo had noted the number of followers Anna had when she began to ‘follow’ her after their first meeting which was just good manners; it had been in the six hundreds but now she saw she was above five thousand, three days in, and Bo knew that was the Wanderlusters effect; that was just how it worked. People were beginning to notice Anna and to talk about her. Bo wasn’t there but Anna was? Instagram relationships very often finished with a golden bullet, stopped dead in their tracks with neither any warning nor explanation to their followers, and those poor people who thought they knew them so well just because they saw what shoes they were wearing that day or what they were eating for lunch, in reality didn’t have the first clue about what really went on in their idols’ lives. And they never would.
Bo bit her lip. If people were beginning to talk and wonder about Anna, shouldn’t she reach out and post something? The last thing she – or Zac – wanted was conjecture and gossip. With 9.5 million people watching on – according to Lenny’s latest update – a whisper very rapidly became a shout.
She looked down at her untouched chicken soup, twirls of steam still rising from the bowl and instinctively began decluttering the table, pushing the local newspaper out of the frame and the small pile of envelopes that had fallen through the letterbox that morning. She decided to shoot it as a short video, capturing the steam trail as it floated up. Just four seconds’ worth, then she overwrote ‘On the mend’ in flesh-coloured type. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
She uploaded it to both her grid and Stories and before she had even swallowed a spoonful of soup, the likes started coming. The notifications were set to silent for this very reason, as they began pinging onto her home screen in a fast-rolling scroll.
She clicked on a few as she ate, fee
ling better with every sip: ‘Oh no, what’s wrong?’; ‘You ok?’; ‘What happened?’; ‘Where’s Zac?’; ‘Bone broth! The best!’; ‘Love you, Bo!’; ‘Be better!’; ‘You got this!’; ‘Get well soon sista’; ‘Where is this?’ . . . She wasn’t sure her own mother could have shown more concern; in fact, she was pretty sure her mother would have been more concerned by all this emoting from complete strangers; she found the social media world bewildering and distasteful. ‘But these people don’t know you, Bo! Why on earth do they care about your holiday photographs? I can barely bring myself to look at your aunt’s snaps and she’s my own sister!’ her mother had said that day in her kitchen, when Bo had announced she wanted to ‘make a go’ of the Interweb-thing (as her parents called it) and travel the world.
She hadn’t been back since. It had been almost four years since she’d gone home but sitting there, in someone else’s kitchen, unwell and medicating with home-made chicken broth, she felt a sudden, violent yearning for the real thing. She wanted to see her parents’ faces again. The last time they’d been in the same room together had been in May when she and Zac had met up with them for a week in Thailand, en route to Samoa. (Bo didn’t think she’d ever forget Zac’s face when her dad had suggested the two of them went to play mini-golf together.)
But even that wasn’t the same. It wasn’t home. It wasn’t grey skies and sheets on washing lines, the cat sitting on the garden wall, and towels drying on the Aga. It wasn’t wellies by the door and post on the mat, apple turnovers as a weekend treat and roast lamb on Sundays. It wasn’t somewhere like this. She had knowingly, willingly and urgently swapped routine for novelty, the familiar for the new and that had been her choice, her only way to cope. But right now—
No.
No. Pushing the thoughts away, knowing she was feeling weak and self-pitying, she took the bowl to the sink and washed up; she even dried up too, such was her desire to do something other than go back to that sofa. But even wiping down the surfaces, sweeping the floor and descaling the taps couldn’t delay the inevitable and she found herself back there within ten minutes, staring at the wall again. She was bored. Bored. Bored. Sitting around wasn’t good for her. Dark thoughts began to crowd her and she became morose, so the discovery not only that the fire was almost out, but that the log basket was empty too, pleased her more than perhaps it should have done. She slid on the far too large pair of muck boots that had been left by the door – this was fast becoming a habit – and, pulling on one of Anders’ rubber jackets, wandered out in clompy footsteps in search of the log store, her fingers clutching it closer to her as the biting temperatures immediately snapped . . .
