Chapter 4

Man, who knew how hard it is to get into a wet suit? I never thought I'd relate to being swallowed whole by a boa constrictor. Thank God there isn't a camera in sight. Although, hello, people, it's no surprise that Tom is looking like the poster boy for outdoor adventure, bare-chested with the top of his wet suit hanging around his hips. Fuck, he looks good. Another heat-searing flashback nudges my hormones. For fuck's sake.

Why can't they accept I'm still fuming with the bastard for refusing to even acknowledge that night?

‘Well, hello,' drawls Tansy, standing next to me. ‘You lucky bitch, working with that.'

‘Mm.' I'm not committing to a word about him.

Having met everyone yesterday during the afternoon, today we're congregated on the sandy shore of the lake, twelve of us in total, and we're up against two other groups of twelve that have been sent out on other activities, no doubt to see how camera-worthy they are. Another burly instructor, Jordan, dressed all in black like a ninja warrior, surveys us in grim silence. Any second now I expect him to lunge into some sort of Matrix-style moves.

Of the twelve contestants in our cohort, six are all from one company, GreatCorp – where Harcourt is an exec director, surprise, surprise. Judging from the catcalls and comments, they know each other well. The remaining six are made up of Tom, Tansy, two women who look as if they'd rather be having a root canal than be here, a very earnest guy, Rory, who has insisted on asking us all our names and shaking our hands, and me.

‘This morning we're going to divide you into two teams and with the equipment available –' Jordan gestures towards a pile of ropes, wooden poles, large plastic drums and several oars as well as a dozen life vests ‘– you're going to build a raft and cross to the island under your own steam.'

‘Of course we are,' says Tansy, shooting me a look of rueful resignation.

‘The first team to reach the island wins.'

Everyone looks at one another with varying degrees of enthusiasm, horror and resignation. Tansy elbows me. ‘Glad I didn't blow dry my hair this morning.'

And then we're back at school as he begins calling out our names and dividing us into two teams. It's not quite as bad as being on the school sports field – this lot don't know my real name and my trainer soles aren't flapping, tripping me up.

I'm in a team with Tansy – thank you, God – Rory, one of the two timid women and two men from GreatCorp. And not Tom. Thank you even more, God.

‘You lot are the Sharks,' Jordan says to the other team. ‘You,' to us, ‘are the Jets. When I blow the whistle, you have three hours to build your raft and reach the island.'

I squint at the island. It looks a hell of a long way away over the grey flat water. The trees, which come right down to the shore of the island, are reflected in the surface of the water. It's all a bit closer to Swallows and Amazons than I ever thought I'd be and suddenly my childhood longings for freedom and escape don't seem quite as wonderful to me. Maybe I can be ground crew and shout encouragingly, ‘Pull, pull' or whatever those little people do at the back of the boat in a boat race.

‘The whole team has to get to the island, and everyone has to be transported on top of the raft.'

There's a pause as we all absorb this.

‘Lydia!' He shouts my name and I think I'm going to be told off for daydreaming.

‘Yes.'

‘You'll be team captain of the Jets.' Everyone turns to look at me. I smile weakly. Marvellous. Great. Wonderful. Thrust into the limelight. Just what I love.

‘Team captain of the Sharks … will be Tom.'

You couldn't bloody make it up. Me and Tom eye each other. I can see the minute he decides, game on. A slow smirk that signifies he's going to pound my team's sorry arse into the ground and enjoy every minute of it. Over my dead body. I can't believe someone like him needs the money. I only have to remember his sharp suit and hand-made brogues. What? He needs more designer gear? I need to get through to the next stage. I need to win that money. Gran's house is a whole lot more than bricks and mortar to me.

After looking over our supplies, which seem to include an awful lot of blue nylon rope (all the better to tie someone up and drop them into the bottom of the lake), we separate into our teams on opposite sides of the little bay, the wooden jetty equidistant between us. Our team gather around a wooden picnic bench. The two GreatCorp men, Richard and Alastair, have already assumed control and are discussing what they think are the best tactics, while behind them Tansy is taking the piss out of their mansplaining with a lot of eye-rolling and under-her-breath comments. Timid Verity, if ever a name was suitable, keeps very quiet and keeps looking anxiously at the water as if the Loch Ness Monster might emerge at any moment.

‘Right, let's sit down and make a plan,' I say. I'm not wasting the advantage of being team leader. It's an opportunity to shine even if I haven't got a clue what I'm doing.

‘It's obvious what we need to do. Lash the poles together and attach the floats.' Richard thumps his hand on the table to emphasise he knows best.

Alastair nods in agreement, rising to his feet.

‘Obvious,' drawls Tansy with impatient sarcasm.

I hold up a hand. ‘That's great and it is probably exactly what we need to do.'

Everyone laughs.

‘However, as we've got to act like a team,' I emphasise the word with spangly jazz hands to defuse the male egos, ‘it might be useful to see if anyone else has any ideas. And also, we might want to think about who does what.' I give a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Anyone any good at tying knots? I can tell you now, I'm crap. Never a Brownie or a Girl Guide.'

Richard looks at me with the enthusiasm of a toddler being told he can't have ketchup on his chips.

‘I was a Boy Scout,' says Rory. ‘Not a very good one. I've got problems with spatial awareness, dyspraxia and a dodgy back but I do have a Swiss Army penknife.'

Alastair folds his arms in silent disgust, which immediately makes me feel sorry for Rory. I'm always a sucker for the underdog.

There's a silence and then Verity speaks, her voice louder than expected as if she's forced herself to project it beyond its usual limit. ‘I crochet, so I'm quite good at knotting things.'

I smile at her warmly. ‘Brilliant.'

Emboldened by this, Rory raises a hand. I nod at him.

‘I just wonder if it might be a good idea to draw a plan. Sorry, I'm one of those visual learners, I need to see what something looks like.'

‘I'm the same,' says Tansy, and the smile she directs at Richard and Alastair is so sickly sweet it's tooth-rotting.

‘Great idea,' I say with faux enthusiasm. My team might kill each other before we even start building this bloody raft.

Alastair huffs but I give him an of-course-I-know-what-I'm-doing smile.

‘Anyone got any pen and paper?' asks Rory. Richard produces a very small, stubby pencil. ‘I play golf in this coat.'

‘Can anyone draw?' I ask as Tansy pulls out a tattered scrap of paper.

‘Me,' says Alastair. ‘I used to be a draughtsman.'

‘Great. Okay. Any ideas on design?'

‘A square with a float on each corner,' suggests Tansy.

‘They've given us six floats, so I think we should use them all,' says Richard.

He makes a good point.

We spend a few minutes discussing what shape the raft should be. I'm quite happy to let someone else take the lead on this but I guide them back to the mission every time things seem to be drifting, with a mix of cajolery and self-deprecation. It seems to work.

Alastair draws a shape and everyone chips in, tweaking the design until we're happy with what we've got. It's surprisingly unbloody.

I look over at the other team and my heart sinks. Balls. They are well under way with their construction.

‘Shit,' says Richard.

‘Slow and steady wins the race,' I say with far more confidence than I'm feeling. Everyone looks at me like I'm some sort of sage. I smile and stand tall. I've never designed a sodding raft in my life, how the hell do I know what I'm doing?

There is one good outcome, because we've spent the time planning, we know exactly what each of us has to do. Verity's expertise is a godsend, and she insists that we cut the rope into lengths. ‘If you have just one length of rope and it starts to untie, then the whole lot will.' She's got a point, although it takes up extra time – Richard and Alastair tut at this. Thankfully we have Rory's penknife. The other plus is that it means that more of us can work together at the same time, tying the poles together at regular intervals. She teaches the others how to knot, leaving them to lace together the base of the raft. We've gone with a long, thin design with floats at the front, the middle and the back, figuring that with three of us on each side we can paddle more quickly once we've launched the Apollo 11, as our craft has been named. Richard wanted to call it the Titanic, but he was overruled. Too much of a bad omen.

Even though we've started construction well after the other team, our raft is coming together as per the plan. Verity is our secret weapon and those knots hold firm when we lift up the raft to attach the floats beneath.

‘Shit, they're launching,' says Richard, as the other team hoist a square raft onto their shoulders and run lifeguard style towards the water's edge.

I look over doing my best to appear nonchalant. Is a square design better? ‘It's fine,' I say, ignoring the stab of panic as Tom singles me out, flashing me a triumphant smile.

‘Just one more float,' says Verity through gritted teeth, her tiny hand tugging hard at the nylon rope.

Richard is dancing about with barely contained impatience. Rory is handing out the life vests while Tansy and Alastair gather up the oars. Alastair is studying his drawing, his mouth drooping a little. ‘Maybe we'll win a prize for the best designed raft.'

‘They've still got to get to the island,' I say. ‘We've got this. It's an excellent design.' What the fuck do I know?

‘Okay, we're almost good to go,' says Verity still tying the final knot as the others lift up the raft and start running to the shore.

Tom is standing on the other raft and gives us a wave. The Sharks, paddling furiously, are already fifty metres ahead of us on the lake.

‘Shit, they're going to win,' says Richard.

‘No, they're not,' I say, feeling like a school governess reassuring her charges. Of course they bloody are.

‘Hell, no,' says Tansy, ploughing into the water up to her knees.

Somehow we launch our raft with all six of us on board. Everyone starts to paddle at once.

‘Wait,' I say. ‘Someone needs to count.'

‘I will.' Tansy starts immediately. ‘One, two, one, two.'

To my secret elation the raft slides smoothly through the water, although I'm not sure we'll be able to keep up this sculling pace; I'm already puffing.

Tansy grimly keeps count, even though her face is as red as mine.

Is it my imagination or is the gap starting to close?

There's movement on the other raft. One of the floats comes free and then as we puff and pant our way towards the island, we see that their raft is fast disintegrating. We're only a little bit behind them now and the island is less than half a kilometre away.

‘Keep paddling,' Tom bellows at his team. ‘Faster. Come on, don't give up.'

‘Fuck off, mate,' shouts one of the team. ‘This is shit.'

‘Why don't you paddle, you lazy bastard?' shouts the quiet woman.

‘Keep going, we can do this,' yells Tom.

I'm smirking now. The rear left of their raft is below the water line and they've all had to shuffle forward. Some of the poles making up the base of the raft are starting to drift apart and the Sharks are trying to hang on to them at the same time as paddle.

We glide level with them, our raft still perfectly intact.

It's panic stations on the Sharks' raft. Everyone is shouting at each other, countermanding themselves as the poles start to detach from the main body of the raft. One of the team falls in.

‘Get back on!' screams one of the women. But as the man struggles to board, another few sections of the raft separate, taking another float with them.

We're ahead of them now. Tansy has taken her foot off the gas and we're paddling in quite a leisurely manner as Tom's team all end up in the water. I give him a wave as we cruise towards the island. Victory has never tasted quite so sweet.

* * *

Tansy raises a glass of wine. ‘Cheers to our team leader.'

‘Thanks.' I grin and take a sip. It's actually been a fun day, although it helped that we won the morning's challenge. After that we had lunch and then went on a long hike with a couple of the Mannerdale Hall staff, which was supposed to be very amicable. However, the slightly scary, heavily musclebound staff members moved from group to group. With short buzz cuts and sharp observant eyes, they're the type that don't miss a thing and I'm horribly aware that we were being judged in some way. Tansy and I fell into conversation and spent most of the hike together, although Rory and Verity joined in frequently while Alastair and Richard good-naturedly took the piss when I struggled to get to the top of a rocky outcrop with a shove from behind from Richard. Our team has definitely cemented.

Dinner has a slightly gala-like feel because we're all dressed up (by order) but it's also very tense because everyone knows that in a little while we'll find out if we've made the grade. The other two groups of contestants are also here, bringing home the fact that I have a one in six chance of going through. I wonder for how many of the people here the money is so important. A make-up artist has been buzzing about dabbing powder on a couple of shinier faces and for the first time there's a cameraman quietly filming us. Following a debrief about the task this morning. I'm feeling a slight hopeful glow, having been commended for my leadership skills and managing my team so well that our raft won a special prize for being the best one ever built at the centre. Surely that's a promising sign.

Somehow they got hold of Alastair's drawing, put it in a cheap plastic frame and presented it to me. I'm rather touched and more than a little bit pleased with myself. Not, of course, that I show it. Tom seems to have taken failure very personally and has barely said a word to anyone all day. I would feel a bit sorry for him but he's so bloody competitive that I can't bring myself to be magnanimous and talk to him.

‘Very well done, Lydia,' says Verity.

‘I think your champion knot-tying had a lot to do with our victory,' says Alastair, with a warm, admiring look at Verity. ‘Although credit to Lydia, for bringing your light out from under the bushel.'

Verity blushes.

After dinner, we all move to a room, set up with rows of chairs and one of the scary guys stands up and asks us all to close our eyes. Once we do, he announces that anyone tapped on the shoulder is to get up and leave the room. The staff members all exchange serious, doom-laden looks, which is ever so slightly worrying. If you have to leave does that mean you haven't gone through, or does it mean you have? No one asks. We just look at each other, the tension vibrating in the room palpable as one by one we close our eyes.

I swallow and wipe my damp hands down the length of my skirt. This is it, make or break. Tomorrow I could be going home.