The Bed I Made

by Lucie Whitehouse

  It wasn’t until after we’d eaten that he seemed to warm up a bit. It was a relief; I’d begun to think that he didn’t really want to be here, that he’d only come out to honour his promise. I’d filled rolls today with roast beef and horseradish, two each, but he wolfed his down so quickly that I pretended I didn’t want my second one and gave it to him. The banana and apple went in similar fashion.

  ‘Here,’ I said, keeping my hand on the tiller. ‘You take this and I’ll make us some coffee. There’s biscuits, too.’

  ‘It’s OK, I’ll do it.’

  ‘No – it must be your turn now.’

  It was warmer down in the cabin out of the wind. I filled the tin kettle, then found the matches in the cubby hole above the little stove and lit the ring. There was the sound of the winch up on deck and our angle deepened. I held on to the edge of the sink and steadied the kettle as it rocked on the frame that held it above the gas. Through the portholes on the lower side, I could see only water now.

  When the kettle had boiled I climbed carefully back into the cockpit with the mugs. He lit me another cigarette and I sat near him at the back of the boat and listened to the water rushing past, bubbling behind us.

  ‘I’m not good company today,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t need to talk all the time for that.’

  ‘It’s her birthday – my wife’s.’

  Taken aback, I said nothing.

  ‘I haven’t been fair with you. This is why I postponed last week. I thought that you wouldn’t want to come three weeks running and I really wanted some company today – you know: to take my mind off it. I didn’t want Chris or my mother; I wanted someone who wouldn’t fuss. I find your company,’ he searched for the word, ‘easy. But now I feel dishonest – like I’ve got you here under false pretences.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  We lapsed into silence again but strangely it felt better, open at least. I watched a yacht coming the opposite way and noticed how much more slowly it was going than we were. ‘Is that because of the wind direction?’ I asked. ‘That they’re just sitting on the water like that, not really going anywhere?’

  He shook his head. ‘More the direction of the tide.’ He finished his coffee and put the mug down by his feet. ‘I’ve never asked you why you came here,’ he said. He looked at me directly for the first time all day. In the setting of their grey rings, his eyes looked particularly green.

  ‘The usual story,’ I said. ‘Love affair gone bad.’

  He nodded but didn’t ask anything else. A minute or so passed.

  ‘You know I said at Chris’s that Dad used to bring us here on holiday? We came for the first time the year after my mother left us.’

  He took his eyes off the sail and looked at me again.

  ‘I associated it with getting your life back together. It was the first place where Dad and my brother and I were at all happy again. It was like a bomb through our family when she went. She’d threatened it – there were arguments and she shouted at him all the time, saying she’d leave – but we didn’t think she’d really do it.’

  ‘That’s what it feels like,’ he said. ‘Like a bomb.’ He took a small metal clip out of his pocket and looked at it, turning it between his fingers.

  There was a sudden gust of wind that seemed to come from a different direction; the sail went slack and flapped wildly; the boat rocked upright.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, when he’d got it under control again. ‘I’ll concentrate.’

  When we came in sight of the chalk cliffs at Purbeck, they were looming up out of the fine mist that rose from the water’s surface. Gulls and other, darker birds floated round them, landing on ledges worn into the soft cliff face and on the grass that clung to its top. There was Old Harry, a free-standing pillar of chalk as Pete had described, surrounded by the rubble of a partner column that had broken up and fallen into the sea. In the bay that arced round behind it, there was a long sandy beach lined with huts closed up for the winter, keeping a vigil over the smooth water that stretched back to the Island, now lost in the haze behind us.

  ‘I love it,’ he said. ‘I think it’s one of the most beautiful places on earth. Sometimes when Alice was away I’d come here and spend a couple of days on the boat, just reading and watching the birds and the other boats.’

  On the way back, he let me have the helm again, and he tightened ropes and gave me instructions until the boat heeled over so far that I thought the water would start lapping over the lower edge of the deck. We were creaming along, carving a line in the water behind us that I wouldn’t have thought possible without a motor. Pete sat on the edge of the cockpit, his feet on the seats, the wind blowing through his hair. He turned to me and grinned, his cheeks and hands red with the cold and wind, some of the light back in his eyes. This was it, I thought, this was what it was like to be really free, to have just the water and the sea and the sky overhead, to be an element among all the others.

  Even the darker clouds gathering behind us didn’t bother me. I loved the way they changed the light over the water, accentuated the line between sea and sky. As we came back up past the Needles – too soon, too soon, I thought, knowing we were heading home – the white of the chalk cliffs there seemed preternaturally bright against the dark water and the body of the Island behind.

  Ten minutes later the first rain began to fall. I hadn’t brought either my leather jacket or my ankle-length wool coat; neither had seemed appropriate for the boat. Instead, bearing in mind Pete’s forecast, I’d bundled up in lots of layers and a chunky jumper on top. I had nothing waterproof.

  The occasional drops grew more frequent and made dark circles on the wooden decks. My hair was damp now and my hands were stiff with cold on the tiller.

  ‘There’s an old oilskin of mine in the locker by the chart table,’ he said. ‘Here; I’ll take that while you go and put it on. You can’t get wet – you’ll freeze.’

  He slackened off the ropes a little so the boat was at an easier angle and I went down into the cabin again. I took the cushion off the seat and opened the locker, unleashing a fustier version of the damp, diesel smell of the hull. Underneath a couple of life jackets was a yellow water-skin. I took it out and dropped the lid back down.

  It was only when I shook it out that I realised the jacket was too small to be his. He wouldn’t have been able to get his arms into it. As I held it up in the dim light, out of view of the hatch, I knew it must be Alice’s.

  ‘Find it all right?’ his voice came down.

  ‘Fine – thanks.’ I hesitated. Clearly he’d thought it was his – they must have had similar ones. He’d think it odd now if I reappeared without it but, on the other hand, I felt a fierce opposition to putting it on, both for his sake and mine. I didn’t want to wear her jacket and how would it make him feel, if I came up wearing it? But was it worse not to put it on, to make a fuss and make him feel uncomfortable that way? Maybe acting normal was the thing to do.

  Time was passing. In the end, I took a snap decision and put it on.

  I knew I’d made a mistake as soon as I climbed the steps back up. He’d been smiling but when he saw the jacket, the obvious size of it, the smile dropped from his face. I stopped, unsure whether to carry on or go back down and take it off.

  ‘Are you coming up?’ he said. ‘You can’t stand on the ladder.’

  I came quickly up and sat down in the corner of the cockpit, at a distance from him. He didn’t offer me the helm again and we didn’t talk. Instead he ran us up the Solent so tight to the increasing wind that I had to hold on to the edge of the seat. The water hissed past. Every time I moved even slightly, the stiff material of the jacket creaked, making its presence felt, and its damp smell got into my nostrils. I wished I could take it off and throw it over the side, watch the bloody thing disappear in our wake. He didn’t look at me.

  By the time we got back to the river at Newtown, the rain was falling steadily. I went below and too
k the jacket off as soon as we reached the mooring, shoving it back under the life jackets and only just resisting the urge to slam the lid down after it.

  I’d thought we’d come in early but the tide was some way out and the viable channel had shrunk and was now bordered with banks of stinking mud. The surface of the water flashed with circles as the rain fell heavier and heavier. My jumper and hair were soaked. There wasn’t enough water left further up the creek to take the dinghy back to its original place, and the outboard whined as its propeller caught against a rock on the bottom. ‘Fucking hell,’ he said, loudly enough to be audible over it. He throttled down until we were creeping upstream. Neither of us said anything. Finally he brought us to the only ladder at the quay that was still accessible. Its bottom rungs were slimy with weed and I almost lost my footing and fell backwards.

  As we bumped up the lane, avoiding the worst of the potholes, the atmosphere improved slightly. The swarm of Canada geese was quiet, huddled together and subdued by the rain. ‘I almost feel sorry for them,’ he said. ‘Almost.’ I looked at him quickly and detected a hint of apology in the lift at the corner of his mouth.

  In Yarmouth, he pulled up at the end of the passageway to let me out. ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said, staring straight ahead. ‘It took me by surprise – the jacket.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘I didn’t realise it was hers in there; she hadn’t been on the boat for such a long time.’ His voice sounded tired. ‘Look, I’d completely understand if you didn’t want to come out again but – if you’d like to, you’ve got my number.’

  ‘Thank you. And thank you for today. It was good – really.’

  The keys in the ignition jangled as he touched them. I took it as my cue to go and plunged out of the car back into the rain.

  Later on, after supper and a bath that almost banished the chill that had worked its way into my bones, I rang Helen. I felt slightly better about the afternoon now but I had the old impulse to lay my feelings out and let her light shine on them. I also wanted to tell her what I suspected – knew – about Richard, I couldn’t put it off any longer. Both her home number and her mobile went straight to voicemail. It was Saturday night, though; what did I expect? Other people went out.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I take my hat off to you, sweetheart – you’re really playing hardball.

  Well, if you want to play – if you’re sure that’s what you really want – let’s play. It’s always been like that with you, hasn’t it? But I’ll show you who’s strongest. You’ve got to learn that you’re never going to beat me.

  You won’t come back and you won’t tell me where you are so I’ll have to find you myself. That’s the challenge, isn’t it? I could just cheat and ask Helen – it wouldn’t be difficult to track her down. But that would spoil the fun so I’ll play fair and work it out for myself. I know how your mind works – probably better than you do. How hard can it be?

  I put my head in my hands and let myself cry. Fear broke over me in waves, constantly renewing. I was prey – prey that by resistance had made itself a prize. Why had I done it? I remembered the first night he’d taken me to dinner, how thrilled I’d been with myself, how I’d revelled in putting up my mock-resistance. Engaged: one partner in a high-stakes game. It was ego, my need to compete, to match him, to be thought clever. I’d laid my own trap.

  ‘The worst thing you can do,’ I’d read on one of the advice sites, ‘is to challenge a psychopath in a battle of wills. The psychopath’s need to prove him or herself the victor brooks no obstacle. By engaging him, you put yourself at considerable risk of violence, either emotional or physical.’

  Sally dropped in at the café the next day. She had taken a day off from work, she told me, to get a bit of personal admin done. It was a grim afternoon; raining yet again. She’d stood on the step to shake her umbrella before coming in but her coat had been so wet that it had left a trail of drips from the doorway anyway. The rain had kept other customers away and Mary was out, so she stood with me at the counter and shared a pot of tea.

  She seemed jumpier even than usual, I thought. I’d brought her out a stool from the kitchen but she hadn’t been able to stay still long enough to sit on it. Every couple of minutes she would wander away from the counter to look at something – the photographs, the drinks in the fridge, the view on to the High Street – before coming back and having another sip of her tea. I didn’t think it was me that made her nervous, I couldn’t see why I would, but nonetheless I had the strange sense that there was something she wanted from me: when we were talking, she watched my face closely, and whenever I said something, she waited for a second or two before replying, as if wanting to be sure I’d finished, even when I was telling her the most mundane details of what I’d been up to. I didn’t tell her about sailing with Pete, not wanting to seem to be laying claim to her friend. He would tell her anyway, no doubt.

  It was only now that I realised how much it must have cost her to approach me that first time in Wavells; she must have really wanted to talk to me to have overcome her shyness like that. Suddenly she stopped pacing. ‘Do you ever feel like everything’s getting on top of you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Tom’s in trouble at school – someone’s put a brick through the window of the science lab. He swears it wasn’t him but his track record’s against him. It’ll cost three hundred pounds to replace, apparently.’ She looked at me and shook her head. ‘I’m tired out.’

  ‘Come and have some supper at mine tonight,’ I said. ‘I’ve got wine, and I’ll cook us something.’

  She looked almost wistful. ‘Thanks – I wish I could. It’s parents’ evening, though.’ She rolled her eyes and gave a sudden grin.

  She was on her way out when Mary came in, water dripping from the brim of a red sou’wester. ‘How are you, Sally?’ she said, taking it off and running her hands through the front of her hair.

  ‘Oh, fine. Same as ever, you know. I’d better go.’

  We watched from behind the counter as she put up her umbrella and vanished down the street towards the Square. ‘Funny girl,’ said Mary.

  It was Thursday before Helen called me back. ‘Rushed off my feet at the moment,’ she said, ‘but it’s no excuse: I’m just a rubbish friend. Hey, guess what? Paul just rang. He’s getting married to that nutty Swiss girl.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Oh yes. Shotgun, too; she’s preggers – five months.’

  I laughed. ‘It would have taken that. Brava!’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  I felt a wave of affection for her, my lovely warm friend. ‘When’s it going to be your turn to get snapped up?’ I said. ‘I’ve given up on myself now but I still have hopes for you. Anyone on the horizon?’

  She sighed. ‘I’m just always at work. And I’m not doing office romance again.’

  ‘How about Saturday?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were out, weren’t you?’

  ‘Oh. Well, yes, but it was just one of those stupid dinner parties – you know, where you’re the only single woman at the table and no one else is drinking because the women are pregnant and the men are all too PC to have a glass of wine if their wife can’t. How did it ever come to this? That’s what I want to know.’

  When we’d hung up, I asked myself why I hadn’t broached the subject of Richard. It was because I hadn’t felt able to; she’d been in such a light, funny mood that it had seemed inappropriate, and anyway, I loved that we could talk like that again, without any edge to the conversation. I hadn’t wanted to ruin it.

  I was standing in Chris’s shop that Saturday before I acknowledged to myself the real reason I was there. ‘Peter,’ said Chris. ‘He told me what happened on the boat.’

  ‘I’m so embarrassed about it,’ I said.

  ‘He thinks he was rude to you.’

  I shook my head. ‘It was understandable – and he w
asn’t, anyway. And we both apologised.’

  ‘Least said, soonest mended then.’

  ‘Would you like to come to supper?’ I asked. ‘I promise there won’t be any broken glass in the pudding.’

  ‘Are you going to spill wine on my trousers or fall out of a taxi?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Well, it all sounds a bit dull, then,’ he said, smiling. ‘But I’d love to.’

  On the walk home, I turned off the main road where it curved to follow the shoreline at Yarmouth and took the track down to the waterfront. I sat on the wooden barricade and watched the water for a few minutes before finding my phone in my bag. I hesitated, then took the coward’s way out and sent him a text. I expected the response to take a while, but in fact it was only two or three minutes before it arrived: That would be good – thanks. See you then.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  At eight o’clock the following Saturday I stood at the sitting-room door and surveyed my arrangements. It was cramped, I had to admit – the armchair was pushed right back against the wall to make space for the table which I’d brought in from the kitchen – but otherwise it looked pretty good. I’d bought a tablecloth, new glasses for both wine and water and a vase which I had filled with peonies. There were new plates, too. It had felt extravagant, buying so much, but I hadn’t wanted them to have to drink from mismatched glasses and eat their supper from the awful earthenware crockery: nothing eaten from it ever tasted nice because it looked so ugly.

  In the kitchen I lifted the lid on the hollandaise sauce and dipped in a teaspoon. The asparagus was already tied in bundles on the chopping board and the goulash was in the oven. Two bottles of claret were breathing on the counter. I’d forgotten how much I loved cooking for other people. I had often abandoned whole days of work in favour of flicking through recipe books and sourcing rare ingredients for the suppers I’d made for Richard. I used to comb the Thai and Chinese grocery shops in the little alleys off Earls Court Road, then spent the afternoon cooking and anticipating the evening ahead. I closed my eyes now against the memory of how those evenings had ended, with us tangled around each other in my bed.