1.
May
‘You here for a wedding?’ the driver asks, his cheery eyes focused on me, and not on the tiny track we’re careering up.
‘No, no,’ I reply, as my fingers begin to ache from all the seat-clenching they’re having to do. He’s got to be doing at least seventy.
‘Aye, you’re not dressed for a wedding,’ he agrees.
I look down at my shirt, self-consciousness pushing away fear for a moment. I’d bought a white silk shirt for 60 per cent off from TK Maxx, but several hours into my journey I’d remembered that white silk shirts were only for rich people or anyone who liked doing laundry. The deal-clincher for me, when buying clothing, is whether or not it will come out of the dryer like it’s been ironed.
The car takes a sharp turn, and the single lane thins to a ribbon, before the woods clear completely and we drive through a simple iron gate fixed to two old stone pillars. Vast lawns rise slowly upwards and, along the approach, rows of towering trees stretch their branches across to meet in a tunnel of crooked wood and leaves. Everything is sepia in the fog.
Ahead, the house comes into view, though in truth it looks more like a small castle. A grey and sandstone mother-ship, with pointed turrets flanking the sides and an enormous staircase leading from the circular drive to the entrance. It’s far grander than I’d imagined, but strangely bleak. I text Tim immediately.
I’m in a fucking gothic novel.
I’m pleased with my tone. Funny, irreverent, mysterious. I think about calling him to elaborate but I’m not entirely sure he’d get the joke. Tim isn’t exactly well read.
The car tyres skid, jolting me back to the reality of the speeding vehicle. We are momentarily stuck as the tyres spin hopelessly in themud and the driver revs the engine. He switches gears and we thrust forward.
‘Round the back there’s a short road to the stables and cottages. And then a small car park,’ I say, double-checking the instructions on my phone.
‘Staff entrance?’ he questions, with a single raised eyebrow.
‘Yup,’ I say, nodding, then stare wistfully out of the window.
The back of the house is just as grand but arguably more beautiful than the front. The ground drops away from a pebbled courtyard and rose garden down to a river, which I can hear but not see. The stables sit about a hundred metres to the side of the house, and the car pulls to a halt between them and a trio of small stone cottages. I look back at the house, which is barely in view through a small grove of oaks.
The largest of the three cottages has wood smoke rising in pleasing spirals from the squat chimney, and there’s a small slate-and-silver sign on the wooden door that I can just make out.Staff Only.
‘This is it,’ I say, getting out and handing the driver £200 in Scottish notes, trying not to wince as I say goodbye to all the money I had left in the world. ‘Thanks for the ride. Who knew you could get to the west coast in under one and a half hours from Inverness? It must be a world record.’
He looks inordinately proud.
There are about a dozen cars in the car park, a white van, some four-wheel drives, a few of those big, black expensive-looking SUVs and a couple of golf carts – but still no humans. A dog barks once, far in the distance, the sound echoing ominously around the estate.
I feel my anxiety blossom into full nerves. This is it. The literal end of the road, and potentially the craziest thing I’d done since walking out on that stupid West End play. Right before my first line.
‘Hope you enjoy Scotland, lass,’ the driver says, then takes off with a screech of tyres on gravel.
I knock a few times on the wooden door. For late spring, it’s far colder than I imagined, and my thin trenchcoat is proving a nonsense kind of cover-up for this weather.
My phone beeps and it’s Tim.
What do you mean?
I chuckle. He’s so predictable.
There is still no sign of anyone. Crossing my arms to try and brace myself from the icy breeze, I look around the courtyard for some sign of life. I can hear the horses scuffing at the hay-covered stone floor in the barn, and I can sense the smell of mossy earth. I lean forward to look through the small window of the end cottage, and a small motion-light springs on, blinding me to my surroundings.
‘Heather?’
I jump at the voice behind me – deep, with a thick but soft Scottish accent. I hold my hand up to my face and try to make out the figure emerging from behind the white van. He is tall, dressed in chef’s whites underneath a dark coat that is open and flapping in the wind, with a dark woollen beanie pulled down over his forehead.Tall, mysterious and can poach an egg. I am instantly intrigued.
‘Hello! Yes, I am. That’s me,’ I say, saluting him like a general, my nerves apparently turning me into a comedy idiot.
‘We need you to start right away,’ he says nervously, pulling up the collar on his coat.
