Chapter 15
Back in my room, I conduct my now customary search for horses’ heads and missing clothes, then, finding everything in order, I settle down in a seat by the window to edit and post some of the photos and videos I took this morning in the village.
There are quite a few of Izzie and Ian, and not too many of me; but the village looks picturesque in the sunshine that finally broke through the clouds, and the shots of the market stalls have actually turned out quite well – or as well as photos of vegetables can turn out – so, all in all, I figure my bid to save the hotel by influencing people to come to the area is off to a good start.
According to the fresh copy of the itinerary Luna pushed under my door this morning (this one without any notes relating to dress codes, I notice . . .), this afternoon’s activity is a picnic on the beach; which sounds lovely until I realise we’ll be getting there on horseback.
In the rain.
Putting down my phone halfway through a video edit, I get reluctantly out of my comfy chair and stare out of the window at the tiny drops of water that are suddenly obscuring the view, in a stark contrast to the sunshine of earlier.
The guidebooks really weren’t joking when they said the weather changes every fifteen minutes here, were they?
The combination of pouring rain plus horseback riding presents me with the kind of sartorial dilemma that’s going to be no fun at all to solve (as opposed to the dinner-plus-dancing kind, which are pretty fun to solve), so I spend a stressy half-hour or so in the walk-in closet in my room, emerging at last looking like Nanook of the North, in a tight pair of jeans and a large, puffy jacket which I’m just going to have to hope is waterproof.
This is not going to look good in photos, unfortunately, but there’s not much I can do about it, so I head stiffly downstairs, where, of course, I find everyone else waiting for me, looking like they’re about to be photographed for a magazine shoot.
Bex, in particular, has gone all out in a long, flowy white dress, which she’s accessorised with a chunky knit jumper, which I fully expect her to describe as ‘rustic’ in the resulting Instagram caption.
‘Ooh, another brave outfit choice, Wrong Rosie,’ she coos, in her pretending-to-be-nice tone. ‘Can you even bend your arms in that jacket?’
‘Almost,’ I mutter, a tiny bead of sweat starting to trickle down my back, because it might be raining, but it’s also strangely humid. ‘And it’s just plain old Rosie, thanks.’
‘Oh, you’re not that plain,’ Millie assures me earnestly, as we all file out of the door and onto the driveway where, of course, I find out the rain has stopped already, rendering my waterproof jacket completely redundant. ‘Or old. I bet you’re only about thirty-five, aren’t you?’
‘I’m twenty-nine,’ I tell her, making a mental note to update my skincare as soon as I can afford it. ‘That’s not what I meant, though. I really hate the way everyone – well, Bex, really – keeps calling me Wrong Rosie and going on about how I’m supposed to be the “average” one. It’s . . . unkind.’
Following Sabrina, who’s wearing a long leather trench coat, like some kind of international spy, we turn and walk around the side of the castle, towards the grounds, where I can see Hunter Stuart standing waiting for us with a group of stocky little Highland ponies beside him.
Oh, please tell me he’s not going to be around to witness this, too. That’s all I need.
‘Look,’ says Millie, falling into step beside me as we crunch our way across the gravel to where Hunter’s waiting. ‘The Wrong Rosie thing. You need to lean into it. Own it. Embrace it, even.’
I look at her doubtfully. I’m not sure I really want to lean into average. To embrace ‘ordinary’. And I definitely don’t want to keep on being referred to as Wrong Rosie for the rest of my stay here.
‘The thing is,’ says Millie with a sigh, ‘you need a gimmick, right?’
‘I do?’ I raise an eyebrow.
‘Yes, of course, silly. Everyone needs a gimmick. Take me, for instance. I’m the plus-sized one, right?’
I look at her doubtfully. She might not be the slimmest of the women here, but I’m not sure I’d have described her as plus-sized, either; which makes me wonder how people who are actually plus-sized would be described in this influencer world, and who they’re supposed to be influenced by?
‘Just in social media terms, obviously,’ she says impatiently. ‘It’s my gimmick. And I’m also short; so that’s two gimmicks.’
She smiles proudly, and I nod, not quite knowing what to say to this. She is quite short, I suppose. It’s weird to hear someone’s natural body type referred to as a gimmick, though.
‘So, maybe being average is your gimmick,’ Millie goes on importantly, as if she’s imparting some great wisdom to me. ‘Maybe that’s the thing that will set you apart from everyone else. Think about it.’
She smiles brightly, and I nod again, wondering how on earth I’m supposed to stand out by being average. Isn’t that a bit of an oxymoron? And what if I don’t want to have to have a gimmick? What if I just want to be myself, and not have to put on some act all the time? What then?
‘OK, this is where I leave you,’ says Sabrina, saving me from this train of thought as she addresses us from the front of the group. ‘This gentleman—’ she gestures towards Hunter, whose name I can tell she’s forgotten ‘—will be taking over from here. And Luna will be on hand if you need anything.’
‘Aren’t you coming with us, then?’ says the assistant, who looks even more terrified than usual.
‘God, no,’ says Sabrina, looking horrified at the thought. ‘I don’t do horses.’
‘Me neither,’ says Daniel Foster, who’s carrying his camera and tripod again. ‘I’ll be keeping my feet firmly on the ground; it’ll be easier to take photos of Bex that way.’
‘That’s not fair,’ puts in Zara. ‘None of the rest of us have someone to take photos of us on the ponies. You being here gives Bex an unfair advantage.’
‘You and Millie have been taking each other’s photos too,’ points out Yasmin, surprising everyone into silence again, simply by speaking. ‘That’s not fair either.’
‘You could’ve paired up with Wro— with Rosie,’ shoots back Zara.
‘Enough bickering, everyone,’ interrupts Sabrina. ‘Luna will take photos of all of you. Luna, you can stay on the ground to do it, with Mr Bex.’
Luna looks as relieved as if she’s just had a last-minute stay of execution. I can’t really blame her; I’ve got that feeling of foreboding hanging over me again, and I actually like horses. I hate to think how much worse this would be if I didn’t.
‘Right, then,’ says Hunter, clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention. ‘If you could all choose a pony each, I’ll just quickly go over some safety information before we get started.’
We all move forward, some quicker than others.
I select a sturdy little black gelding who has big, hairy fetlocks and the name Bramble embroidered onto the browband of his bridle.
He turns and looks at me solemnly through his long lashes as I approach, and I stroke his velvety nose, enjoying the familiar, horsey smell of him.
Hunter walks around to the front of the group and gives a characteristically short speech about all sticking together and not making any sudden noises while Luna hands out safety helmets, which Bex and Millie both refuse to wear, until Hunter growls at them and threatens to cancel the expedition altogether.
‘Fine by me,’ says Bex, sounding close to tears. ‘That thing’s going to completely ruin my hair. It’ll look shit in the photos.’
‘Maybe Bex could just take hers off for a few minutes?’ says Daniel, stepping forward with the air of a man who’s here to save the day. ‘Just until we’ve got the shots we need. Then she can put it back on again? How does that sound?’
‘No,’ replies Hunter bluntly. Everyone waits for him to say something else; then, when he doesn’t, Daniel clears his throat importantly, preparing to take charge.
‘Just leave it off for now, babe,’ he says to Bex. ‘We’ll get the shots first, then—’
‘I said no,’ says Hunter, through gritted teeth. ‘Did you not hear me?’
‘I heard you,’ replies Daniel, making a face which suggests that listening to Hunter is physically painful to him. ‘But what I’m suggesting is that Bex just—’
‘What I’m suggesting is that Bex just wears the safety helmet, or she doesn’t come on the ride,’ says Hunter, his face thunderous. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ spits Daniel, turning to Sabrina for backup, only to find she’s not there, having already stomped off in the direction of the hotel. ‘This is ridiculous. How are we supposed to get decent content if you’re going to force them all to dress like LEGO people?’
Bex starts to cry quietly.
‘I’m not here to help you create content,’ says Hunter, folding his arms across his chest and widening his stance as if to say don’t even think about messing with me. ‘I’m here to look after you all, and make sure everyone stays safe. These are live animals, not photo props.’
I’m about to object to being referred to as an animal, live or not; then I realise he’s talking about the ponies, and close my mouth again.
‘Oh, please, they’re just like a bunch of big dogs,’ says Daniel, rolling his eyes.
‘Big dogs that could kill you,’ replies Hunter pleasantly, sounding like this wouldn’t bother him too much, were it to happen.
Daniel glares at him as if he might be the one doing the killing.
Hunter smiles easily back, until Daniel finally backs off, shrugging as if he doesn’t really care whether his photos are ruined or not.
‘Just keep the hat on for now, babe,’ he calls over to Bex, making sure Hunter hears him. ‘I’ll have a word with Sabrina later and sort something out. Maybe we can organise a private trek or something.’
Hunter gives a snort that sounds a lot like a curse word.
‘If you could all put your helmets on,’ he says, ignoring Daniel, ‘we’ll make a start. The picnic baskets are already waiting for us on the beach.’
Everyone dutifully puts on their helmets (which, to be fair, do make us look a bit like LEGO people .
. .), then Hunter goes around and helps everyone mount, spending a particularly long time with Millie, who keeps shrieking and kind of draping herself over the saddle with her perfectly shaped butt in the air.
I swear she’s doing that deliberately.
‘Do you want a leg-up?’ Hunter says from behind me as I gather Bramble’s reins in one hand, and attempt to get my foot into the stirrup, hampered by my slightly too tight jeans, which are restricting my movement much more than I thought they would.
‘Nope, I’m fine, thanks,’ I reply breathlessly, attempting to scramble into the saddle. ‘I can do it. I used to take riding lessons when I was a kid. I totally know what I’m doing.’
I attempt to raise my foot even higher, and am almost there when a loud ripping sound fills the air as the seam of my jeans gives way.
Oh, my God.
Blushing furiously, and with shrieks of laughter echoing in my ears, I tug my jacket self-consciously down over my suspiciously breezy rear, glad for once that I decided to wear my ‘big pants’ this morning.
Before I can look down to verify this, though, there’s a movement from behind me, and Hunter picks me up, lifting me as easily as if I wasn’t wearing all my clothes at once, and placing me in the saddle as if I’m a doll.
It’s strangely hot, actually; although I suppose that could just be the thick jacket I’m wearing.
‘OK,’ says Hunter, taking a step back so he can see us all. ‘Unless anyone else has some drama they’d like to unleash, we’ll be on our way.’
He goes to his own horse and springs smoothly into the saddle.
He would.
The rest of us fall into line behind him (me sticking to the back of the line, so no one has to look at my butt) as he sets off at a slow walk, taking a gravel path around the outskirts of the castle’s ornamental garden, then following it down to the white-sand beach beyond.
‘That’s it, Bex,’ yells Daniel, who’s been following along behind us with Luna, both of them snapping away on their cameras as they keep up easily enough with our snail’s-pace progress. ‘If you could just look over your shoulder and give us a smile.’
Bex does as she’s asked, although there’s a murderous look in her eye which reminds me of the day I saw her arguing with Daniel in the grounds.
Her long dress drapes over her pony’s back in a way that may not be practical, but which will look amazing on camera, and her hair is in an intricate, long braid down her back.
If it wasn’t for the solid black helmet perched on top of her head, she’d look like some kind of Highland princess; which I suspect was exactly the effect she was going for before Hunter stepped in with his pesky safety requirements.
‘Almost there,’ calls Hunter, twisting around in the saddle to address the short line of riders behind him. ‘We’ll have our picnic on the beach, as planned, but we’ll have to be quick; I don’t think the rain’s going to hold off for long.’
I look up at the darkening sky, wishing it had occurred to me to buy an umbrella in the village earlier; it would probably be a lot more useful to me than a turnip, that’s for sure.
The thought of the village, however, reminds me of the incident with the bus earlier, and how it drove off without me.
Hunter thinks there must be some kind of reasonable explanation for it.
I’m not so sure.
But I guess there’s only one way to find out. And I know exactly who I’m going to ask.