‘You too.’ I slam the door, a little harder than I mean to. OK, so he didn’t ask to exchange numbers. But really, why did I expect that?
Crumpet, fed up with waiting for me, trots off down the footpath. I drag my bag, walking as fast as I dare after him. ‘Crumpet! Come back here!’ Why is he being so disobedient now of all moments? One of my heels skids from under me, and I nearly go flying.
Next thing I know, Bailey has exited the car and is chasing after Crumpet. He manages to catch up to him when he stops to pee on a gatepost.
‘Maybe it’s best if I walk with you to the house.’
Silently, I hand him Crumpet’s lead, and he clips it on. ‘Is it this way?’
I nod. Inside, I’m freaking out. But what can I do? Go up to a random person’s house? Knock on their door and pretend I’m related?
We proceed down the street until we’re outside the guest house. Oh god.
Luckily, it looks like a normal brick semi-detached house. It has a small front garden and a low wrought-iron fence with a gate. Maybe if I’m quick about it, Bailey won’t notice anything—like the small white sign with blue lettering saying ‘Cumberfeldy Inn’.
‘This is me,’ I say, taking Crumpet’s lead out of his hand. I open the gate to go in, but Bailey isn’t moving.
‘Your grandmother lives at the Cumberfeldy Inn?’ he asks, sounding bemused. Shit. He’s spotted the sign.
‘Er, yes. It’s like a guest house slash retirement home. She’s been living here for years.’ I bite my lip, knowing if I say any more, it’s going to sound like a blatant lie. Bailey stares at me for a moment and frowns.Just go, I beg silently.
‘Well, I guess I’ll see you around, Holly,’ he says. ‘Merry Christmas again.’ He looks like he wants to say something else but doesn’t.
‘Merry Christmas. Drive safely.’ I hustle up the path to the front door, risking a peek to see if he’s gone. Yes! Bailey is wandering back to the Range Rover. It looks like he’s taken the bait. I heave a sigh of relief. ‘That was close, buddy,’ I say to Crumpet. ‘But I think we got away with it.’
The reception is unmanned, so I ding the bell on the counter. The room is wood panelled with stone beams running along the top. There’s a stale smell of lingering cabbage overladen with Febreze. The door swings open, and a man with thinning hair comes lumbering through. I gather he’s the cheerful soul I spoke to on the phone. He’s wearing a grey shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tweed vest. From his greasy lips, I gather I’ve interrupted a late breakfast or early lunch.
‘Yes?’
‘Um, I’m Holly Driver. I was supposed to check in yesterday, but I had train issues.’
He harrumphs and taps on an ancient laptop. ‘You’re lucky I didn’t give yer room away. It’s a busy time of year, and we’re full up.’ I haven’t yet seen a single person, so I can’t judge the accuracy of this statement. I’ll have to take his word for it. ‘So yer booked for four nights, and yer checking out on Wednesday?’
I nod. Crumpet scratches his belly with his hind paw, and the man leans over the desk. ‘Och, you have a dawg.’
‘Yes, he’s quiet and clean.’
The man harrumphs again. ‘I suppose that’s OK.’
‘Well, yes, I did check with you on the phone, and you said it was.’ The man’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything. Somehow, I don’t think we’re going to be pals. He fishes under the counter and hands me a laminated typed menu that looks like it’s been around since the 1970s. ‘Just tae let yer know, I’m doing a bit o’ grub on Christmas Day. Lunch only.’
There are three courses, and nothing looks particularly appetising. The thought of gnawing on dry turkey and spooning up soggy vegetables isn’t appealing. Ugh. I feel a sudden pang at the thought of missing out on the McAdamses’ Christmas dinner. Even though he annoys the heck out of me, I grudgingly admit that Bailey is a great cook.
I hand the menu back. ‘I think I’ll pass, thanks.’
‘Suit yerself. Breakfast is at 7.30 sharp. If yer not in the dining room by then, I won’t bother cooking yer bacon and beans.’
I sigh inwardly, collect the key the man hands me, and, following his pointed finger, trundle off along a corridor.
I’m hoping that the room is better than I remembered, but it’s not. It’s worse than the photos. I stand in the doorway and gaze around in horror. There’s a suspect rusty brown stain on the carpet by the window that could be either blood or poop—take your pick. One end of the curtain is falling off the rail. There are long rips in the wallpaper like someone staying here couldn’t handle it and went insane. The beige pillows on the single bed are even flatter than in the photos, if that’s possible. The smell of Febreze is overpowering, and I’m worried that when it lifts, an even worse stench than cabbage will be detected.
Crumpet takes a step into the room, whines, and looks up at me. His brown eyes are questioning why the heck I brought him here when he was having a lovely time at the McAdamses’. I’m starting to wonder that myself.
Maybe the bathroom isn’t too bad. If it has a nice bathtub, at least I can have a soak. I push the inner door open, and it swings back to reveal tired brown-tiled decor from the middle of the last century. Gingerly, I lift the wooden toilet seat. It’s old and stained, but thankfully, nothing’s bobbing in there. The bath tap, when I turn it, shudders and groans. But no water comes out. There’s a separate shower that stinks of bleach. Lord. So much for a relaxing Christmas getaway to escape my demons. It feels like they’re all congregating in this guest house. In a few hours, it will be dark, and I’ll be at their mercy. I switch on the bedside lamp, and the bulb blows.
It’s the last straw of an extremely trying few days, and I can feel myself starting to unravel. I walk around, flapping my hands at my face and deep breathing, but I can’t hold it back. A flood of tears erupts; and soon, I’m bawling like a baby, eyes and nose streaming. Even more than the TikTok or the hideous guest house I’m now in, I’m vaguely aware that Bailey leaving and not asking for my number hurt me more than I care to admit.You stupid idiot, I berate myself.He was really kind to you, and all you did was act like a cow. At this point, he’s driving back to Ballindalloch feeling relieved he never has to see you again.And you ruined his cushion.Thinking of him sewing it up and hating me makes me cry even harder.
I lean against the wall and wipe my face with my sleeve, pushing thoughts of Bailey in his tight white T-shirt out of my mind, while Crumpet whines and paws my jeans. ‘It’s OK, buddy. I’m OK,’ I say, trying to reassure him. But I know I’m really not OK. My life is held together with tenuous threads, and if one starts fraying, the whole lot could unravel. If I’m not careful, I could end up tearing bits of wallpaper off like my previous fellow guest. Taking a deep shuddering breath, I head into the bathroom to find something on which to blow my nose. There’s one toilet roll, half used. A small victory.
