Read A Lesson in the Storm: Season of Desire: Part 1 (Seasons Quartet) for Free Online

sign the visitors’ book to record your presence here. Thank you.’
      My eyes are more accustomed to the gloom now. Still shaking violently with cold, I gaze at him. He looks over at me, and his cheerfulness fades a little.
      ‘Right,’ he says with determination, ‘let’s get going.’
      He leads me to one of the roughly made beds and I can see that there are sleeping bags on each one. He helps me to sit down, grabs one – a greasy-looking blue bag – and starts to unzip it.
      ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
      ‘I told you, we’ve got to get you warm. This will help until I can get a fire going.’
      ‘No!’ I push the bag away as he tries to wrap it round my shoulders. ‘How disgusting! How many people have slept in that? It looks filthy! I don’t want it.’
      His eyes turn flinty. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. What does it matter? You need it.’
      ‘No, I don’t, it’s horrible. I’ll be fine,’ I say. I don’t know why it matters to me, but the thought of that sleeping bag around me makes me feel ill. I’m sure I can smell it – sweaty, dirty, fuggy with the scent of unwashed bodies. He tuts impatiently and tries to push the thing around me. ‘No!’ I shout, flailing out with an arm. ‘Stop it!’
      He pulls back and we stare angrily at each other. I wrap my arms tightly around myself and drop my head. ‘I don’t want it,’ I mumble.
      ‘For God’s sake, you stupid—’ He breaks off, glares at me, then tosses the sleeping bag aside. ‘Have it your way. You’ll change your tune.’
      He moves away from me, his good mood entirely gone. I sit there, helpless with fatigue and pain, as he gets to work in the hut.
      Things are looking up, I tell myself. We’re out of the storm. We’re somewhere dry. I’m not alone. Maybe we won’t die.
      But depression is engulfing me. I ought to be happy that we’ve found this place but I’m wretched. I hate this. I want it to stop. I can’t understand the powerful angry frustration that’s building up inside me, but there’s nothing I can do about it. The thought of Jimmy waiting for me at LAX, ready for the two of us to zoom into town in his convertible and hit the bars of downtown LA together, so we can laugh and tell stories and he can help me get that shit Jacob out of my system… The thought of not being there and not being able to do anything about it is almost more than I can stand. I watch the bodyguard as he lifts down the second box and begins going through it and instead of feeling glad that he is there, taking charge, I’m filled with furious resentment towards him.
      It’s his fault we’re here. If he hadn’t lost control of the car, we’d have got to the airport before the storm hit us. He’s supposed to be a hard-ass SAS guy and he can’t even drive down a mountain!
      The bodyguard works quickly. I watch, alternately miserable and angry, as he clears some of the ash from the middle of the fireplace. He finds a stash of old newspapers next to it and screws sheets into balls, placing them together in the hearth like a nest of little crinkly grey eggs. Then he takes some slim bits of wood from an old crate and lays them carefully across the paper. He lays larger bits on top of them, making a criss-cross pattern. When it’s all arranged, he takes the matchbox and strikes a match. The little yellow and purple flame on the end of the match is the prettiest thing I’ve seen all day. I watch as he holds it to the edge of one of the paper balls; the flame strokes at the old newspaper, then bites into it, flickering along the paper’s edge as it takes hold. He lights the paper in a couple of other places, before the match gives out. Now the flames are growing as the fire consumes the paper and becomes large enough to start on the kindling.
      ‘That should do it,’ the bodyguard says, ‘as long as we look after it. A fire is a delicate thing. You have to feed it just what it needs at the right time,