Chapter 4
Chapter Four
At Windermere, Rosie alighted from the connecting train into air that instantly numbed her extremities.
The little station, which sat at the end of the line, was old and quaint, but as she exited onto the forecourt her overwhelming impression was one of grey.
The surrounding buildings were grey slate, the sky was slate grey, and she hunched deeper into her denim jacket as she stood looking up and down the road, buffeted by the biting wind, for the promised hotel transport. But at least the rain had stopped.
She spotted the white van parked in a row of cars opposite. On the side it said Grasmere Heights Hotel and Spa, and beneath was a quote: “The loveliest spot that man hath found!” ~ William Wordsworth.
Maybe in Georgian times, thought Rosie, before tourists had easy and reasonably priced access to the Med.
A man appeared from behind the van, waving her over. She quickly trundled her case across the road, avoiding puddles, hoping this hotel didn’t have Wordsworth-era heating systems.
‘Rosie?’ he called. ‘Hop in; I’ll take your bag.’
Rooooh-seh. He dragged out the ‘o’, and as if compensating for that, the ‘ee’ was sharply cut off. Rosie smiled. Strangely, she liked the way it sounded.
He opened the passenger door for her, then slid open the back and hoisted in her case. He was dressed in a smart navy jacket, beige trousers and shiny black shoes, his dark hair swept neatly back, his teeth bright in a wide smile.
His dapper appearance seemed somehow at odds with his accent.
Don’t stereotype, Rooooo-seh! They don’t all wear flat caps!
She did as he instructed, hoping it wasn’t far to the hotel.
Rosie wasn’t in the mood for prolonged polite conversation.
But – she pulled herself up sharply – her assignment should probably start now, as in, the complete wellness retreat visitor experience.
Plus, with her journalist hat on, every local should be treated as a source of information.
‘I’m Ashley, general manager at Grasmere Heights,’ he said, slamming the door shut and starting the engine. ‘Welcome to the Lakes! Have you been here before, Rosie?’
‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling politely. ‘No – I’ve been to the Peak District though. Is that near here?’
Ashley looked sideways at her before putting the van into gear. He had twinkly green eyes, and his lips twitched.
‘I’m guessing not?’ Rosie felt herself colouring.
‘Starter hills,’ said Ashley. ‘Way south of here.’
‘Oh. But it was very pretty,’ said Rosie.
As they set off through the town (more slate-grey stone, but picturesque, she had to concede), Ashley lifted a hand from the wheel and waved it at the view.
‘The peaks here are far prettier, as you’ll find out.
’ He glanced upwards out of the window. ‘At least, if you get to see higher than the first hundred feet.’
The town soon gave way to deciduous woodland bordered by mossy dry-stone walls.
There was the occasional house, with stone or whitewashed walls and slate roofs, many advertising bed and breakfast, with names featuring words like Ghyll, Fell, and Howe.
Most also had Vacancy signs. On her admittedly brief acquaintance with Cumbria, Rosie couldn’t say she was surprised.
‘Madison and her crew came up last night,’ said Ashley.
‘Most of the hotel guests are up for the wellness weekend – there are a few who aren’t …
’ He grimaced. ‘I’ll probably have to comp their stays, if they even stick it out.
It’s a fooking madhouse. I thought Madison might bring an assistant and a hair and make-up person, but … ’
Rosie nodded. ‘The top influencers have many people. It takes a lot of work to create the perfect Instagram reel.’
‘Who knew?’ said Ashley. He counted under his breath, lifting his fingers one by one from the steering wheel. Rosie noticed his nicely manicured nails. ‘Five of them,’ he said, ‘not counting Madison herself. And they’re so …’
Rosie grinned. ‘Annoying?’
‘Did I say that?’
‘Demanding? Disruptive?’
‘Not at all,’ said Ashley, with a laugh that was slightly panicked. ‘“Could you dry off the daffodils so Madison can lie down in them?” is a perfectly normal request, surely.’
Rosie snorted. ‘Are you making that up?’
‘Nope.’
‘Is it okay if I use that in my piece?’
‘You won’t say who snitched?’
‘I always protect my sources.’
He sighed. ‘I see you’re familiar with this madness, Rosie.’
She smiled at him. ‘I am. Mega-influencers are …’ She searched for the right word, but there really wasn’t one. ‘I feel your pain,’ she said instead.
He nodded. ‘I should’ve got Gaz, our barman, to come and collect you, but to be honest I needed to get away before I lost it with Madison’s manager. Guy. Do you know him?’
Rosie didn’t – this was her first encounter with the Madison Tyler machine – but she remembered the comment Amara had added to Lucy’s briefing notes: Her manager’s a pain, but humour him.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Were the daffodils his idea?’
‘Yes, and the Vybe publicist’s – Veronica?
They had Madison prancing about by the lake à la Wordsworth.
They ignored me when I pointed out that it was only Wordsworth’s heart that danced with the daffodils.
Then Guy suggested she should lie down and do a starfish, and that they should send up a drone to get the overhead shot.
Luckily the photographer – Jono –’ He paused, and quickly glanced at Rosie again.
‘He seems quite normal, and very nice …’
‘Yes, he’s a freelancer, we use him a lot,’ said Rosie. ‘Top bloke.’
Ashley had gone slightly pink. Ah, should’ve guessed.
‘Jono said,’ he continued, ‘in this wind, it would have taken him so long to get the drone into position, Madison would have been at risk of hypothermia. She was in the skimpiest little top and shorts and was actually turning blue while Jono and Guy were conferring. But luckily the gardener – he was panicking about his daffs – suggested swapping the lakeside shoot with tomorrow’s Gingerbread Shop visit.
And the light wasn’t great anyway, and then it started to rain again. ’
He lifted a hand and pointed. ‘On your left, Windermere. It’s England’s biggest lake, and many say the most beautiful.’
Rosie peered out of the window and glimpsed water beyond the trees. It was grey, choppy, and bleak. ‘Is it?’ she said, doubtfully.
‘On a good day. Although everyone has their personal fave.’
‘How many lakes are there? asked Rosie, with her research hat on.
‘Just over a hundred, if you count the tarns. A tarn’s a smallish lake.’
‘That’s a lot of lakes. Which is your favourite?’
‘Oh, I love a bit of drama, me, so that’d be Wastwater, over to the west.’ He waved a hand in what she supposed was a westerly direction.
‘Why is it dramatic?’
‘Dark, foreboding,’ he said. ‘It’s surrounded by the highest fells; great slopes of scree plunging into its depths – it’s England’s deepest lake and local legend says it’s bottomless.’
‘It has no bottom?’
‘No obvious bottom.’
Rosie giggled. ‘Not like Madison’s, then. Although her bottom is legendary too.’
He let out a bark of laughter. ‘It’s breathtaking. Wastwater is too. And there’s a secret underwater gnome garden.’
‘Gnomes?’ Rosie wished she’d switched on her voice recorder.
‘Originally with a picket fence. But a diver or two died trying to find them, so the police had them removed. However, it’s rumoured the gnomes have been replaced, lower down. That lake holds many secrets.’
This district of many lakes was sounding more interesting by the minute. ‘I’d love to visit it,’ said Rosie, ‘but I don’t suppose that’s on the Wellness Weekend agenda?’
‘No – it’s many miles over the high passes by car. You’ll just have to come back, Rosie. I expect you will – the Lakes are addictive. And then you can walk to Wastwater, over the fell tops.’
They passed a group of walkers trudging along in waterproofs, weighed down by backpacks, looking miserable.
‘Well – they’re having a good time,’ said Rosie.
Ashley tutted. ‘Now see here, southern lass – and you may quote me on this – you need to embrace the changing moods of the fells. Relentless sunshine is very boring. If the sky clears here, you properly appreciate it because that will invariably be after a week of shite weather. You’ve only seen this –’ he cocked his head towards the far side of the lake, where the lower slopes of mountains (apparently) were just visible, ‘– but tomorrow the cloud might have lifted, and everyone will be heading for the fell tops and they’ll look so happy, and they all smile and say hello, and that’s the point of the Lakes.
One day broody and dramatic, dangerous …
the next, so glorious you feel compelled to climb a hill, sit on top with a sandwich and write a poem. Well, I do …’
‘You write poetry?’
‘Look!’ he said, dodging her question ‘Your second lake. This is Rydal Water; we’re nearly there.’
‘Two lakes down, ninety-eight or so to go,’ said Rosie. ‘So … you write poetry?’
Ashley frowned and looked embarrassed. ‘Why did I just share my deepest secret with you when I’ve known you less than half an hour?’
‘That’s how journalism works,’ said Rosie, smugly. ‘I intend to tease out Madison Tyler’s deepest secrets too.’
‘I doubt those will involve poetry.’
‘Never assume,’ said Rosie. ‘People can surprise you.’
Ashley pondered for a moment. ‘True, I suppose. But the only surprise about Madison would be if any part of her turned out to be real.’ He glanced across at her again, his expression turning serious.
‘You won’t make it all about Madison and the clothes, though?
You’ll write nice things about our wellness weekend?
The hotel biz is tough up here right now; I’m counting on this promotion to turn things round.
I’m fully invested in it, even if the staff will almost certainly need a mental health break when you’ve all gone. ’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Rosie was going to need some convincing that a stay at Grasmere Heights was something Holistic Health readers would enjoy.
‘And here’s Grasmere – lake number three!’ Ashley announced.
A short while later they reached a village, also called Grasmere. Its narrow lanes were lined with stone cottages, shops, tea rooms, art studios, a bookstore …
‘Oh, this is lovely!’ said Rosie.
‘It is now, out of season,’ said Ashley, ‘but in summer you can’t move for tourists, especially since Instagrammers discovered the gingerbread shop. It’s nuts. Madison will be doing a shoot there. I hope word hasn’t got out.’
‘How does gingerbread fit in with the whole wellness weekend idea?’ asked Rosie. ‘Given the sugar and fat side of things.’
‘Oh, c’mon,’ said Ashley. ‘A little of what you like does you no harm. Grasmere gingerbread feeds mind, body and soul.’
‘I like the way you think, Ashley. It’s all about self-care, right? Is there a chocolate shop too?’
‘Of course. And they do a fine slab of fudge.’
The van turned into a long driveway bordered by enormous rhododendron bushes and tall trees. Beneath them, glorious drifts of yellow daffodils bobbed in the wind.
At the top of a gentle slope sat the hotel, a rambling, two-storey building of whitewashed stone, with old sash windows and a slate roof with quirky chimneys.
The photo on the website’s landing-page had been taken from above, and showed the hotel nestled in lawns sweeping down to the sparkling blue waters of Grasmere, those iconic fells beyond.
Now, there was no sign of those hills – the low grey cloud sliced off the view at near-ground level.
‘Let’s get you checked in,’ said Ashley, wheeling her case for her, and as Rosie followed him to the hotel entrance she found herself grinning at his back. Were northern men perchance all this peachy, or just the gay ones?