I’d told myself I was treating it as research, people-watching, observing speech patterns, all very professional for a forensic linguist on enforced rest. But really, I just wanted to disappear somewhere beautiful for a while.
A waiter sweeps past with a tray of teapots. I lift my cup slightly, half-heartedly attempting eye contact. Nothing. He doesn’t even break stride.
Right. Invisible again.
I sigh, setting the cup down. I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and already I’ve confirmed what I suspected. Invisibility is a double-edged sword. It keeps you safe, but it’s terribly inconvenient when you need tea.
A pair of women at the next table burst into laughter, one of them gesturing broadly with a scone. I catch a few words about spa treatments and husbands. I try not to stare. They seem like the kind of people who’ve never once felt awkward about asking for anything.
If only confidence could be bottled.
I glance toward the far end of the hall, where a tall man in a dark jumper is talking to one of the waiters. His voice carries clearly, low and calm, the kind that belongs to someone used to being listened to. The staff clearly know him.
He looks up briefly, scanning the room. For a split second our eyes almost meet, but I look away before they do.
He moves on, and I let out a quiet breath.
"Well done, Eve," I murmur under my breath. "Another successful attempt to avoid human interaction."
The plant doesn’t answer, but I swear it looks smug.
The shrill buzz of my phone slices through the polite murmur of the room. Half the hall jumps.
Several heads turn in my direction, surprise flickering across their faces as if I’ve just materialised out of thin air. Apparently, I’ve broken the spell of invisibility.
“Sorry,” I mutter to no one in particular, fumbling to silence the phone.
The nearest waitress pauses mid-step, her eyes landing on me for what feels like the first time all afternoon. I seize the moment, lifting my cup and giving her a hopeful smile. She nods briskly and changes course towards the tea trolley.
Success. Social interaction level one: complete.
“Jennifer, you know I prefer a prewarning before you call me,” I whisper into the receiver. My sister knows I need to mentally prepare myself.
“Yes, yes, you’ve mentioned,” she says breezily. “So, how’s the seaside hermit life? Still working too hard? Still hiding from civilisation?”
“I’m not at home, actually,” I say. “I’m in Yorkshire for a few days.”
There’s a pause on the line. “Yorkshire?” Jennifer repeats, as if I’ve just confessed to moving to Mars. “What on earth are you doing up there?”
“Just a short break,” I reply.
“On your own?”
“Yes.”
Another pause, then the faint sigh of someone who thinks she’s being very patient. “You went on holiday alone?”
“Who should I have brought? And I wanted somewhere quiet.”
“Well, you’ve certainly nailed that,” she says, half laughing. “You couldn’t have chosen somewhere a bit more… lively?”
“I wasn’t looking for lively.”
“You could have come down to Norwich instead,” she presses. “The kids would’ve loved to see you. You know you’re always welcome.”
“I know,” I say gently. “But I just needed a change of scenery.”
Jennifer hums in that way that means she’s unconvinced. “It’s not good for you, being on your own so much. You’ll start talking to the walls.”
