by A. E. Radley
“No.”
Emilia couldn’t imagine not having pets. She didn’t have any at the moment, except the local feral cat who sometimes walked through her garden, but growing up, there had been lots of pets. She had an entire photo album dedicated to them.
They continued walking and Emilia struggled to think of any other topics. Amber walked beside her silently. Her eyes were cast down, seemingly watching the snow flick from the tips of her boots with every step she took. Her hands were buried deep in her pockets, and Emilia could hardly see her face, her scarf so high and her hat so low.
There must be something else to talk about, she thought. It was becoming obvious that the easy-going conversation flow of the day before had mainly been down to Amber. Emilia knew it was up to her to pick up the slack, and, as she only really knew one solid thing about Amber, she would have to try to talk about work.
“So, how long have you been working in publishing?”
“About eleven years. Three at Walker Clay.”
“And you enjoy it?”
There was a period of silence before Amber replied. “Yes, it’s a great company to work for.”
Emilia wasn’t sure, but she thought there was more to the subject than Amber was admitting. But she had no idea how to go about asking.
“Are Walker and Clay names of people?”
“Yes, Bronwyn Walker and Jonathan Clay.”
“They own the company?”
“They did. Jonathan died a little while ago. Bronwyn has taken over but kept the name as it was.”
Emilia couldn’t think of a single other question about Amber’s employment. She knew that there must have been hundreds of potential questions, but she couldn’t think of even one of them. She supposed it was simply because she had nothing to draw on. She’d never worked, never stepped foot in an office.
She decided to enjoy the silence for a while and listen to the sound of the wind through the trees and the crunch of powder beneath her feet.
Amber seemed to be happy with the silence. Emilia wondered if Amber was more like her than she had at first thought. She loved peace and quiet. As much as she enjoyed Hugo’s visits, she really enjoyed the moments after he had gone home when she was left with the familiar background noise of her own home.
It was at odds with what Amber had told her about herself. She’d referred to herself as a social butterfly, often spending more time out and socialising with friends than she spent at home, so the silence was confusing. Emilia couldn’t understand it.
“I was thinking of making a roast chicken dinner tonight,” she said after a long period of silence.
“That’s very kind of you.”
“You like chicken?” Emilia clarified.
“I do.”
“Good, it’s Hugo’s favourite. Did I tell you about Hugo?”
“You mentioned him last night. Your friend from school, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Emilia was pleased that Amber had remembered. “He’s the only person from my school who stayed in town. Well, other than me, of course. Then, there were only eighteen of us. Everyone else wanted to live in bigger cities. I don’t know why. We have everything you could need here.”
Amber hummed an agreement.
Emilia had now completely run out of conversational points. She really didn’t know what people talked about all day. Amber seemed to be enjoying the silence, so she decided to remain quiet for the rest of the walk. They could take in the scenery together, enjoy it in companionable silence.
It really was a lovely day.
16
The Bloody Awful Lake
It was a terrible, horrible day. Amber had never felt cold like it. It was the kind of cold that quickly seeped through all clothing, past skin and flesh, and buried itself deep within bones.
She’d never really understood the meaning of cold until now. The bizarre part was, it wasn’t even that cold out. She’d checked the temperature before she left, and the weather station in Emilia’s kitchen said the same thing—average temperatures for that time of year, like a cool London day.
But she hadn’t factored in two things: wind chill and the fact that Swedish cold was a different kind of cold. She’d always thought people who said that were crazy. A temperature was a temperature, it shouldn’t matter where you were.
She now knew that wasn’t the case.
Geography mattered.
Like when her friend Rebecca had gone to New York completely ill-prepared. She’d seen the weather report and thought she had packed appropriately. Apparently, it was a different humidity level in New York to what it was in London, and she’d promptly gone shopping and bought several more layers.
Amber had never really understood that story. Until today.
Now she knew about different types of cold. Walking around that barren, icy lake had been one of the worst experiences of her life.
She didn’t say anything because Emilia clearly adored the lake, and walking. Since Emilia was having a good time, Amber knew she had to put up with things and pretend she was, too.
The entire way around the lake she had been reminding herself of the contract. She needed to keep Emilia happy to get the contract signed. She could cope with some frostbite as long as it meant that Emilia felt they were two peas in a pod and could work together.
She’d also been promising herself a hot shower the moment they returned. But now that she stood under the hot water, she was disappointed to find that it wasn’t helping as much as she’d hoped. Several hours out in the cold had plunged her body temperature down so far that she wondered if she would ever feel warm again.
She imagined that she must have looked truly pathetic, sitting on the floor of the shower with her knees to her chest, hot water falling down her face.
She shivered, partly from the chill and partly from the memory of Emilia’s constant need to identify every plant or bird call. And her subsequent need to look interested when she was really wondering if she could die from being bitterly cold.
She leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. Emilia had occasionally drifted into more personal topics, once asking if she were seeing any ‘boys’. She hadn’t been asked that since she was a child and a friend of her parents or older relatives had grilled her. Why adults thought it was appropriate to ask young adults and children that question was completely beyond Amber. It turned them into pseudo-sexual beings at a young age and often made them feel as if they needed to be seeing boys to be somehow complete to an adult’s eyes.
It didn’t help that Amber had known she was bisexual, though more interested in girls than boys, since she first heard the word at six years old. She’d kept an open mind as she’d grown up, but the desire for all genders had always remained. She’d dated her first girl when she was only fourteen, her first boy when she was sixteen. Since then, she’d favoured women but had been in relationships with both.
She’d been open about her sexuality all her life. Living in London meant that she knew she was surrounded by people like her. She read Honey Magazine cover to cover every month and frequently saw first-hand how large and vibrant her community was.
Yet she’d frozen when Emilia had asked. It was a usual, though childishly phrased, question. Rather than correcting Emilia and explaining that she was bisexual, she had simply shaken her head and remained quiet.
Guilt weighed her down. She had promised herself to never live in the closet. It was sheer dumb luck that she lived in a time and a country where being gay was accepted by the majority. She felt she owed it to those who didn’t have that privilege to live an out lifestyle.
And she’d always done so. Until today.
She really didn’t know how sweet, naïve Emilia would respond to having a bisexual woman staying in her home. Would she even know what bisexuality was? Amber had met a few people who thought you were either gay or straight. She wouldn’t be surprised if Emilia’s understanding was as simplistic.
She felt awful. She had
n’t lied, but she had deliberately withheld information which pretty much was the same thing. Trying to tell herself that it was a business arrangement and it wasn’t relevant didn’t help. Passing for straight in order to get a contract was about as low as Amber thought she could go.
Now, on top of the stress of trying to keep her job, and the pressure of trying to make Emilia like her, she knew she had to tell the truth. It would eat at her if she didn’t admit her sexuality to Emilia.
She couldn’t live a lie.
She knew she was blowing things out of proportion. It had just been an innocent question, but it was an important one for Amber. One that she had been asked time and time again over the course of her life.
It was a question that she always dreaded. It meant that she was always in a state of coming out, usually to complete strangers or business acquaintances, having to admit her sexual preferences to people she hardly knew. But she did it. Time and time again, she did it, because she felt it was important to do so and to be honest.
She knew that she, unlike so many others, could do it. Simply because she was born in the UK rather than one of the many countries around the world where she could be imprisoned or even killed for admitting such a thing.
Not that she ran up to anyone on the street and announced she was bisexual. No, she wasn’t in the habit of shouting it from the rooftops, but it was surprising how often the topic came up in everyday conversation.
Now the topic had come up, and she’d lied by omission. She needed to correct that matter. Her moral compass simply wouldn’t allow her to ignore it.
Suddenly, the warm water ran cold. Amber screeched and crawled out of the shower. She sat on the bathroom floor, looking up at the traitorous showerhead.
“Damn you,” she muttered. “And damn Sweden, snow, cold weather, and Bronwyn Walker.” She stood up, grabbed the towel from the back of the door, and swung it around her body.
She realised that she’d not damned Emilia, who was at the centre of all of her current issues. Somehow that felt wrong. Her anger was still laser-focused on Bronwyn. Bronwyn was cruel and calculating. Emilia was just bumbling around in her own little world, none the wiser to anything that went on around her.
Amber looked at her phone. It was essentially just a clock now. No connectivity meant half her apps refused to work, and she always streamed entertainment so not a single song or television program was saved to the device.
It was half an hour until Emilia had said dinner would be ready. She needed to hustle if she was going to get over there and try to help out. She looked out of the window, seeing snow starting to fall again. Getting from the guesthouse to the main house only took a few seconds, but it was longer than she currently wanted to be in the cold air.
“Bloody winter,” she mumbled.
17
Introducing… a Swedish Mile
Amber was immediately led away from the kitchen and towards the dining area. Apparently, her terrible cooking skills had rendered her banned from cooking and relegated to laying the cutlery at the table instead.
She thought she’d done a good job, but Emilia’s knowing smirk as she brought a dish to the table said otherwise.
Emilia didn’t say anything, she was too polite. Instead she offered Amber a choice of fruit juices—apparently wine was only something for Christmas Day.
She chose cloudberry juice because she’d never heard of it before and thought for sure it was made up. Possibly even a cocktail. Alcohol would be a dream come true. She still felt cold to the bone, despite the several layers she had piled on in the hope they would help her warm up.
A nice drop of something alcoholic would warm her up, improve her mood, and take the edge off all the stress she was feeling.
Emilia placed a glass of juice on the table. It looked like watered-down orange juice. Amber took a sip.
Definitely no alcohol, she told herself.
“Thank you,” she said. Manners first, even if she was feeling terrible.
She looked longingly at the warm oven to one side of the room, and then to the logs burning in the fireplace on the other side of the room. She seemed to be in the middle of two heat sources which she would have given her right arm to be nearer.
She watched Emilia cooking. The woman looked so happy as she bustled around the kitchen, preparing the food. She’d obviously had a great day and was continuing to have fun. She was also clearly oblivious to Amber’s terrible mood.
But she couldn’t begrudge her having a nice day. Even if that nice day was the sole reason for Amber’s bad one.
Despite Amber’s offers of assistance, Emilia served the dinner alone, insisting that she was a guest. Amber wasn’t comfortable being waited on, so she decided that she’d have to try to turn the tables in the following days. For now, she was content to eat the delicious-looking meal that Emilia had prepared.
It was obvious that Emilia was an expert chef, presumably because she cooked for herself every single day. That very fact continued to blow Amber’s mind. Emilia took cooking in her stride. It was something she had to do every day if she wanted to eat. And she’d clearly become accomplished at it.
Amber knew without a shadow of doubt that if she were forced to cook her own meals every day, those meals would consist of unwrapping something premade. Breakfast would be a cereal bar, lunch would be a bag of crisps and a premade sandwich, and dinner would of course be something that required stabbing and putting in the microwave for four minutes.
But, luckily, she would never have to cook all her own meals. She lived in a city where eating out, getting food delivered, or picking up food and taking it home were a way of life. Often it was cheaper to eat cheap takeout than it was to cook the meal.
She thanked Emilia for her time in the kitchen and for the food and took a bite of the vegetable and lamb stew. It was sensational. She had to admit that there was something special about home-cooked food. Cooked by someone who knew how, of course. If she’d cooked it, it would have quickly found its way to the bin.
“The weather forecast has changed,” Emilia said. “Apparently we will be getting some more snow. You’ll be able to see how beautiful the landscape is in winter.”
Amber’s eyes flicked up to the window. It was flat, dark, and tree-lined. When the snow fell it would be exactly the same, just colder and more white.
“Absolutely,” she lied. She had no interest in seeing anymore of the landscape. She’d seen enough during her icy march that afternoon.
They continued to eat, Amber remaining silent while Emilia regaled her with stories of all the fun times she’d had down by the lake. Swimming in the summer, boating in the spring, skating in the winter. And endless tales of walks.
“It is a very big lake,” Amber commented.
“Oh yes, at least…” Emilia looked up at the ceiling as she thought about it. “Three Swedish miles.”
Amber paused. “Swedish miles?”
“Yes,” Emilia replied.
“Is… is that different to a British mile?”
“Absolut! I think a Swedish mile is around six of your miles,” Emilia explained.
Amber felt sick.
When she had asked Emilia how long the walk home would be at one point, she had said it was about one mile. Amber knew she walked a couple of miles a day in London and had wondered how that single mile had felt so damned long.
Now she knew. She’d not walked three miles. She’d walked sixteen. In freezing temperatures. No wonder she felt so unwell.
“It is a good workout,” Emilia said.
“It certainly is that,” Amber agreed, annoyed that she didn’t even know there was such a thing as a Swedish mile.
“And so very beautiful. My favourite place to be,” Emilia enthused.
“So you mentioned,” Amber said. Several times, she thought.
It was nice that Emilia adored the geographical feature so much, but Amber couldn’t help but feel sad for her. It was as if her life completely revolved around
being inside the house or visiting to the lake in order to reminisce about the previous times she’d been. Usually times with her family.
In fact, her stories all seemed to include family members who were no longer around. Swimming with her father, walks with her grandmother. None of Emilia’s stories were about the lonely walks she took so frequently took now.
If Amber wasn’t in the business of trying to make friends with Emilia, she might have pointed that out. She may have even gone as far as to suggest that Emilia was trying to recreate memories that were long gone rather than attempting to build new ones.
But that wasn’t why she was here. She was here to demonstrate that she was the right person for Emilia to entrust with her grandmother’s stories, not to try to psychoanalyse her lifestyle.
They finished their meal in silence until Amber asked, “So, what do we have planned for tomorrow?”
“Oh, I thought we might take a stroll through the winter markets. It will be a bit cold now more snow is forecast, but we can just bundle up with another layer or two.”
Amber felt a flash of fear. Not that she could admit that to Emilia. If Emilia wanted to show her the winter market, then she’d go and she’d smile the entire way around. Even if her smile was a partial grimace.
She was just about to say how perfect that sounded when Emilia looked at her oddly.
“Or not?” Emilia asked with a worried brow.
Busted. Amber realised she hadn’t covered up her expression quickly enough.
“I… I got pretty cold when we were out today,” she confessed.
“Oh my!” Emilia’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to spoil the walk. I just can’t get warm. I can’t really imagine spending the day out in the cold again tomorrow,” Amber admitted.
“You’re still cold?” Emilia asked, surprise evident.
Amber nodded.
Emilia reached across the table and placed the back of her fingers on Amber’s cheek.