Chapter 10

When Tom and I examine our kit, it turns out that between us we have two groundsheets, a couple of bungy cords, one sleeping bag (in our hurry to get off the coach we left the other one behind), one bag of tent pegs, two enamel billycans with enamel mugs, four plates, four knives, four forks, two thermos flasks – both empty – four packs of unidentified dehydrated meals, a handful of energy bars, water sterilisation tablets, two first-aid kits, two microfibre towels and two identical maps. He doesn't need to know about my squirrel hoard, although I might break open the digestives later.

There's also one glaring omission. Shit, the phone. It must have fallen out on the coach. I decide that now is not the time to confess this to Tom, given that he's already irritated by the lack of tent, although that is hardly my fault.

Instead I focus on the first rule of survival, which I know from prodigious reading and reality TV shows is to build a shelter and get a fire going. When I point this out, Tom growls, ‘No shit, Sherlock. You're not the only one who's watched The Island with Bear Grylls.'

‘Fine. You sort the fire out and I'll make a start on a shelter.' Gosh I sound as if I know what I'm doing. Ha! As if I had the first clue but I'm hoping if he buggers off and leaves me to it, I can work something out.

‘I hate to point this out, but I don't have the tin with the matches and the firelighters. Do you?'

‘No, but there's plenty of sheep's wool. There are enough of them about.'

‘Sheep's wool. Fuck me, you're not expecting me to rub two sticks together to make fire, are you? I'm not a bloody Boy Scout.'

‘Shocker, I'd have thought you were.'

‘I was about ten years ago. However I'm not any longer and nor do I carry my dib dib dib dob dob dob kit around with me.'

‘You surprise me.' I say before pulling out the bundle of wool fibre from my pocket and holding it aloft. ‘Will this help?'

He scowls at me. ‘Great, aren't you a smartarse? Have you also got a handy magnifying glass in your other pocket?' he asks with a theatrical squint up at the rapidly greying sky.

‘No, but I do have this.' From my other pocket I produce a blue plastic cigarette lighter.

‘You smoke?'

I shake my head.

‘But you just happen to have a lighter on you.' He looks suspicious.

I shrug.

‘I'll go and collect some firewood,' he says and stomps off.

I lick my finger and strike it through the air. One point to me. I'm not going to lie, the feeling of superiority warms me right through. I'm bossing this outdoor lark. Teamwork, not so much. We still hate each other.

Who knew watching so much TV and reading Swallows and Amazons so many times would come in this useful? In no time at all I've gathered armful after armful of sweet-smelling brown bracken and piled it up between two rocks. I figure we can lie on the bracken, use one of the ground sheets as a cover and the other as shelter. See? This outdoor stuff is a breeze.

* * *

The rain holds off although darkness has fallen, bringing with it an autumnal chill, but it's okay as we're sitting in front of a fire, tucking into extremely welcome foil bags of rehydrated spaghetti bolognese. It's almost cosy apart from the company.

‘Enjoying that?' Tom asks, poking his fork at the brown mix and munching with barely concealed disgust.

I shrug even as I'm wolfing mine down. It's food. It's hot.

‘It's okay.'

‘Okay? Do you own any tastebuds? It's rank.' His whole face scrunches up as he pulls a ‘yuk' expression.

I glare at him. ‘You ought to finish it.'

‘I'd rather eat my own shoes than this crap.'

When he tosses the pack aside my fingers tense around the fork I'm holding. I will not stab him. I will not stab him. But it's bloody tempting.

He catches sight of my face and throws the pack my way. ‘Fill your boots, love.'

I hate him at that moment. So much that a ferocious, sharp pierce of hot, white rage burns through me.

Adept at hiding my feelings after years of practice when I was a kid, I pick up the pack and with a calm casualness that belies my inner fury, I shake the contents into my own foil sachet while he watches, trying to work out if I'm taking the piss. His hand makes a slight grabby move as if he now regrets the action. All we've had since breakfast is one cold bacon roll.

Too late. I carefully take slow mouthful after mouthful until it's all gone. It's a point of principle. I never leave or waste food. He watches every bite, the scowl on his face deepening and then when I finish and crumple up the pack, a sneer twists his lips and he looks down his nose.

‘You must be one hell of a cheap date.'

My anger is sucked out, as fiercely as life through an open window in a pressurised plane, humiliation rushing in, dousing me in utter shame. I'm a child again, out of my depth, mocked by someone with far more refinement than I'll ever have. I am nothing. A no one. I want to curl into a ball and hide from him except I don't do that anymore. I fight back because I'm a grown up.

‘Screw you,' I say and march down to the water's edge to refill the billycan purely for something to do. Anything to stop me feeling powerless again. I swallow the angry tears. I'm angry at myself for allowing him to affect me. I've built a carefully constructed persona since I gained my independence. I don't expect anything from anyone. I don't allow myself to be humiliated or looked down upon and I don't rely on anyone but myself. Yet, like a bloody tick, Tom has managed to work his way under my skin. I gave too much of myself away that weekend and I'm annoyed. It takes a few minutes of staring at the black water and watching tiny ripples pooling on the edge of the little sandy beach, before I feel my emotions calming.

We sit in silence watching the flames of the fire. In another world it would be companionable, even romantic. But I'm brooding, revisiting past slights, and all in all having a complete pity party, which actually isn't like me. For the most part, I've put my past behind me. I'm an adult now, with my own money and my own home. I can make my own decisions, protect myself and decide who I let in. Eleven months ago, I made a terrible mistake believing that Tom Dereborn came to care for me in that brief forty-eight hour period. What on earth possessed me? I've been careful with my heart my whole life. I know people let you down. They can't be relied upon, so why on God's earth did I, for one stupid stinking minute, think that in this case it would be any different? But for some reason, it had felt different. I let my guard down. I let myself believe that we had something special between us, that the chemistry was something more. That the tender care he gave me meant something. More fool me. It was just a bloody good shag fest. Excellent sex for both of us.

Spite makes me bring it up because I know he'd rather do anything but talk about it.

‘Do you ever think about that weekend?' I ask, idly looking up at the pine tree above us. The birds have fallen silent and the only sound around us is the lap of the water and the fierce pop and crackle of the flames of the fire.

‘What?' He might as well have added ‘the fuck' because it echoes in the words. I'm not going to let up, not going to give him an inch. We've danced around it since Barcelona and earlier in the coach all he could admit to was having a good time, but now I'm fed up, pissy and want to make him squirm. Did it really not mean anything to him?

‘That weekend. When we had sex?'

There's a pause and I can see him thinking, which is sad because all he can come up with is a very lame, ‘We had sex. We had a good time. End of.'

A small part of me dies. He's sticking to that story. Deep, deep inside of me, I'd nurtured and caressed this stupid fantasy that it had been as mind-blowing for him as for me. Obviously not. I want to howl at him. Good time? Good? Just good? It was the most amazing sexual experience of my entire life. I have never exposed myself to anyone the way that I did for that brief weekend. I've lost my train of thought and it takes me a moment to arrange the carriages back on the track. Tom is very good at avoiding things he doesn't want to talk about. He's a champion derailer. But I'm not about to be diverted.

‘Really? You must have a lot of good sex.'

‘What?' He looks over at me, brows crinkling as if he has absolutely no idea what I'm talking about and is perhaps oblivious to the unintentional compliment. But I plough on, determined, it seems, to make a dick of myself.

‘It was good sex.' I'm not going to stroke his ego and tell him it was really good sex, that would be stupid. Telling him it was the best ever, even stupider. ‘If you ever think about a career change, maybe you could consider the gigolo business.'

I'm pleased to see his mouth drops open before he gathers himself. ‘Thanks. I'll keep it in mind. I'm sure my parents would be thrilled.'

This is a complete curve ball. Like his parents would care?

‘They might be,' I say, for the sake of saying something, but it appears I've touched a nerve.

‘I can assure you, my parents would be horrified. As far as my father is concerned, insurance is the only viable career. Gigolo, even if I wanted to be one, would be out of the question.' Then, with the most surprising and rather charming, self-deprecating frown, he asks with a quick laugh, ‘I have wondered, what, precisely, does being a gigolo entail?'

‘I think it's being a paid companion to a woman, providing her with sexual services as well as escort duties.'

‘Sounds very much like my parents' marriage except it's the other way round.'

‘Civilised,' I observe.

‘Very. Although I think they're happy enough with the status quo. The don't row. In fact, the only people my dad gets hacked off with are me and my brother and sister.' He gives a mirthless laugh, but I see the tightening of his jaw on one side.

‘My parents used to thrive on rows,' I muse. The bigger, the better. Drama and passion fuelled by alcohol and the occasional recreational drug.

‘Used to? Are they dead?'

I shake my head. ‘Not as far as I know.'

‘You don't know?'

‘I lost touch with them a long time ago.'

‘You lost touch with your parents?' The incredulity in his voice pinches at me. ‘How does that even happen?'

Is he for real? I can't believe he's even asking this.

‘Yes,' I say. ‘It happens.'

‘How come? Did they throw you out or something?'

Now it's my turn to laugh without humour. ‘No, I got a job and left home.'

Why does everyone assume I was despatched from the nest? After I figured there was no Fairy Godmother waiting for me in the wings and learned there was no point complaining to my parents about not having the right uniform or the right shoes, or picking fights with the school about attendance, I began working on my independence. As soon as I could, I got a paper round so that I could buy the right colour school skirt, blue instead of black – so I didn't keep getting detention – and I learned to forge my parents' signatures on letters and lied about their whereabouts on parents' evenings. It wasn't like they beat me or each other. They weren't bad people. Just self-absorbed, uninterested in me and hooked on booze. As soon as I saved enough from my job – they thought I was still going to school otherwise I wouldn't have seen a bean – I upped and left.

Since then, I've been on my own.

‘But you don't keep in touch with them?'

‘No.' What else is there to say?

He tilts his head to one side, considering. ‘I'd love to divorce my parents. Just imagine, no more nagging texts, complaining about what I've forgotten or haven't done, or those helpful reminder ones, which assume I'm going to forget and won't do something. Oh, for a quiet life. Lucky you.'

I give him a tight smile. Sounds like his parents at least give a shit.

We both stare reflectively into the fire and I fail to stifle a yawn and a shiver. I'm knackered and it's definitely getting colder. There's dampness in the air and if I'm not mistaken the odd rain drop. My body is aching from all the exercise and my back is killing me.

‘What time is it?' he asks. His watch has long since died.

‘Quarter to nine.'

We both glance back at the makeshift tent-cum-shelter than I've built. Bear Grylls would be proud of me. One end of one groundsheet is stretched across two rocks and secured to them with the bungy cords and the other end slopes down to the floor to create a roof over sheltering the small dip between the rocks, anchored with tent pegs through the reinforced metal holes. I'm rather proud of it.

Of course, we haven't discussed sleeping arrangements. There's one sleeping bag between us and another groundsheet, which I thought we could lay over the bracken mattress to keep the creepy-crawlies at bay.

Another raindrop lands on my face followed in quick succession by a few more.

‘It's raining,' says Tom.

‘It is.'

‘Time for bed.'

‘Yes.'

Neither of us want to address the fact that we're going to have to share sleeping space as we crawl hurriedly into the shelter. There is literally just room for both of us side by side and, at the tallest bit, immediately in front of the rocks, space for our rucksacks.

‘You can have the sleeping bag,' he says as we rustle our way across the groundsheet-covered bracken.

‘Don't be silly. If we open it up, we can share it.'

The rain starts to patter on the roof, insistent drops that hammer on the plastic groundsheet.

The glow of the fire starts to die away and before long we're in total darkness.

I wrestle with the sleeping bag and undo the zip and spread it out.

‘Have you got a hat?' asks Tom.

‘Yes.'

‘I'd put it on. It'll help keep you warm in the night. You lose most of your body heat from your head.'

‘Right.' I pull the woolly pom-pom hat from the front pocket of my rucksack. It's got silver sparkly thread running through it, which makes it a bit scratchy, but I put it on.

After a bit of shifting and fidgeting, both of us finally lie down. The plastic groundsheet is cold beneath my back but hopefully it will warm up soon. Tom is beside me. I can hear him breathing. I'm glad he's there but only because he's better than nothing. I'd hate to be here on my own.

The sleeping bag only just covers me, partly because I'm trying to keep as much distance from Tom as possible, making sure I'm not touching any part of him.

‘Lydia. I'm not going to bite and we have slept together before.'

‘Yes. So you said. "We had sex. End of," I seem to recall.'

‘Are you miffed about that?' He turns on his side to face me, bringing the warmth of his body closer. ‘It was a one-night stand. Neither of us made any promises.' His voice rises dismissively.

I turn to face him, my head lying on the crook of my arm. I can't see much in the dark gloom of the shelter, but I know his face is a matter of inches from mine. I remember waking at one point that weekend and watching him sleep for a little while, the dark pinpricks of bristles dusting his chin, the long lashes curving against his cheek, the serenity of sleep across his face.

The sleeping bag settles around us, cocooning us in, and I feel warmer already.

‘Not miffed at all. Like you said, it was a one-night stand. Although technically it was two.'

‘Whatever.'

I sigh and then realise I'm so close he could probably feel the hot breath on his face.

The rain continues to hammer down but it's actually quite snug in here. Cosy almost. I close my eyes.

‘Night, Lydia.' His words surprise me.

‘Night, Tom.'

My aching body settles into the bracken base. I wouldn't say it's that comfortable but it's better than the hard ground and I'm quite good at sleeping anywhere. I've had years of practice.

But falling asleep isn't that easy. I'm conscious of Tom and I keep getting flashbacks of that first night. I wonder if he does too. Doubtful. He refuses to talk about it, so I'm guessing he's completely deleted that weekend from his memory banks, like a computer.

I close my eyes and try not to wriggle. My usual bedtime routine is to burrow in my covers and savour the contentment of being in my own bed under a feather duvet and crisp cotton sheets. I treat myself to nice things because I can. I feel slightly homesick for my little flat and imagine the double bed, the streetlight streaming through the window. I sigh again, wishing I was there. My bolthole.

‘Go to sleep, Lydia,' grumbles Tom. ‘I can hear you thinking. Your virtue is safe with me.'

‘I never thought otherwise.' I can't resist the quip. ‘If nothing else, you were quite the gentleman.' Although he was filthy, talking dirty and telling me what he wanted to do to me, he did constantly check that I was okay with everything, and I mean every damn thing.

I remember him murmuring against my thigh, ‘Is this all right? Do you want me to carry on?' before he sucked my clit so thoroughly I thought I might pass out. Then, as he was circling my nipple with his tongue, urging me in between licks and nips to ‘Tell me what you want.' And before that first thrust inside me, with his dick rock-hard at my entrance, nudging and teasing, asking between heavy breaths, ‘Do you want me to fuck you?'

In my head I can hear my incoherent cries urging him on, begging him for more. Those quiet questions, him in command, were as much a turn-on as his mouth and fingers, which played my body like a conductor in charge of an orchestra playing an entire symphony.

And why am I torturing myself like this?

‘Gentleman? I fucked you seven ways to heaven,' he says a couple of seconds later with a disbelieving snort.

‘Did I complain?'

He lets out a breathy laugh. ‘No. You were fucking amazing. The most responsive woman I've ever sl… fucked. There, I've said it now. Are you happy?'

Yeah. I'm delirious. Now, of all times, he admits it was more than just a good time. Great. Now I'm warm and wet. I squirm, the seam of my trousers rubbing against me. But his words are a timely reminder. Fucked. It was just sex. Not some great sexual epiphany that might morph into feeling. Just chemistry, pure and simple.

‘Go to sleep, Tom,' I snap, irritated as much with myself as him.