Bed of Ice

by Sk Quinn

  ‘Stop being jealous.’

  ‘Like you were, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Like I was. And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the better of me. I should have trusted you. I do trust you. Okay?’

  ‘So we’re both as bad as each other then?’ I ask, looking up into his beautiful blue-green eyes.

  ‘Equally bad.’ Patrick smiles down at me. ‘And for the record, I like where you live. It’s very you. Very free.’

  ‘I used to think about untying the moorings and just drifting off,’ I say. ‘See where I’d end up. But of course I never could. Not with Wila’s school and everything. What else have you seen today?’

  ‘Not enough,’ says Patrick gruffly.

  ‘The thing is … about my past …’

  ‘I don’t want to hear about who you’ve fucked, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ Patrick strokes hair from my face.

  ‘Good. Because I wasn’t planning on telling you. Since you get so jealous.’

  I manage a smile, and Patrick laughs.

  ‘It surprised me too,’ he says. ‘The jealousy. I never expected to feel so … so …’ He looks around. ‘Put me out of my misery. Have you fucked anybody on this boat?’

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to know.’

  He holds me tighter. ‘I don’t. But tell me anyway. ’

  ‘Patrick, you don’t want to know. Trust me. I’m an experienced jealous person. You’re only torturing yourself.’

  ‘Which means yes.’

  ‘I lived here,’ I say softly. ‘I had boyfriends. I had a life before you. And you had a life before me. With Zara.’

  ‘What’s she got to do with anything?’

  ‘You had sex with her.’

  69

  Patrick’s silence tells me everything. And now I wish I could go back to a second ago when I didn’t know anything for sure. When I could pass off what Grey said as nothing more than a wind up.

  ‘You did, didn’t you?’ I ask.

  ‘What I did before I met you … what does it matter?’

  ‘It matters,’ I say, ‘because she came to see you. And you didn’t turn her away. In fact, you told her you’d speak to her later, if I remember rightly.’

  ‘And I did speak to her.’

  I feel my lips going thin. ‘What about?’

  ‘To tell her how much you mean to me,’ says Patrick. ‘And to let her know her advances weren’t welcome. That she was behaving inappropriately. That if she ever acted like that again I’d throw her out.’

  ‘Oh.’ I look at the floor, feeling pretty silly. ‘That’s what you wanted to talk to her about?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Patrick.

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘I know what you thought.’ Patrick puts a finger under my chin and lifts my face. ‘You should trust me. Zara means nothing. She never did.’

  ‘But you still had sex with her,’ I say, unable to shake the feeling of sickness that comes with that thought. ‘What … you just used her? Is that what you’re saying? Is that supposed to make me feel good?’

  ‘Zara was always very … available. She looked good and she was available. End of story.’

  I hate that he just called her good looking.

  ‘Thanks for such a sensitive reply,’ I say.

  ‘I hadn’t finished,’ says Patrick. ‘Men like to fuck women. It’s as simple as that. But I’ve only ever loved one woman.’

  ‘And who might she be?’

  ‘You know full well who she is. She’s standing right in front of me.’

  My stomach softens a little. ‘So if you like fucking women so much, what’s to stop you going with some good-looking woman like Zara if I’m not with you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ says Patrick. ‘But that doesn’t mean I will.’

  ‘I had a boyfriend cheat on me. So … I’m not so good with trust. What’s your excuse?’

  ‘I don’t have one,’ says Patrick. ‘I hate feeling this way. Being so out of control.’

  ‘Horrible isn’t it? Jealousy.’

  ‘Horrible. But you’re worth it.’

  I look around my boat. ‘I really don’t like you being here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You own a castle. This is beyond slumming it for you.’

  Patrick laughs. ‘I spend half my life sleeping rough in the woods. A roof is luxury.’

  ‘Even so—’

  ‘I want to stay here. I want to see this side of you.’

  ‘This boat isn’t me,’ I say. ‘It’s what I’ve had to put up with. Because of money. Because of my family. And where I started from. I’ve always dreamed of more. But I don’t suppose you’d understand anything like that.’

  ‘More than you know,’ says Patrick.

  ‘Oh come on—’

  ‘It’s true. The world I come from – all the pomp and ceremony. The uniforms. The manners and proper words. It’s all bullshit. I’ve always dreamed of something real. Why do you think I made a home in the woods?’

  I laugh. ‘So I suppose we can meet somewhere in the middle?’

  Patrick squeezes my hand. ‘I’m staying the night. No arguments.’

  I sigh. ‘I think I’m too tired to argue anyway.’

  ‘Good girl. Do as you’re told for once.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘So. Are you going to give me the tour?’

  ‘You’re really serious about staying here aren’t you?’

  ‘Deadly serious.’

  ‘Okay fine. What do you want to see first?’

  ‘The bedroom.’

  I laugh. ‘Okay then. Come with me. It’s not far.’

  I lead him to the back of the boat.

  ‘Bunk beds,’ says Patrick, with a little smile.

  ‘You can still change your mind about staying—’

  ‘Nice try. I’m guessing yours is the bottom bunk?’

  ‘I think that’s pretty obvious.’

  The top bunk has ballet posters pinned beside it.

  It’s weird being back in the bedroom I shared with Wila. Seeing her things – the pictures of dancers she taped to the wall and all her Sweet Valley High books …

  I miss her all of a sudden.

  ‘You like being on the bottom?’ says Patrick, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Oh shut up.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ Patrick looks around the room.

  I blush. This has got to be the tiniest, most cramped bedroom he’s ever seen.

  70

  Patrick jumps on the bottom bunk and stuffs his hands under his head.

  The bed creaks.

  ‘Comfy?’ I ask.

  Patrick looks up at the bed slats. ‘Who’s he?’

  Oh god. I want to curl up and die.

  When I was eighteen I had a massive crush on Ricky Wilson, so I blue-tacked pictures of him on the slats under Wila’s bunk.

  ‘I … um … I really like the Kaiser Chiefs,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t see any pictures of the rest of the band.’

  I go even redder. ‘Um … I like the singer.’

  ‘Obviously.’ Patrick is sort of smiling.

  ‘Oh okay,’ I admit. ‘I had a crush on him. I was only sixteen when I moved in here.’

  Patrick frowns.

  ‘What? Please don’t tell me you’re jealous of some teenage crush I had. I’ve never even met the man—’

  ‘It’s not him.’ Patrick shakes his head.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘You’ve fucked somebody on this bed.’

  I hesitate. ‘Patrick—’

  He stops me talking with a look. ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘Do you really want me to answer that?’

  ‘I want the truth.’

  ‘Patrick, sometimes the truth isn’t always—’

  ‘Who was he?’ Patrick glares at the bed slats.

  ‘He was an idiot,’ I say truthfully.

  Patrick frowns. ‘What is it that you’re not telling me?�
� He sits up, his head poking out from the bunk bed.

  ‘About Billy? What do you want to know? That he cheated on me? That everyone warned me but I didn’t listen? That I made a total fool of myself?’

  ‘No. Something else.’ Patrick is still frowning. ‘Something happened today. Something to do with your past … and what you’re hiding from me.’

  How does he know about Ray King? Can he read minds or something?

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes. It matters.’

  I sit beside him on the bunk bed. ‘Patrick, now isn’t the right time. Okay?’

  I try to take his hand, but he moves it away.

  That hurts.

  ‘As long as you hold it back, we can never be close,’ he says.

  ‘What is it you want from me?’ I snap. ‘I don’t get it. One minute you’re fine, the next minute—’

  ‘I don’t like secrets.’

  ‘I know. I’m trying to be honest with you, but … there are some things that I’ve never told anybody.’

  Patrick turns to me. ‘What will it take for you to trust me?’

  ‘I do trust you—’

  ‘No.’ Patrick stares straight ahead, looking stormy. ‘No you don’t.’

  ‘Ask me about Billy then,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell you whatever it is you want to know.’

  ‘Okay.’ Patrick’s jaw goes tight. ‘Did he make you come?’

  ‘Oh Patrick, don’t—’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘I thought we weren’t going to be jealous anymore.’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘No he didn’t. Never. Satisfied now? He used me and I felt like a piece of meat every time I slept with him. He didn’t care about me. He didn’t care about how I was feeling, whether I was enjoying—’

  ‘Did you come with him?’

  ‘I just told you—’

  ‘You told me he didn’t make you come. But did you come when you were with him?’

  I look at the ground.

  ‘Well did you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘When I took charge of things myself. I … I liked him at first. I thought … oh never mind. Look, this conversation is going nowhere good.’

  Patrick stands up. ‘Was he the one who hurt you?’

  I can’t tell him about Ray. Not yet …

  ‘He cheated on me,’ I say, my mouth going dry. ‘That’s pretty hurtful. Pretty humiliating.’

  Patrick rolls to face me. ‘I know there’s more. I wish you’d tell me.’

  I feel myself getting teary. I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just nod.

  ‘Lie down,’ says Patrick, patting the bed.

  I lie on the bottom bunk. It’s warm where Patrick’s body was.

  ‘I’ll sleep on the sofa,’ says Patrick, standing up.

  ‘Why?’ I say, my stomach feeling all light and hot. ‘Don’t you want me?’

  ‘Of course I want you,’ says Patrick, stroking my hair. ‘But I’m not going to sleep where some other man has had you.’

  I swallow. I get that. I really do. But it still hurts.

  ‘You’re making me feel dirty,’ I say. ‘Billy and I … it was just stupid teenage stuff. And it was ages ago. Years and years ago. I was a different person.’

  ‘All the same,’ says Patrick. ‘He still had you.’ He closes his eyes tight and opens them again. ‘Christ. I wish I’d met you before anyone touched you.’

  I swallow really hard this time.

  ‘I feel like I’m spoiled,’ I say, the tears still building. ‘Patrick, you’re the only one who’s ever meant anything to me. Truly.’

  ‘If I meant that much to you, you’d tell me whatever it is you’re hiding.’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t want to. Can’t you understand that? Everything is perfect right now. Why do you have to spoil things?’

  ‘Seeing all of you won’t spoil things,’ says Patrick. ‘It’ll make me love you more than ever.’

  ‘Then I guess you’ll just have to put up with not loving me all that much,’ I say, turning away. ‘Good night Patrick.’

  I want him to turn me over. To say sorry. To say that he loves me no matter what. That he can live without knowing my secret and will sleep in the bed with me. But he doesn’t. Instead he simply says:

  ‘Good night Seraphina.’

  I want to cry as I hear him leave the bedroom.

  I want to tell him, but … I can’t.

  71

  I wake up early the next morning, confused about where I am.

  The morning smog is already drifting through the canal boat windows. I’d forgotten about London smog.

  I look down at my clothes and remember falling asleep fully dressed. And Patrick not wanting to sleep next to me. And Wila …

  I sit up so fast that I bang my head on the bunk bed.

  Ouch.

  As I rub my head, I realise I smell burning.

  ‘Patrick?’ I call out, jumping out of bed.

  In the living area, Patrick is standing in his boxers cooking a pan of sausages on our little electric cooker.

  There are about ten sausages in the pan.

  I cough a little at the smoke.

  ‘I thought you might want breakfast,’ says Patrick.

  ‘It gets pretty hot, that cooker,’ I say, leaning over him and turning down the dial.

  ‘It’s the sausages,’ says Patrick. ‘They’re full of water. And breadcrumbs.’

  ‘That’s a lot of sausages,’ I say. ‘Are you hungry or something?’

  ‘No more than usual. You’re just not used to seeing man-sized portions. Anyway, these sausages are for you too. You must be hungry yourself.’

  ‘Where’d you get the sausages from?’ I ask.

  ‘The shop over there,’ says Patrick, pointing a wooden spatula at the window. ‘Smith’s News.’

  ‘Is that where you got the bread too?’ I ask, seeing a huge white bloomer by his elbow.

  Patrick nods.

  I can’t help smiling.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Patrick pushes blond hair from his forehead.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No go on.’ He’s smiling too now. ‘Something’s making you smile.’

  ‘Well, it’s just … you’re shopping like a tourist, that’s all. No one round here shops in Smith’s. It’s full of crap stuff. There are better places to buy sausages and bread.’

  ‘This is a good loaf,’ says Patrick, picking up the bloomer.

  ‘It looks good,’ I say. ‘But it’ll be a couple of days old. Ian Smith buys the stuff too stale for bakeries to sell.’

  Patrick knocks the loaf on the breakfast bar. Then he mumbles something, jabbing at the sausages with the spatula.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t hear that?’ I say, laughing now.

  ‘It’s a little stale,’ says Patrick.

  ‘Don’t go all sulky now, country boy,’ I say. ‘It’s not your fault you don’t know our big city ways. London is a dangerous place—’

  ‘I’ve been to London before,’ Patrick snaps.

  ‘Have you? When?’

  ‘For TV appearances.’

  ‘Have you ever lived in a city?’

  ‘Kabul’s a city.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Patrick stares intently at the sausages. ‘No I’ve never lived in a city. I’d never want to live in a city. And I’m never going to live in a city. Just getting breakfast this morning was an ordeal. Ten thousand people on the street already.’

  I laugh. ‘You sound like an old man.’

  ‘Who’d want to live in all these crowds? It’s not real life. It’s just existing.’

  ‘It was always real enough to me,’ I say, opening the boat window so the smoke goes out. ‘Too real sometimes.’

  ‘I hate to think of you living in the city,’ says Patrick. ‘All the noise. The pollution. The peacocks …’

  ‘Peacocks?’

  ‘Everyone dressed up to the nines.’ Patrick throws back his should
ers and pretends to strut around.

  I laugh.

  ‘Men dressed up in tight trousers and scarves and purple glasses.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘You have something against people wearing glasses now?’

  ‘No. But why make an exhibition of yourself?’

  ‘It’s called creativity,’ I say. ‘And if you don’t like it, I’m pretty surprised you like me. If you hadn’t noticed, my clothes are pretty out there sometimes.’

  ‘It’s you I notice,’ says Patrick. ‘Not your clothes.’ He jabs the sausages. ‘So. About last night …’

  I shake my head. ‘Not yet. Please Patrick. Just … give me time okay? I need more time. This is all too much. With Wila and everything …’

  ‘Okay. You can have more time. Spend it helping me get used to this place.’

  ‘I told you this boat—’

  ‘It’s not the boat. The boat is the bit I like the best. I’ll have it shipped up to Scotland if you like. Then I can show you some real scenery.’

  ‘Are there canals in Scotland?’

  Patrick laughs. ‘Yes city girl. There are canals in Scotland.’

  ‘I bet they’re cold.’

  ‘Freezing.’

  72

  Patrick opens a rickety kitchen drawer and pulls out a bread knife. He saws at the loaf of bread.

  Thick, wonky slices fall onto the counter. Then he drops sausages onto the slices and makes huge, lopsided sandwiches.

  ‘Breakfast is served,’ he says, grabbing a plastic plate from the draining rack. He throws the sandwiches onto it.

  ‘Those sandwiches look huge,’ I say.

  ‘Stop complaining woman.’

  ‘I’m not complaining. I’m just—’ I shake my head.

  ‘What?’ Patrick raises an eyebrow.

  I try not to smile. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Aren’t my sandwiches good enough for you now we’re in the big fancy city?’

  ‘They’re perfect,’ I say.

  Patrick picks up a sandwich and takes a huge bite. ‘The bread’s a bit stale,’ he says, his mouth full of bread. ‘But the sandwiches are hot and there are plenty of them.’

  I laugh. ‘Is that the most important thing about food? How much of it there is?’

  He chews hard and swallows. ‘I suppose that depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘How hungry you are.’