Chapter 2
IZZY
I pull the key from the ignition, halting the radio from quietly playing in the background.
It’ll Be Lonely This Christmas.
Thanks for that reminder, Elvis.
And universe.
Also, thanks for turning the rain to sleet, too.
The car falls quiet but for the sound of the weather battering against the windows as I contort myself in the effort to shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. Through the windshield, the shadow of my home for the few days doesn’t exactly loom, but it’s at least visible. Now all I have to do now is endure a soaking on the way to the front door.
Deep breath. Out on three.
One,
Two ...
The door creaks in protest at the force of the wind as I throw it open, scrambling from the interior, and a fierce gust aids my effort to slam it shut again. I tug on the rear passenger door handle next as the gale lashes my suddenly sleet slicked hair to my face. Pulling my coat from the back seat, I hoist it over my head with one hand, grasping the handle of my weekend bag. I leave the garment carrier and my wedding outfit on the back seat as I slam the door and make a cold, muddy dash for the cottage.
When I began looking for somewhere to stay during those loved-up summer months, I did so with the thought that this place could be a dream. A secluded cottage on the very outskirts of the country with only Oscar and sheep for company—a true lover’s idyll. From the pictures on the website, I know that it looks like something straight out of an oil painting.Whitewashed walls and an ancient slate roof with views of the mountains or the nearby loch from every room.It’s just a shame it’s too dark to see right now. It’s also a shame I’m too wet and too cranky to appreciate what the morning might bring, huddled under the tiny ledge above the front door as I begin to move the potted plants.
Hell, what colour was it again?I’d been told by the letting agent that the key to the cottage could be found under a potted fern, but the colour of the pot escapes me. At least I now understand why she’d laughed when I’d suggested their methods as a little unsafe because no one in their right mind would come this far to commit burglary. And then I remember she said the key would be undera wee potted Christmas tree.And it is, one in a bright red pot sporting matching baubles.
Key retrieved, I’m standing on the other side of the door in thirty seconds flat. I’m wet and cold but oddly exhilarated about having arrived in one piece.
It was a truly hairy journey.
Being on this side of the wall is a little like going deaf, the sounds of the fierce weather barely audible through the thick stone walls. My chest heaves as though I’ve been running, excess adrenaline flooding my veins. But really, was this not the stupidest idea in the history of stupid ideas? I should’ve cancelled the booking once I’d seen the forecast for up here. I should’ve just swallowed the cost and flown up the day before the wedding because now I’m stuck for the next three days with no one but myself for company. I don’t even think there was a TV mentioned in the listing. I know there was definitely no internet.
‘If you can’t stand your own company, how can you expect anyone else to want to be around you?’I mumble as I grope the wall for a light switch. ‘This wall is about the only thing you’ll be groping this holiday.
But as I find the switch, and the room illuminates with a warm glow, my mood brightens immediately. This cottage isadorable. And cosy. And most importantly right now, warm. The two walls on either side of me are painted dove grey, the adjacent two an exposed dark grey stone. An inviting large oxblood leather sofa flanks one wall, the tartan throw hanging over the arm almost as tempting as the dim glow of a real peat-fuelled stove in front. The addition of these two small things warm my grumpy mood on sight. Suddenly, things aren’t looking so bleak. I have a good book in my bag that I’m sure can distract me from my laptop some over the next few days, a real fire to curl up in front of, and a blanket that looks suspiciously like cashmere.
Throw in a glass of wine and I’ll be in my element. Who needs menfolk—friends or otherwise?
The open floorplan boasts a tiny kitchen with pale units and timber countertops to match the wooden floor. A floor that’s heated, I realise, as I peel the sodden boots from my frozen toes and make my way over to open the small silver coloured fridge. Milk, eggs, and butter aren’t exactly standard fare for a holiday rental, but there’s so much more than that. Yoghurt, chicken, beef, and even beer and a slab of local cheese made on the Isle of Lewis, which I know is a short ferry ride away because that’s where Clare is getting married this weekend.
A couple of decent Spanish reds and two French Chardonnays stand on a dining table barely large enough for two dinner plates. On the floor next to it sits a wicker hamper full of gourmet goodies. There’s enough food here to last one person for more than a week.
I snag a satsuma from a bowl on the countertop, which is something that looks more typical of the little things often left in a holiday rental.A basket of fruit, a selection of individually wrapped teabags, sachets of bad instant coffee, and tiny shampoo bottles in the bathroom.But raw steak and chicken? Expensive bottles of wine? I’m pretty sure none of this was included in the rental price. As I inhale the citrusy scent so symbolic of the coming festive season, a thought hits me. Mo must’ve arranged for the luxury provisions for us. Then a second thought hits; he’s mostly a vegetarian, depending on how much champagne he’s imbued.Or how close the nearest McDonalds is.And he knows I’m no whizz in the kitchen and that I mostly subsist on takeaway and microwavable meals.
Maybe this is his— very odd—apology? But no, I don’t think so.
Welp, I suppose I’ll ask him in the morning when I call. Despite the book/fire scenario, I know I’ll be calling. Lots.
My now toasty toes lead me back across the living room floor to where I’d dropped my bag and shortly following, to the spiral staircase that I know leads to a tiny mezzanine floor. Up there, I’ll find a stylish yet snug bedroom and en suite with all the trappings. And while I can hear the rainwater shower calling my name, I think I’ll just climb into bed.
At the bottom of the staircase, I consider leaving the light on, spiral staircases being a bit of an accident waiting to happen with these sock-covered feet of mine. Though I do notice the low glimmer of lights set into the treads, so when I flick the switch, the stairs are like tiny stars illuminating my way to bed.
I ache from neck to toe, every muscle in my body tight and exhausted but out of all the mistakes I may have made, I couldn’t have predicted the effect the weather would have on my journey from the airport. Dropping my bag to the floor, I whip off my sweater and abandon it likewise. I need to take off my makeup and brush my teeth at the very least, but right now, the lure of the bed is too great. I lower my bottom to the edge, my sigh of satisfaction a testament to its apparent comfort. I know if I curl up now, I’ll wake sometime in the morning feeling cold and cruddy and possibly with a bout of acne, not that it stops me from stretching.
Stretching out to find a lump in the bed.
A very solid lump.
