Chapter 2
Eve
The teacup in front of me has been empty for so long it’s starting to look decorative.
I eye it for a moment, then glance around the grand reception lounge of Morton Hall. Nothing. Not a single waiter in sight. They drift through occasionally, all crisp shirts and polite smiles, but somehow none of them notice the woman tucked behind a potted fern, quietly fading into the wallpaper.
Normally, that suits me perfectly. Being invisible is a skill I’ve spent years perfecting. But right now, I’d quite like a top-up. Preferably before I start wondering if the plant next to me is getting better service than I am.
The room really is stunning, all carved oak and soft gold light fittings, the kind of place that looks like it should have its own string quartet just to fill the silence.
When my therapist suggested I take a break, I decided to do something uncharacteristically indulgent.
A proper hotel. No self-catering cottage where I’d end up working anyway.
No chatty B&B owners asking why I’m travelling alone.
Just somewhere quiet, where no one expects conversation.
Morton Hall fits the bill. Elegant. Peaceful. Expensive enough that the guests mind their own business.
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.”
“Plants,” I correct softly. “They’re better listeners.”
She laughs. “Honestly, Eve, you make it sound like a crime to have a bit of fun. Go on, tell me you’ve at least got plans to do something while you’re there. Go walking or… sightseeing or whatever it is people do in Yorkshire.”
“I’ll see how I feel.”
“You’ll sit in your room with your laptop, won’t you?”
“Possibly.”
“You’re hopeless,” she says, though I can tell she’s smiling. “Still, I’m glad you’ve gone somewhere nice. You deserve a break.”
“Thank you.”
“And send me a picture later,” she adds. “Something scenic. I need proof you actually left the house.”
“I will.”
“Good girl. Now, I’d better go before one of the children sets fire to something. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The line clicks off.
I set the phone on the table and exhale. The waitress returns with my tea, giving me a kind smile before retreating again.
Outside, the wind rattles the tall windows, and the grey light settles across the room like a heavy blanket. I lift my cup, inhale the warmth, and let the quiet wrap around me.
It’s nice, the quiet. Mostly.
I used to think I was built for it. I like my own company, or at least I tell myself I do. No small talk, no awkward pauses, no wondering if I’ve said the wrong thing. Just peace. But every so often, on days like this, the quiet stretches a bit too far. It starts to echo.
It isn’t that I don’t like people. I just don’t seem to know what to do with them.
I miss cues, or fill silences badly, or say something perfectly ordinary that sounds strange the moment it leaves my mouth.
And when you’ve spent years watching conversations for a living, analysing every pause and word choice, it’s hard to stop dissecting your own.
I take another sip of tea. It’s good. Too hot, but good.
Loneliness, I’ve decided, is like static noise—it fades when life’s busy but comes back the moment things go quiet. And trying to fix it would mean meeting people, which is exactly the kind of situation that makes me wish for silence again. A cycle I haven’t quite figured out how to break.
A door opens somewhere behind me, letting in a brief gust of colder air and the sound of laughter. Someone arriving, maybe.
A movement at the edge of my vision makes me glance up.
The man I’d noticed earlier, the one with the steady confidence, has stopped by the table of women nearby.
They all brighten as if someone’s switched the lights on.
He exchanges a few words, a laugh, that kind of effortless charm people either have or don’t.
Then he turns, scanning the room again, and starts walking in my direction.
I sit up a little straighter, unsure why, and automatically check if there’s anyone behind me he might be heading for. There isn’t. Brilliant.
“Good afternoon,” he says as he reaches my table. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Hunter Thompson, the owner here.”
“Oh,” I say, caught off guard. “Hello. I’m Eve Crawford.”
“Nice to meet you, Eve.” His smile is genuine and natural. “I just wanted to check how your stay’s going. Everything comfortable?”
“Yes, very. It’s lovely.” I wave a hand vaguely, immediately regretting it. “The tea’s good. And the chairs are… very comfortable.”
“Good to hear. We pride ourselves on the chairs,” he says with a straight face, though there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“Are you planning to do some hiking while you’re here? Or visit the National Trust place down the road? It's a very interesting place if you like that sort of thing.”
“Yes,” I say automatically, though I’ve no idea which thing I’ve just agreed to.
He smiles. “We’ve got a local walking group, actually. The Ramblers of St Claire. They go out every Saturday morning. Bit of exercise, bit of gossip, a lot of cake afterwards. I usually join when I can.”
“Oh,” I say, my mind scrambling for a polite way to decline without sounding rude. The idea of a group walk sounds… exhausting. Conversation, introductions, strangers expecting me to be interesting. But his tone is friendly, not pushy, and that makes it worse somehow.
He carries on, cheerful and unbothered. “If you don’t fancy hiking alone, you’d be very welcome. They meet at the village green at ten. It’s nothing formal.”
I nod, already feeling cornered by my own good manners. “That sounds… nice.”
“You should come,” he says, still smiling. “It’s a good crowd.”
“Right. Yes. Maybe I will.”
“Great,” he says warmly, as if it’s decided. “If you do, I’ll see you there.”
He gives a small nod and heads off towards another table, stopping to chat with an older couple near the window.
I stare after him, mentally replaying the conversation and wondering how I’ve managed to agree to join a group of complete strangers on a countryside hike.
This is the problem with being polite. People think you mean what you say.
I take another sip of tea, trying to convince myself that it’s fine, that I’ll just “forget” about it by Saturday. Except now that I’ve promised, I know I won’t. I never do.