You, Me & the Sea Read online

  Carol and Jane and Brian are going home today. Rachel will miss them; they’ve been her favourite guests so far. They’ve talked to her more than anyone else, thanked her more than anyone else, asked her how she is every time they’ve seen her. After a week she has almost begun to think of them as friends, although now they’re leaving and the chances are she’ll never see them again.

  Fraser comes to stand next to her on the jetty.

  ‘Hello,’ she says.

  ‘Hello yourself.’

  She has been back in her own bed for the past few nights. No reason in particular, although if she’s honest she has been thinking a lot about Kelly. Despite the fact that there has been a mild sort of flirting going on, Rachel has gone to bed early in an attempt to catch up on sleep; she hasn’t heard him come upstairs. He has been out with Lefty before she’s got up in the morning.

  A moment later the Island Princess chugs around the corner, bright and cheerful in the sunshine. Behind her, the Prof and Carol and Jane come down the hill, chattering and laughing.

  Fraser helps to make the boat fast, and then there’s the ritual handing over of crates of shopping, the return of the empty crates, the brief exchange of news between Fraser and Robert, since he won’t be coming back tomorrow; there are no new guests this week. Then the passengers are helped aboard, goodbyes are said. And they’re off.

  ‘Better get on with it, I suppose,’ Rachel says.

  ‘I’ll give you a ride back.’

  At the bird observatory he offers to help, but she has a system now and, besides, he has a million other jobs to do.

  The cleaning doesn’t take her long at all. She will give it a second going-over at the weekend, make everything look super-smart for Marion on Monday. And it turns out she only has one set of bedding to launder.

  She thinks about Brian and Carol and Jane, the three of them in their relationship, how it works, whether it works. They all seemed happy enough, didn’t they? And they’ve been coming here for years, in that same relationship, so it’s lasted a long time. There are religions that allow polygamy. Rachel thinks they all seem to be about enabling men to have multiple partners while still remaining virtuous in their particular faiths; she wonders if there are any religions that allow women to have multiple husbands.

  Not that she wants more than one.

  Not that she wants a husband at all.

  Fraser

  Tonight’s wine is a good rioja. Should go well with the tagliatelle he’s made from scratch, with tomato and olive sauce.

  The boat has brought a veritable cellarful of wine. Despite that, Fraser is wondering how long he can make it last. It’s not that he wants to drink. It’s not that he needs to drink. Perhaps what the bottles represent is a reason to sit in the kitchen or in the lounge for an hour or so after they’ve finished eating.

  When he’d emailed the order through, Craig had actually phoned him to discuss it, the nosy bastard.

  ‘She there with you?’

  ‘No. She’s upstairs. Why?’

  ‘How youse two getting on, then?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Aye. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘No problems with her?’

  ‘If there were, I’d say so.’

  ‘Ah. The wine for her, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Jesus, Fraser, could you be any more cagey?’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ he’d said, with a heavy sigh.

  Craig had made a hmm noise and Fraser could hear the smirk in his voice and he thought he was being laughed at. He’d felt the anger rise in his throat, swallowed it down.

  ‘You got me decent bottles, I hope?’

  ‘Ha! You expecting vintage stuff?’

  ‘I’m expecting something I can actually drink.’

  ‘You going to manage five bottles in a week? Plus whisky?’

  ‘I’m paying you the extra, it’s none of your fucking business.’

  ‘I’m assuming you’re sharing it.’

  ‘I’ll pass you the empties; you can think all you fucking like.’

  He’d ended the call. Craig was fishing for gossip. What was he expecting? That he and Rachel were best pals? Or did he want to hear that suddenly Fraser was drinking himself to oblivion every night?

  After dinner they take the bottle into the lounge. From Lefty’s room next door comes the sound of some loud movie with car chases and machine guns. He thinks about suggesting a game of Scrabble or something but instead he finds himself kissing her, and she’s kissing him back hard enough for him to realise that this is going somewhere. The condoms – a dwindling supply – are upstairs. He can’t bring himself to go upstairs and get them and he doesn’t want to interrupt things to suggest they move, so he contents himself with his hand inside her jeans, his fingers slipping inside her while she fidgets and squirms and he kisses her harder.

  ‘Lie down,’ he says, after a while.

  She is flushed, breathing hard. ‘What if Lefty hears?’ she says.

  He is pulling her jeans down, easing her bum up on to the arm of the sofa so she is just at the right height. ‘You’ll just have to try hard to keep quiet,’ he murmurs against her.

  Her fingers tangle through his hair as he lifts her thigh over his shoulder. He’s going to make her wait a while, but not too long – even he has no desire to be confronted with Lefty at the door, although once he’s in his room Lefty rarely comes out again. But he’s decided this is almost his favourite thing, his mouth on her, besides which, he is learning what works and what doesn’t. He’s been paying attention.

  After a while he feels her hand on his cheek.

  ‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Stop.’

  He moves up to her and kisses her. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I just – I don’t know. Thinking too much.’

  ‘Hm. What about?’

  She doesn’t answer straight away. Pulls up her jeans, finds her glass of wine, discarded on the coffee table. ‘Nothing important. I think it’s just too hard to relax with Lefty next door.’

  Fucking Lefty.

  ‘And Marion coming on Monday.’

  Oh aye, fucking Marion.

  ‘I was thinking about the cottages,’ she says.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Do you think we need to clean them up a bit?’

  ‘What, for her visit? No, fuck that. She should see them exactly as they are.’

  ‘I guess you’re right. Anyway, it’s not my job to worry about all of that, is it?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ he says, ‘you’re going to bugger off soon and I’ll get Julia. I’d forgotten about her.’

  ‘She’ll be good with the birdwatchers,’ she says.

  ‘Aye, maybe. Bit different from lichens, though. At least lichens don’t shit on you from a great height.’

  ‘Although neither do birdwatchers, generally.’

  It’s not even particularly funny but for some reason it tickles her; she laughs and then she can’t stop laughing.

  ‘I don’t want you to think …’ he says, and then stops.

  ‘What?’ she asks. ‘You don’t want me to think what?’

  ‘That I’m using you. For sex.’

  A slow smile spreads across her mouth. He can’t take his eyes off her. She sips at the wine, looking at him over the rim of her glass. ‘Maybe I’m using you for sex,’ she says. ‘After all, I keep ending up in your bed.’

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘whatever.’

  There is a long pause, in which he thinks about just taking her by the hand and going upstairs.

  ‘This isn’t a relationship, though,’ she says, and the way she says it feels like cold water.

  ‘No,’ he answers, slowly. ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘No,’ she says. She leans forward, takes the wine bottle off the table and fills his glass, and hers. The bottle’s empty now. ‘I think the issue is that you and I have very different ideas of what a relationship is. And the main point is … it’s jus
t a word.’

  He doesn’t answer that.

  ‘Why don’t you do relationships?’

  She’s going to keep at it, he thinks. They were always going to have this conversation. The trick is to allow it to happen, allow her to ask. The trick is to get through the next few minutes without getting angry. He focuses on her mouth, the shape of it, the fact that he wants to kiss her again but she would think he was just doing it to shut her up.

  ‘Because I don’t want to be responsible for someone else’s happiness.’

  ‘What about your happiness?’

  He can’t respond to that. It’s never even crossed his mind.

  ‘Your head is too full of feelings to let anything else in,’ she says.

  He barks a laugh. ‘I can assure you there is nothing swimming around in my head, feelings or anything else. Other than maybe wine.’

  ‘That’s because they’ve all gone hard and solid, like a brick, weighing you down. You’ve got no room for anything else.’

  stones in my pockets

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘Well, it isn’t, it’s fine. But it doesn’t seem very healthy. Human beings are designed to be in pairs, and—’

  Man, it comes from nowhere. Surges up, pushed up from his gut by the shame and the knowledge that she’s right and he hates himself more than he hates anyone else right now. ‘What is it you want? You want the two of us to fall in love and get married and have babies?’

  It’s as if he wants her to flinch. But she doesn’t.

  ‘I just want you to be a bit more open to yourself. Not sitting there like … like … a padlocked cupboard, or something.’

  ‘What the fuck? Why do you even care? You’ll be away to your family soon enough.’

  ‘Yes, I will. Which proves my point. This isn’t anything to do with me. It’s about you being kinder to yourself.’

  He’s looking at the bottom of the wine glass, the last of the wine spiralling as he twists the glass in his fingers.

  ‘There’s no point in committing,’ he says. ‘I can’t commit to anything. To anyone. Ever.’

  ‘Why not?’ she asks.

  He looks at the door. Thinks about getting up. Thinks about walking out, right now, walking away.

  ‘Fraser? Why not?’

  ‘Because of him,’ he says.

  Stop it, he thinks. Stop it now stop it right now.

  ‘Because of Lefty? Why? Because you’re looking after him?’

  stop it don’t say it don’t say another word

  He drinks the last of the wine.

  ‘Because I’m going to kill him.’

  9

  Marion

  Rachel

  I’m going to kill him.

  She’s spent most of the day thinking about it. As soon as he said it, she could see that he was desperate to take back the words.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Nothing. Don’t worry about it.’

  Moments later into the subdued silence he’d announced he was tired and going to bed. She’d called his name, asked if he was okay, and he had just said goodnight.

  Today he has been avoiding her as much as he can. He’s been quiet over dinner and, although she’s tried – more than once – to coax him into talking, he has retreated into himself.

  ‘It was nothing,’ he says, now. ‘I had too much to drink, mouthing off as usual.’

  They’re eating a chicken stir fry, delicious as always but not as elaborate a meal as she’s been used to. Fraser does look tired. Last night she slept in her own room again, listening out for him shouting, didn’t hear anything. She wonders if he has slept at all.

  ‘But it’s got something to do with Lefty. What’s going on between you, Fraser? Why is he here, if you hate him so much?’

  ‘He’s just an annoying little runt. I know I push him, but if I didn’t he wouldn’t do anything at all, just sit in there playing games all day.’

  ‘But you said you’re going to kill him.’

  ‘Would you just leave it?’

  He poured her wine over dinner, had half a glass himself, and no more. As soon as he finishes eating he gets up to wash up. She watches him. She can’t pretend it wasn’t just a little bit scary, hearing him say those words. It’s not just the words themselves, it’s the way he said them. There was no venom behind them, no real anger; it was just a statement of fact. Baldly put. He meant it. She knows he meant it.

  And then there’s the knife she saw, on her first night here. She had been wondering if maybe she imagined it, maybe had been seeing things, since she has been in Fraser’s room quite a lot since then and has never seen it since. But she knows it exists, and she doesn’t know where it is, and that bothers her. She’d rather it were there, in plain view, so she could keep an eye on it.

  She brings her plate and the two glasses, leaves them on the counter and picks up a tea towel.

  ‘You know I’ll never hurt you,’ he says. ‘Right?’

  That he even needs to say this adds a whole new level of concern. ‘But you’d hurt him?’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Does he deserve it?’ she asks, shocked.

  He’s not going to answer that one. She can see that he’s shut down again.

  When the dishes are dry and put away he stands in the open doorway while Bess races out into the darkness. Rachel comes to stand next to him, her hand on his back in a gesture that’s meant, somehow, to be soothing.

  ‘I might go to the mainland,’ he says. ‘Once the visit from Her Majesty is out of the way.’

  She frowns, confused. ‘Why do you want to go to the mainland?’

  She feels the muscles working under her hand as he tenses, then he moves as Bess scampers back through the door. Moves away from her, deliberately.

  ‘I just have some things I need to do. Admin stuff.’ After a moment he adds, ‘You can come with me, if you like.’

  She has the strongest sense that he would rather she didn’t. There’s nothing in what he actually says, just a feeling.

  ‘Would you like me to?’ she asks, testing him.

  ‘It’ll be boring,’ he says. ‘I need to do a few jobs. Get a haircut, buy some things. I’m only going for one night, maybe two.’

  That’s it, she thinks. To confirm, she says, ‘Where are you going to stay?’

  He smiles, a little, a grim sort of smile that doesn’t make it up to his eyes. ‘I do have a house in Anstruther. Just a wee terrace. It’s where I spend most of the winter.’

  She had been half-expecting him to say that he was going to stay at Kelly’s house, so this makes her feel marginally better. There is no reason why he couldn’t have Kelly over, of course. And, the more she thinks about it, it’s entirely possible that Kelly actually lives in his house – maybe she is his tenant? After all, would you really have a house sitting empty for nine months or more of the year, without letting it out? Maybe she’s actually a lot more than his tenant. Maybe they are even married, or something.

  She thinks he is being deliberately evasive. She also thinks she is being suddenly, inexplicably needy, not to mention ridiculously imaginative. What he does is none of her business, as he is just stopping short of telling her. And she doesn’t think he’s ever lied to her, so he probably isn’t now. She bites her cheek and stops herself asking him anything else.

  She takes a step back from him at the exact moment that he moves towards her. His hand brushes her arm and she stops and looks at him in surprise, just as he wraps his arms around her and pulls her into a hug. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, into her hair.

  ‘What for?’ she asks. A small pit of anxiety opens up inside her, the feeling that he’s about to tell her something really awful.

  ‘There’s just some stuff I can’t talk about.’

  ‘Oh. Are you ever going to tell me about it?’

  ‘Possibly not.’

  He kisses the top of her head firmly, and releases her.


  Two hours later, she is in bed when she hears him call out. A cry of alarm, as if someone has jumped on him. She has not slept yet, still thinking about the knife and the I’m going to kill him. Despite this, her heart thumps wildly as she waits and listens. It’s all quiet. After a moment she hears him getting up, going to the bathroom. Hears his footsteps on the landing outside. A moment later there is a very soft knock at her door.

  ‘Rachel?’

  She gets up to let him in. Doesn’t say anything. Just lets him.

  Fraser

  It’s just sex, he thinks, watching her sleep.

  She’s turned to face him, her cheek resting on her hand, and her cool breath is faintly scented with garlic, and he wonders how, at the same time, it’s a little bit unpleasant and yet he finds it utterly impossible to turn away from her.

  Maybe that means it’s not just sex, after all. Who knows?

  He keeps staring at her just the same.

  In the morning he gets up without waking her, makes porridge and coffee, collects a few things in a carrier bag, and then takes Bess down to the cottages. A thick fog is blanketing the island, a heavy stillness with the calls of the birds echoing through it. A weird sort of day. Fog sometimes settles on the Firth and stays for a long time. Fog won’t stop the boat, though. They need strong winds and heavy seas for that. And the forecast for tomorrow is still fine.

  He has left Lefty in bed. Today is usually the day Lefty cleans out the chickens, but, even so, he has no desire for company this morning.

  The steep path disappears into the fog below him and he’s aware of the loch the whole time even though he can’t see it, thinking of the flat black surface and what might happen if he took a wrong turn. He’s grateful when he sees the looming white shape of the terrace coming into view, and a minute later he’s there.

  Rachel had seen the cottages, seen what was in the second cottage, and had not commented. Maybe she hadn’t noticed. Maybe she had seen it and, coming from a bustling city, had not thought it odd. But Marion will be here tomorrow and she will be looking at everything very closely, and if there’s something to be noticed Marion will notice it. He cannot take the risk of leaving things as they are.