In At the Deep End

by Penelope Janu

  ‘You haven’t really got a crush on Per, have you?’ I say. ‘He scowls all the time.’

  Liam turns me around and pushes me gently towards the door. He whispers in my ear as he opens it. ‘He’s an action hero, Harry. And I’m only human. Course I’ve got a crush on Polarman.’

  As soon as he sees Liam and me through the open back doors, Per steps inside from the deck to the living room.

  Liam walks past him. ‘I’m going for a walk. Harry’s sore. Don’t keep her up too long.’

  When Liam closes the door it muffles the sounds of the surf. Per and I face each other across the room. His sleeves are neatly folded to the elbows; his forearms are tanned and muscular. He rolls the sleeves down and does up the cuff buttons. He seems perfectly comfortable. I can’t stand the silence.

  ‘How long have you been out there? It’s freezing. And windy. But it is winter, after all. Aren’t you cold? Though I guess it’s not as chilly as Norway.’ Liam said I was jabbering before. I fear I’m jabbering again. When I point to his jacket, thrown over the stool where he left it, my hand isn’t quite steady. ‘Do you want to put that on?’

  He looks at me quizzically, but walks to the stool and picks up his jacket.

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to drink …’ I glance to where my hot chocolate was when I left the room. It’s not there anymore.

  ‘It was cold,’ he says.

  My gaze follows his to the kitchen. The mug is there, sitting on the bench with all the crockery that was in the sink before.

  ‘You washed and dried my dishes?’

  He ignores my question, and puts his jacket on. ‘Are you always cold? Is that why you wear pyjamas made out of winter sheets?’

  Don’t they have flannelette nightwear in Norway? The pyjamas I’m wearing now are light blue with white clouds and navy buttons. I walk past him and close the door from the living room to the hallway. Then I pull out the old electric heater that’s wedged between the bookcase and wall, and turn it on. The three bars make clunking noises as they heat up.

  ‘That thing’s a fire hazard,’ he says. ‘And environmentally unsound.’

  I need to be doing something, so I go to the kitchen and line up my mug, and another one, on the bench. ‘Do you want a drink?’

  He follows me. ‘Coffee. I can make it.’

  Has he been through all my cupboards and memorised where everything is kept? Or is he planning to use his X-ray vision to look through the doors?

  ‘I’ll do it. Instant okay?’ I point to the dining table and four chairs. ‘Please sit.’ I refuse to move until he does as I’ve asked, but even though he’s now on the other side of the kitchen bench I’m still horribly aware of him. Is it the uniform? Do I have some sort of officer fetish? I’ve never had one before. I pick up the jar of instant coffee. The cocoa box is still on the kitchen bench. He filed it neatly between the sugar bowl and the tea canister when he tidied up.

  ‘How long have you known Liam?’ Per has pushed his chair back from the table and his legs are stretched out. When he folds his arms and turns his body towards me the gold braid on his jacket collar glistens.

  ‘Is that what you’re hanging around to ask me about? Liam?’

  ‘No. What I want to talk about is your aversion to water. But you’re edgy. I’m making conversation.’

  My hands are so shaky I can’t get the teaspoons out. And I feel sick. At first I head for the table, but I don’t think I can sit comfortably on a hard chair, particularly if he’s opposite me. So I go back to my position on the sofa, sitting sideways with my back to him, one leg straightened and a cushion under my knee. I pull two cushions onto my lap and rest my slinged arm on them. Then I comb my fingers through my hair; it’s almost dry. I speak over my shoulder.

  ‘Get it over with, then.’

  He curses under his breath. At least I think he’s cursing because he’s speaking in Norwegian. Then I hear him in the kitchen—boiling the kettle, opening and shutting cupboards, and the fridge, warming up Liam’s coffee machine, and grinding beans. He positions a side table close to where I’m sitting and a dining chair on the other side of it. Two mugs appear. One hot chocolate. One black coffee. And a plate with two cheese and tomato toasted sandwiches, cut into triangular halves.

  ‘Eat,’ he says.

  When I awkwardly reach for the mug he picks it up and hands it to me. Then he goes back to the kitchen and comes back with another plate, puts one of the sandwiches on it, and balances it on the sofa next to me so it’s within my reach. He takes half a sandwich from the other plate and eats it silently.

  I keep my elbow on the cushions to support my shoulder, and cradle the mug with both hands. He watches me blow into it. It’s strong and bitter. I must have grimaced because he puts down his own mug and sandwich and reaches over to take my mug back.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Please.’

  I pick up a sandwich half and take a bite. Suddenly I’m ravenous, and it’s the best food I’ve ever tasted. It has ground pepper and sea salt and everything. As I eat my sandwich, and the half of his that he adds to my plate, he tells me he’s come to certain conclusions based on personal observation and information he’s gleaned from Kat, Tan and internet searches—that I was obviously traumatised by the accident I had when I was fourteen, and ever since then I haven’t swum. He theorises that I must’ve tried most things by now to remedy the situation (he even mentions the disastrous swimming lessons with Roger) and then he lists, pretty accurately, the sorts of medical professionals I must have seen by now. Finally, he asks a question.

  ‘I assume you’re suffering from some sort of post-traumatic stress associated with the accident. And that what happened on The Watch exacerbated it. Kat said watching her in the shallows made you nervous. Are you on any medication for anxiety?’

  I’m feeling much better after the hot chocolate, and one and a half sandwiches. ‘No. Anxiety wasn’t a problem till I met you.’

  ‘Same here.’ He’s leaning forward, holding his mug with both hands and studying what’s left of his coffee. He’s not trying to be funny. He’s as grim as ever.

  ‘I think I can help you to do it,’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stop you frowning all the time? What do you think?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Swim, Harriet. I think I can help you to swim.’

  I propel myself off the sofa so quickly that I knock the table onto its side. Then I trip over it. Per catches me before I hit the ground, grabbing my body in such a way that he hurts neither my shoulder nor my hip. My breaths are coming in short spurts. As soon as I have my balance I push against his chest. He hesitates before letting me go. For a moment I just stand there, my mind a maelstrom of thoughts. Like how cold the Southern Ocean was when I panicked and dived into it, and how the water in the crevice on the rock shelf was deep and dark. And how Per’s eyes are grey like the stormiest of seas. When I close my eyes against the images, memories of Drew take their place. I think about him taking me to Dr Makepeace, and the hypnotherapist, and countless psychologists. I went to them all just to please him. And every time I failed he patted my shoulder and said, ‘Not to worry, Harry, you did your best. You’ll be all right. I’ll keep an eye out.’

  The happiness I associate with Mum and Dad and Drew and The Watch is tangled up with the despair I feel about losing them. And the joy and heartache is inexorably linked to the sea and rivers and streams. Yet Per, who probably thinks less of me than anyone I know, is arrogant enough to believe he can fix me.

  I step over the mugs and plates and shove the heater out of the way. He follows me; I hear him turn off the heater as he passes it. Then I’m in my bedroom and so is he. When I turn away from the wall and face him, he’s only a metre away.

  My voice is croaky. ‘I don’t want help from you.’

  He takes a step towards me. I’m not sure what he’s thinking. ‘I know that, Harriet,’ he says, putting his thumb under my eye. ‘Don’t cry.
The salt will sting.’ He ignores my flinch, and wipes tears into my hair before they reach the grazes on my cheek. I stand mutely and twist my fingers together. After a while my tears stop and my nose starts to run. I swipe it with the back of my hand. Then I do a huge shuddering hiccough. He looks around, finds tissues on the bedside table, and hands me the box.

  I blow my nose. ‘Go away.’

  He speaks quietly. ‘Should I get Liam?’

  ‘Why?’ I wipe my eyes.

  He comes closer again, and although he’s not quite touching me, I smell his lemony shirt. And something else. Surely not salt and ocean again? I lean in and take a deep breath.

  ‘What are you doing?’ His eyes crinkle, just a little, at the corners.

  Suddenly my heart is thumping double time.

  ‘Nothing to say?’ he says. ‘That’s unusual.’

  I straighten my pyjama top.

  He watches me do it. ‘Those pyjamas are the same colour as the T-shirt you wore to the mediation.’

  Why is he talking about my pyjamas again? He waits for a response. I hardly recognise my own voice when I answer. It’s husky.

  ‘Cornflower blue. My mother liked it because …’ I don’t want to chat with Per. He seems to be closer than he was before. The buttons of his jacket are undone; one of the front panels juts out and brushes my collar.

  ‘Because?’ he says.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It’s your eye colour?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Suddenly he straightens and jerks his head in the direction of Liam’s room, across the corridor.

  ‘You don’t sleep with him, do you? Kat didn’t think so.’

  Is he observing my responses to him, so that he can draw conclusions about my relationship with Liam? I could tell him to mind his own business. Or tell the truth. Or not. Per is honourable. If he thinks I’m with Liam he’ll keep his distance. He won’t touch my lip with his thumb like he did in the quadrangle, or wipe beneath my eye when I’m in tears. Which will make it much more likely I’ll survive being attracted to someone who doesn’t like or respect me.

  ‘Have sex with him, you mean? Sure I do.’

  He frowns. Looks from me to my bed. It’s not a large bed, just a king single because my room is so small. Liam has the big bedroom.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘He kissed me before, when he was patching me up. Maybe you’d like to check for his DNA?’

  Per is silent for a minute at least. I’m sure he’s calculating whether Liam would have had time to check me over, tape my chin, and kiss me.

  Finally he says, ‘What sort of kiss?’

  Has he concluded it was just a kiss on the cheek? Is the fact that I haven’t had sex for eight years, and never enjoyed it even then, written all over my face? Does he think it’s impossible anyone could find me attractive? That Liam would want to kiss me?

  Before I lose my nerve I take a giant step forward and link my good arm around Per’s neck. The arm in the sling lies against his chest. His eyes flash silver, like they did when he touched my lip with his thumb. I’m relieved I can surprise him. I’m sick to death of him thinking he knows everything about me.

  ‘This sort of kiss,’ I say, standing on tiptoes and pressing my mouth against his.

  He moves his hands to my waist but the rest of his body is solid and immoveable like a statue. I’m not even sure that he’s breathing. I pull back a millimetre. I have to show him that Liam kissed me properly. So I run the tip of my tongue along the line of his firmly closed lips. Finally he reacts. Not by opening his mouth, but by making a growling sound deep in his throat. It reverberates through his chest and I feel it against my breasts. It encourages me, so I pull back a little and feather my fingers against his mouth, as if I can soften his lips that way. I trace the contour of his top lip with my index finger, and feel the texture of his bottom lip with my thumb. Finally he exhales, and his breath as he opens his mouth dampens my fingers. The sensation sends a tingling feeling through my body. It intensifies when he grasps my fingers in his and runs them along his lips again.

  ‘I don’t want the same kiss you gave him, Harriet,’ he murmurs. ‘I want my own.’

  His eyes aren’t flashing silver anymore, they are silver. He’s staring at my mouth. Waiting for me. I grasp his lapel and stand on tiptoes again, but I don’t kiss him like he’s expecting me to. I take his bottom lip between my teeth. Slowly and gently I bite it. Once, twice, three times. When he moans, I pull back.

  ‘Did that hurt?’

  His voice is raspy. ‘Not sure. Do it again.’

  I speak against his lips. ‘It wasn’t meant to hurt.’ I run my tongue over his lip, back and forth, and he makes the growling noise in his throat again. My nipples are so sensitive they’re uncomfortable so I press them even closer to his chest. I’m putting to the back of my mind all the reasons I don’t like him, and thinking about how nice and warm his body is, and how it was kind of him to make me a cheese and tomato sandwich, and give me half of his. But he’s not initiating anything and I’m not sure what I should be doing next. I pretend to be fascinated with one of the stripes on his collar and run my finger over the golden embroidery.

  ‘I don’t think I could hurt someone deliberately,’ I say.

  He dips his head and kisses my neck. He rests his cheek against mine. ‘You’ve elbowed me a few times,’ he says. ‘And you threw a rock at me.’

  ‘It was a penguin. And I missed. Anyway … I’ve never bitten anyone before.’

  ‘Harriet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Du. Er. Trøbbel.’

  ‘What?’

  He wraps his arms around me so firmly that when he pulls me tightly against his body I’m totally off the ground. One of my legs slips between his and he clamps his legs together to hold it there. When I lean forward the tingling sensation between my thighs intensifies and I gasp. He swallows the sound because even though our lips aren’t quite touching, he’s breathing in all of my breaths and I’m breathing in all of his. I want to kiss him so badly I ache with it.

  But then he jerks his head away and puts me on my feet again. He steadies me when I sway. Then he takes a step back and drops his hands by his sides. It’s as if we’ve never touched. His face is set and his eyes are arctic cool. My heart is hammering against my chest and my breaths are coming in short sharp gasps. He looks over my shoulder. He raises his brows. His tone is even.

  ‘Yes, Liam?’

  Liam is leaning against the doorframe. His eyes move from Per to me, and back to Per. It’s obvious he’s been there for a while. One leg is crossed casually in front of the other. He has a book in his hand.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he says. ‘Wanted to return this.’ He walks very deliberately between Per and me and puts the book, which he borrowed about a year ago, on the bookshelf with my other books. ‘You okay, Harry? Thought I told you to take it easy.’

  ‘Yes.’ My voice squeaks. ‘All good.’

  Per stands at ease. ‘Harriet and I may be spending a lot of time together in the next number of weeks. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?’

  He knew Liam was there. He held me like that because he wanted to see Liam’s reaction. To ascertain whether he would be jealous, or angry. Liam isn’t either of these things, which means we don’t sleep together. Per glances at me. He raises his brows as if he can read my thoughts. I don’t think he’s attracted to me at all. He couldn’t have recovered so quickly if he was. He merely wanted to catch me out because I’d lied to him.

  Liam stands next to me. ‘I’ll have a problem with it,’ he tells Per, ‘when Harry does. Until then you can do whatever you want.’ He adjusts the sling knot at my neck ‘Night, Harry.’ When he gets to the door he turns briefly. His eyes meet mine. ‘I’ll be in my room if you need me.’

  A minute passes, and then another. Per is facing the window and holding the windowsill, but there’s nothing for him to look at because the blind is closed.<
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  ‘I want to go to bed,’ I say.

  He turns. His eyes are back to normal. Basic grey. ‘I shouldn’t have come in here. Or let you kiss me. It complicates things. I apologise.’

  ‘Piss off!’

  He puts his hands in his front pockets, tips his head back, and stares at the ceiling.

  ‘I’m on shore leave, most of the time, for the next few months,’ he says. ‘It’ll take a week for you to get over your injuries. We’ll start the Monday after next. Six every morning so I can be at work by eight thirty. Here is as good a place as any.’

  ‘I’m a liability, remember? A danger to anyone who has anything to do with me. Why are you doing this?’

  ‘You’re exhausted. We’ll discuss it next week.’

  My voice is uneven but I’m determined to get the words out. ‘I want to get it over with now.’

  ‘Sit down, then.’

  I can barely stand so I do as he says, perching on the side of my bed. Then I listen silently as he explains how attempting to get me back in the water will benefit the foundation, Tan and him. Because when I do stupid things, like I did today, it reflects badly on all of us. He confirms that I can be involved with the Palau trip if I learn to swim. And this, as a result of my marketability, will improve the foundation’s chances of buying the ship.

  ‘I want that ship for three Antarctic expeditions,’ he says. ‘I agreed to the Scott and Amundsen idea on that basis. You owe it to Tan and me.’

  ‘What if I don’t agree?’

  ‘You risk Tan questioning the strength of your commitment to the foundation. And you’ll further compromise your credibility. Sinking The Watch, being unable to travel to Palau … Tan knows you’ll stick around. But maybe he’ll find someone else as well—to take the risks that you can’t take.’