‘Yes.’ She wasn’t cold any more, only a little light-headed; in places her body was burning. She rolled onto her side and watched him turn his gaze towards the water. She wondered what he was thinking.
The silence between them felt strange now, uneasy. She wasn’t sure why. She sat up and folded his towel, laying it beside her. She let her hair down from its ponytail and wrung the excess water from it.
Glancing up, she found he was watching her again. ‘I’m so glad I met you, Georgia,’ he said, his voice soft. ‘I’m still getting to know the area – I haven’t even started work yet, so this is a bit unexpected . . .’ He looked serious, then smiled. ‘And as much as I like rescuing you, that was a bit intense. So, how about I take you for dinner or drinks or a dance somewhere, without you having to swim across a tarn?’
He put his hand on her leg, and it was an effort to sit still at his touch. Her mind jumped backwards, remembering her hands in his hair a few moments ago. She was desperate to do that again.
‘Sounds good,’ she said.
In response, he leaned over and kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and felt him solid and unyielding against her. His hand found the spot where her ribcage disappeared beneath the softness of her breast, and she thought, If he moves his hand even a little bit higher I am going to explode.
But there were more voices now, growing louder fast enough to bring them back to their surroundings. When they pulled away from each other she was sure that not much time could have passed, but a few grey clouds seemed to have rolled in to blot out the sun, and the day felt different. Colder.
‘Do you want to get back?’ she had asked him, hoping he would say no. But he had nodded and gestured at the sky. ‘I suppose we should.’
? ? ?
Stop the memory here, stop the memory here, her brain screams at her, even though this wasn’t where the scene ended. Over time she has grown better at safely cutting off the replay during their moment of connection, rather than letting it run on to the horror that came afterwards. But today she is dozing, not fully in control of her thoughts, and so they march on anyway, only interrupted when her phone begins to ring.
She comes to her senses in sheer panic, then realises she is alone in her room. She’s safe. She snatches the phone up quickly, unsure how long she has been dozing but not wanting her mother to hear the distinctive blast of Avicii. She doesn’t recognise the caller, but the first few digits of the number are familiar.
‘Hello?’ she says uncertainly. As she does so she sees that a note has been slipped onto her bedside table. Her mother has gone back to school.
‘Is this Georgia Turner?’ The woman’s voice is unfamiliar.
‘Yes.’
‘My name is Christina Kale – I’m the coordinator of tomorrow’s race. You forgot to put your age on the entry form, so I just wanted to double-check?’
Her heart is still thudding as she says, ‘I’m seventeen.’
‘Wonderful, thank you. Good luck tomorrow, Georgia – looks like plenty of rain tonight, so don’t wear your best gear, eh?’ she chuckles.
‘Thank you,’ says Georgia. The woman’s words make her uneasy, but perhaps because she is still thinking of the rain that had approached on that other day. When she ends the call, she checks her phone. It was as she suspected: the same number that had called last night. It had been nothing to worry about, after all.
She sees the time – nearly half-past three. She has slept for over an hour.
Her ears strain but she cannot hear anything. Perhaps she is alone in the house. Her fingers are tingling and her head feels strange. She shakes both hands, trying to encourage her blood to pump around her body, and for the first time wonders if her mother is right. Should she really be running an endurance race in a little under twenty-four hours?
She cannot bear this any longer. She needs to talk to someone. She gets up and straightens her clothes, smooths her hair, then goes downstairs. The door to the front room is ajar, and she peeps around to see her dad in the armchair, reading. As a little girl she would have run across to him and jumped onto his lap without a second thought. Lately she can’t even bring herself to catch his eye, for fear he’ll somehow know the truth, and his disappointment will be clear.
She goes across to him. ‘Dad,’ she whispers, stroking his arm.
He jumps at her touch and puts the book down. ‘Georgia, are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’ She pats his sleeve. ‘But I need to get out for a while. Can you take me to Bethany’s?’
17
ANYA