‘What are you trying to say? Just spit it out.’
‘I had some one-night stands,’ he says. ‘And, you know, more often than not, I paid for it.’
‘You paid for sex?’
‘Aye.’
‘You mean with sex workers?’
‘Right.’
‘Oh.’
‘So this friend you slept with before Christmas …’ she says.
‘What about her?’
‘Is she a sex worker?’
Man, all the questions. Does he really want to do this? He can’t very well just stop the conversation dead, now he’s started. Besides, better to get it out of the way. If she wants nothing more to do with him, at least he’s been here, with her. In his bed. Done all this.
‘Not any more. She was. Years ago.’
‘That’s how you met her?’
‘Aye.’
‘What’s her name?’
He takes a deep breath in.
‘I don’t see why you need—’
‘Because she’s a person, Fraser. I don’t want to be thinking of her as a random former sex worker.’
He doesn’t want Rachel to be thinking of her at all, really, but he doesn’t feel up to arguing the point.
‘Kelly. Her name’s Kelly.’
He looks at her. Her expression is unreadable.
‘I should have told you before, maybe. But it’s not something that you can just say.’
‘It’s really none of my business,’ she says.
‘No, it’s not.’
‘It possibly would be my business, if we were going to have a relationship. But since we’re not – I don’t know why you told me.’
‘I don’t know either,’ he says, hesitant.
‘It’s called oversharing.’
‘It’s called being honest.’
Her mouth twitches. He can actually feel himself blushing.
‘I’ll understand if you – you know… If you want to end it there.’
She rolls over on to her back with a sigh. ‘I can’t think about it. My brain is fried.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘Is it all right if I sleep for a bit?’
‘All right?’
‘I mean, do you want me to go?’
He looks at her shoulder, a little bit horrified. ‘No. I don’t want you to go.’
‘I can sleep here? With you?’
‘Why are you even asking?’
‘Because we’re not in a relationship. Sleeping with someone, it’s an intimate thing.’
Her voice is slow, drowsy, as though she’s already drifting. He turns on his side towards her, wraps his arm around her waist, pulls her back against him. ‘It’s a practical thing. Warm. And you’re too tired to get up now, anyway, aren’t you.’
She doesn’t answer. He thinks she might already be asleep.
Rachel
In Fraser’s bedroom there is a framed photo of a young woman on the top of his chest of drawers.
Rachel is lying in bed, in warm sunshine, and, although she knows she needs to get up and go and sort out the bird observatory, she’s comfortable and happy and doesn’t really want to move. Fraser is long gone, out somewhere with Lefty. She remembers hearing him get up but he didn’t wake her, and she likes that he seems happy for her to stay here.
She gets up and takes a closer look at the picture. It’s a close-up, head and shoulders, of a young woman – maybe a teenager. Eyes squinting against the sunlight, tip of her tongue poking out, head tilted to one side, the expression deliberately cheeky, challenging. Long hair tied in one of those ridiculous buns perched right on the top of her head, two strands of hair loose on either side of her face.
Maggie, she guesses.
She wonders how long it was after the photo was taken that she died. It doesn’t seem a particularly flattering photo to have on display, but perhaps Maggie wasn’t the sort to pose for photographs. Maybe this is just the best picture there is, or maybe it’s the only one. Or maybe it’s the last one.
And then her eyes alight on something else, stuck incongruously on the side of the wardrobe. It’s a child’s picture, roughly crayonned on to a piece of A4. Three stick figures and a small black scribble with four legs. One of the stick figures is very much taller than the other two. With a black squiggle beard and two dots for eyes.
There is no sign of the knife on the bedside table, which is some relief. There is a pile of books – a Dickens; two she recognises as part of last year’s Booker shortlist; Sam Warburton’s autobiography. The room is painted dark blue, which makes it feel like a cave on the occasions she has looked in from the doorway; but in here, sitting on the edge of the rumpled bed, with the sunshine on the sheets, it’s as if the room has been transported to somewhere far warmer and brighter than the Isle of Must; it feels different. Cosy. Sensual. Dramatic.
Strange how this feels comforting and familiar, given that really she doesn’t know Fraser at all. Who is responsible for the child’s drawing? Did Maggie have a child? Is Fraser an uncle to someone, or is he a father himself? She likes to think he would have told her, but everything he has shared with her has come out reluctantly.
He doesn’t do relationships, and yet he has been seeing someone for years. Even if he only sees this Kelly infrequently, even if he thinks of her as a friend, or a friend with benefits, what he has with her is what Rachel would describe as a relationship. She wonders how Kelly would describe it. And what is it about Kelly that has turned her from a one-off visit for the purposes of sex, to someone he has seen regularly for years? Why is he friends with her, and not any of the others?
Later, Fraser comes to the bird observatory. She has emptied the dishwasher and given the rug a vacuum. Now she is about to start cooking.
He blasts in and fills the space the way he usually does, but there is something in the way he’s not looking at her.
‘You seen that email?’ he says at last.
She pulls the phone from her back pocket and checks – there is one from Marion, titled ‘Visit Monday’.
‘Shit – she’s actually coming over?’
‘Looks like it.’
Rachel’s heart sinks. She had been so looking forward to this week, her first with no birdwatchers booked in. Now she will have to spend the whole weekend after Brian and Carol and Jane leave cleaning, scraping the bird shit off the low wall outside, making things look the way Marion would approve of. She wonders whether Fraser will have time to clear the guttering, which overflows when it rains. And then she sees his face.
‘What are we going to do about Lefty?’
He doesn’t answer immediately, just takes a deep breath in. Then he says, ‘Maybe the weather will turn.’
‘Is it supposed to be good for Monday?’
‘Bright and sunny.’
‘Could he go back on the boat with Robert on Friday?’
‘Back? Back where?’
‘Um, the mainland? Back to wherever he came from? Isn’t that what you want him to do?’
He’s silent for so long that she goes to the kitchen and puts the kettle on, thinking that even the crappy instant coffee might help. She half-expects him to leave again but he’s still standing there in the doorway, lost in thought. She comes up and touches his arm and he actually starts.
‘Take your boots off,’ she says. ‘Sit down and have a coffee. Don’t look like that, it’s not that bad.’
He does as she tells him and while she waits for the kettle she thinks he looks utterly defeated, his hands between his knees, his head down. The birders are off somewhere in the sunshine enjoying themselves, thank goodness, although they might come back at any moment. It’s an hour till dinner.
She brings two mugs through and sits next to him on the sofa, her hand on his back.
‘I can’t think straight,’ he says, managing a brief grin that disappears as soon as it’s landed. ‘For some reason my thoughts are all over the place at the moment.’
‘Okay,’
she says, wondering what that’s supposed to mean. Is she responsible for his state of mind? Because she’s been keeping him up at night and distracting him?
She drinks her tea and thinks. He is staring at the coffee as if it’s poisoned.
‘Look, it’s the bird observatory and the cottages she’s interested in, right?’
‘Aye, but —’
‘How long between the tides? I mean, how long can she stay before the boat has to go back?’
‘A couple of hours,’ he says.
‘Well, she can’t pack that much into a couple of hours. I can do lunch for her here – what time’s the boat coming?’
‘Early.’
‘Well, I can do elevenses or something. We can show her the cottages with her experts, then I’ll bring her straight over here, tell her there’s no time to be hanging about. And Lefty can stay in his room. I’m sure he has no great desire to see her either, right?’
He shakes his head slowly.
‘What is it that’s bothering you?’ she asks softly.
A long pause. ‘Feels like a risk,’ he says.
‘Well, we just need a Plan B. If she sees him, then we’ll just say he’s your nephew, over for a visit because there are no birders next week. Or something like that.’
‘My nephew?’ he says, snorting.
‘Well, we need to agree on something just in case. Yes?’
At last he looks up at her, touches her cheek. ‘He’s right, what he said about you.’
‘What did he say?’
But he doesn’t answer. Just kisses her.
There’s a sound from outside and she pulls away from him awkwardly just seconds before the door opens.
‘Ah, Fraser! Good to see you!’
Rachel picks up the mugs – Fraser hasn’t touched his, of course – and heads to the kitchen to get the dinner ready. Brian is on his own. Carol and Jane are still photographing puffins, apparently. Outside the sun is low and everything is golden and bright.
It feels as though nothing bad could happen, and yet at the same time Rachel has an ominous feeling in her stomach.
Fraser
Against his better judgment he lets Rachel invite Lefty to eat with them again. He casts a suspicious glance from one of them to the other, sensing that something is up.
He’s done salmon, poached with lemon, and salad. Lefty isn’t keen on any sort of fish that doesn’t come wrapped in batter but he sits with them and Fraser lets him have some bread and butter and fucking ketchup with it as a compromise. He listens while Rachel talks about Marion coming, phrasing it carefully as if it’s no big deal. If it were down to him he wouldn’t have said anything until Monday in case it doesn’t happen – Marion has been threatening to come for a visit since she first started, after all – and he can see the alarm spreading across Lefty’s face as Rachel mentions the visit.
‘She’s comin’ here?’ he asks, his voice high. ‘Is that definite?’
‘No,’ Rachel says, gently, ‘but it looks quite likely. So we need to be prepared for it.’
He looks at Fraser, eyes wide. ‘You gonnae send me away on the boat?’
Fraser doesn’t look up from his meal. He feels morose and pissed off and can’t quite manage to articulate what exactly he’s worried about.
‘He’s not going to send you away,’ Rachel says firmly.
I fucking would, though, he thinks. It would be the ideal solution: send the fucker back where he came from, get rid of him. Then it would just be him and Rachel and—
‘I cannae go back,’ Lefty says, almost rising to a wail.
‘Look,’ Rachel says, ‘it’s fine, honestly. She won’t come to the lighthouse, she doesn’t need to. You just need to stay in your room for a couple of hours. Lock the door, if you want to.’
‘I don’t, I can’t,’ he says, looking panicked.
Fraser lifts his eyes wearily. ‘He doesn’t like locked doors.’
‘Don’t lock me in!’
‘Of course we won’t lock you in,’ she says, soothing. ‘It’ll be fine. Really it will. And if the weather turns, she might not come at all.’
‘What if she does? What if she wants a tour of the lighthouse? What if she comes in?’
Rachel looks at Fraser. He shrugs and looks away. He senses her exasperation but this is all utterly beyond him just now. He doesn’t want to even think about it.
‘If that happens,’ Rachel says, ‘and, look, it’s really unlikely … but, if it does, then we’ll just introduce you as Fraser’s nephew. Say you’re over for a visit.’
‘What?’ If anything, he looks even more panicked than before. ‘But I’m no’ his nephew!’
‘It won’t come to that. It’s just a back-up plan, right? You won’t have to say anything to her. It’ll be fine.’
‘Told you we should have left it,’ Fraser mutters.
Lefty takes another two slices of bread and legs it to his bedroom. His piece of salmon is largely untouched, despite a bloody smear of ketchup. Fraser gets up and scrapes it into Bess’s bowl, where it is despatched in a matter of seconds.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ she says. ‘Why is he so scared of going back?’
He thought this might happen: that this would lead on to a discussion about Lefty. He is no better equipped to explain things than he was when she first arrived, because he doesn’t understand it himself. He has not even managed to think everything through, because he has very deliberately not thought about it. Now he gives a non-committal shrug.
‘This is all really frustrating, you know,’ she says.
‘I know.’
‘Do you think she’ll like cheese scones?’
‘Aye, of course she will. I’ll make veg soup over the weekend if you like; you can heat that up for her.’
‘Really? Thanks. That would make me feel better. Although—’
‘What?’
‘Feels like cheating.’
‘For fuck’s sake don’t tell her I made it, even if she asks. I don’t want to get lumbered with cooking if that Julia woman doesn’t work out.’
‘You have my word,’ she says solemnly.
He catches her eye, then, and he’s lost. He still can’t quite believe that he’s had her in his bed and just a few hours ago he was kissing her. He feels that surge of hot desire again and for a moment it’s all gone – Marion, Lefty, the birds, all of it. Just her. Just that desperate desire to get inside her again, the place where he’s suddenly decided everything is all right, even if it’s just temporary.
‘You,’ she says, and smiles.
‘Me?’
‘The way you’re looking at me.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I like it. You look like you want something.’
‘Aye. Of course I do.’
Her gaze is unrelenting. ‘I’ll be honest, I’m still getting my head around it.’
‘Me too.’
‘You really want me?’
‘Jesus, Rachel. Are you kidding?’
‘I mean, I feel a bit competitive about it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know if I’ve met anyone who’s been with a sex worker before.’
Not for the first time, he wishes he hadn’t told her. She would probably never have found out, and in a few weeks’ time she will be gone and he will never see her again. But he had that desperate need to be honest with her, felt she deserved it. His truth.
Besides, he’s not ashamed of it.
‘You probably have and you just don’t know it. It’s more common than you think it is. Why? Is it bothering you?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. I just … I think I’d like to know more about it. Why you do it.’
‘Because it’s easy,’ he says.
‘Easier than going on dates?’
‘Going on a date implies you’ll be wanting a second date. It’s not a good thing to lead people on, is it? It’s not fair. It’s disrespectful.’
She consider
s this. ‘But what about the women? Aren’t they trafficked, vulnerable? Isn’t it disrespectful to just use them for sex?’
‘I’ll admit it’s not ideal. But I was always careful about things like consent. I never went with anyone who was drunk, or drugged up.’
‘And it was … good?’ she asks.
Of all the questions, he thinks. Probably what she’s really asking is if she is enough. The thought of this, that she feels as if she’s being compared to the women he paid, hurts his head a bit.
‘Sometimes,’ he says.
‘Is that why you keep going back to Kelly? Because she’s really good at it?’
He has already been thinking of Kelly, of course; from the minute the idea of comparison was brought up he has been thinking of her, the stress of seeing her and the stress of not seeing her, the way he hates himself because if he pays he feels like shit about it and if he doesn’t pay he feels even worse. He still finds Kelly attractive, but the hot, fizzing desire he felt for her years ago is no longer there. In truth he still sleeps with her sometimes because he can, and if she won’t let him pay in cash then he pays in other ways. Fixing things. Buying things that she needs, or Charlie needs. The fierce lust that he feels when he looks at Rachel – he thinks about Kelly and it’s not like that at all.
But he can’t tell her that. Can he?
‘When you want to stop,’ he says, deliberately not answering her question, ‘you just say, right?’
‘I don’t want to stop.’
‘You will,’ he says.
Rachel
Friday.
Rachel is waiting on the jetty for the boat. She’s done a cursory beach clean while she’s been waiting, and after a few minutes of collecting – crisp packets, bits of nylon rope, a tangled ball of fishing wire – she hears the quad up on the cliff. A minute later Fraser is coming down the slope, the trailer full of luggage and empty plastic crates. When he kills the engine she can hear the diesel chugging of the boat.
It’s a nice day today, hazy sunshine and complete stillness, the first day she thinks she has felt no wind at all. The water in the harbour is still, huge mats of seaweed rising and falling gently.
You, Me & the Sea Page 25