Chapter 6
MARY
The Sunken Sanctuary
(Or How to Deal with a Flood)
I get home feeling like I’ve just run a marathon. A race where every mile consisted of listening to the people of Glenfield talk about the new doctor like he’s the Antichrist in a white coat.
“He never smiles.”
“He looks at people like they’re medical files.”
“McKinnon knew our names.”
McKinnon, McKinnon, McKinnon.
If I hear that name one more time today, I’m going to scream.
My feet hurt. My back hurts. My patience died somewhere between the Campbell farm and Old Angus’s place.
All I want is silence, warmth, and not having to speak to anyone for at least twelve hours.
My plan for the evening is simple and perfect:
1 Eat a frozen pizza (margherita, nothing fancy)
2 Soak in a bubble bath for at least forty-five minutes
3 Watch Netflix in pajamas
4 Ignore the existence of the outside world
I push open the front door of my cottage, and an icy draft greets me.
Because of course this picturesque Victorian house has one major flaw: it’s insulated about as well as a colander.
But I have a solution.
I head straight for my room. The one. The only. My personal sanctuary.
The bathroom.
It’s the only room in this house with modern, efficient heating.
When I moved in, I invested in a proper electric radiator.
I even went for a connected model I can switch on before I get home, and I’ve never regretted the expense because it turns my bathroom into a true cocoon.
A spa. My refuge from the Scottish winter that refuses to leave even in April.
I installed a small blue velvet armchair in there. And a floor lamp. And shelves for my candles and bath salts.
Some people have an office.
I have a bathroom.
I make a quick detour through the kitchen to put my pizza in the oven. Fifteen minutes at two hundred degrees. Simple. Foolproof.
Then I head for my tiled paradise.
Warmth wraps around me the second I push open the door. The radiator hums softly, filling the room with the perfect temperature.
I sigh in relief.
I start running the bath, pouring a generous amount of scented salts beneath the stream of water. The hot water slowly rises, steam fogging up the mirror while pink bubbles bloom across the surface.
I turn the faucet all the way on. The faster it fills, the faster I can sink into it and forget this day ever happened.
I strip down and slip into my bathrobe. I light my favorite candle, vanilla caramel scented, a Christmas gift from Jane, then settle into my chair with my phone in hand.
The sound of running water becomes soothing background noise. My shoulders relax. I can feel the tension of the day slowly dissolving.
I unlock my phone and open Instagram.
Not to look at other people’s perfect lives.
No.
To get my personal drug fix: home staging videos.
I lazily scroll through perfectly organized tiny houses, studio apartments transformed into minimalist palaces, pristine Scandinavian bathrooms in shades of white.
One video catches my attention:
“How to turn your bathroom into a luxury spa on a budget.”
I glance around me. My velvet chair. My candles. My purring radiator. The steam slowly rising from the bathtub.
“Already done,” I murmur with a smug little smile.
The bathtub is almost full now. The water has reached the perfect level, just enough to submerge me up to my neck.
I set my phone down on the shelf, take off my robe, and test the water with the tip of my foot.
Perfect temperature.
I’m about to step into the bath, one foot already in the hot water, when—
BEEEEEP! BEEEEEP! BEEEEEP!
The fire alarm erupts through the entire house.
I jump so violently I nearly slip.
Oh my God. The pizza.
I don’t even have time to think.
I sprint out of the bathroom completely naked.
Because my brain is in full panic mode, and modesty is no longer a priority when your house might be on fire.
The hallway is freezing.
Freezing like the Arctic.
Freezing like Moira MacTavish’s glare.
I race across the landing, shivering, my bare feet slapping against the cold floorboards, then fly down the stairs as fast as possible without breaking my neck.
The kitchen is full of smoke, but thankfully not on fire.
Just very, very smoky.
And the alarm keeps shrieking like a hysterical banshee.
I yank open the oven, and a wave of black smoke assaults me. I cough and stagger back slightly.
The pizza is black. Charred.
All that remains is a disk of coal vaguely resembling what it used to be.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
I grab it with a dish towel—burning my fingers anyway—and throw it into the sink.
It lets out an offended hiss against the cold enamel.
The alarm is still screaming.
I rush to open every window.
The wind immediately barrels into the room, icy and merciless.
That’s when I suddenly remember I’m naked.
Standing in front of an open window facing the street.
Whatever.
I climb onto a chair to reach the alarm attached to the ceiling and frantically mash the button until it finally decides to shut up.
Silence falls over the kitchen.
I remain standing there on my chair, naked and freezing, staring at my incinerated pizza in the sink while smoke slowly drifts out through the open windows.
My perfect evening.
My relaxing moment.
Ruined by a frozen pizza.
I wave a dish towel around to clear the last wisps of smoke, close the windows once the air becomes somewhat breathable again, and stand motionless in the middle of my kitchen.
My arms are covered in goosebumps.
My feet are frozen.
And I’m starving.
Then, very slowly, a horrible thought crosses my mind.
The bath.
The faucet.
Wide open.
“Oh no!”
I sprint upstairs two steps at a time, heart pounding, one hand gripping the banister so I don’t slip.
I reach the landing, turn left, shove open the bathroom door.
The water overflowed.
Of course it did.
The floor is a lake.
A shallow lake, admittedly, but still a lake.
My towel floats limply on the surface. My bathrobe hangs miserably from its hook, one corner soaking in the puddle.
And the water is still pouring over the edge of the bathtub in a steady, almost hypnotic cascade.
I shut off the faucet with a sharp motion.
Silence falls again.
Broken only by the sound of droplets still falling from the edge of the tub.
I stare at the damage, arms hanging uselessly at my sides before forcing myself to snap out of it.
All right. Time to work.
I have no idea how long it takes me to mop everything up, but when I finally make it downstairs to the living room in my pajamas, I’m even angrier, more exhausted, and hungrier than before.
That’s when I step into a puddle of water.
I freeze in horror before slowly lifting my gaze.
Water is dripping from the ceiling directly onto my corduroy velvet couch—bought from an antique dealer and impossible to replace.
Onto my bookshelf filled with veterinary textbooks, some of which cost a fortune.
Onto the administrative paperwork scattered across my coffee table.
Onto the rug I inherited from my grandmother.
Droplets hang from the ceiling like stalactites. The plaster is already soaked through, forming a dark stain that keeps spreading inexorably.
A stain shaped like the map of some imaginary country.
The Republic of My Problems.
“No. No. NO!”
I rush forward, moving books, papers, anything that can still be saved.
My hands are shaking.
My wet feet leave prints across the hardwood floor.
I place a bucket beneath the main leak.
Then another.
Then a saucepan.
Then a mixing bowl.
My living room now looks like an incredibly depressing contemporary art installation.
I run to grab every towel left in the house—there aren’t many dry ones after the Great Bathroom Drying Operation—and begin the mopping session of the century.
Twenty minutes later, wringing out a towel for the tenth time, I realize I need help.
I grab my phone.
“Hello?”
The plumber’s voice is gruff. I’m clearly bothering him.
“Mr. McKay? This is Mary McGregor. I have an emergency. My bathtub overflowed, the water came through the ceiling, everything’s flooded. And I think there’s another leak because it’s still dripping.”
A long sigh answers me.
“Did you shut off the faucet?”
“Obviously!”
“Did you turn off the water supply?”
I bite my lip and hurry to do it.
“All right. Can’t come before tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock at the earliest.”
“But—”
“In the meantime, towels and buckets. No other solution, miss.”
“You really can’t come tonight? It’s an emergency!”
“I’ve got three other emergencies ahead of you. Frozen pipes at the MacDonalds’, a leak at the Campbells’, and a water heater exploded at Angus’s place. You’re number four. Sorry.”
“But—”
Click.
He hung up.
I stare at my phone with murderous intent.
Then I look around me.
The slowly filling buckets.
The dripping ceiling.
My soaked couch.
My books scattered everywhere.
I spend the next few hours in a state of productive trance.
Mop. Wring. Empty the buckets. Repeat.
At one point, I vaguely wonder how much water is still trapped between the bathroom floor and the dining room ceiling…
Eventually, I find a granola bar in one of the cupboards.
I eat it standing there in damp pajamas, in the middle of my living room turned disaster zone.
I cry a little.
Just a little.
Not for long.
Because crying isn’t going to fix my ceiling.
At three in the morning, sitting cross-legged on the wet floor of my living room, I have a revelation:
My life is a disaster.
My cottage is a swamp.
And with my luck, the repairs are going to take weeks.
The village inn is fully booked because of the upcoming Highland Games.
Once again, my life is slipping out of my control.
Exhausted, I collapse onto my couch and close my eyes, surrounded by buckets, soaked towels, and the steady sound of dripping water.