Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Inside the entrance, a large board on a stand welcomed guests to the Grasmere Heights Wellness Weekend:
Your Wellness Journey Starts Here!
With your host, Madison Tyler.
A photo showed the star sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat, wearing a royal blue bra top and leggings, biting into an apple.
The hotel foyer was furnished with dark-red Chesterfield sofas, vintage wing chairs, and low polished tables on which sat small antique lamps and pretty floral arrangements.
Gilt-framed oil paintings of the Lake District hung on the walls, and there was a wide, beautifully carved dark-wood staircase, carpeted in the same deep blue as the reception area.
‘This is charming,’ said Rosie, looking around her. Though I thought I was here for a wellness retreat, not an Agatha Christie weekend.
‘There’s a separate lounge too, with a log fire and a library,’ said Ashley. ‘Also complimentary tea and biscuits.’
‘Holy heck, who in fact needs yoga and a massage?’ said Rosie.
Ashley chuckled and pointed to a pair of double doors on the left of the entrance hall. ‘The health spa’s through there. Most of the guests are having treatments this afternoon. Whatever you want, while you’re here, it’s on us – massage, facial, sand bath–’
‘Sand bath?’
‘It’s new. I’ll explain later.’
Rosie’s mind boggled at the thought of where the grains of sand might lodge.
‘But you’re staying on after the weekend, right?’ said Ashley. ‘You’ll probably benefit more from the relaxation treatments when everyone’s gone.’
‘Thanks, Ashley. It sounds like heaven.’
‘Ms Appleby’s room key, please, Grace,’ he said to the harried-looking receptionist. ‘And an update?’
Grace tapped her computer keyboard with long, navy blue nails that matched her tailored jacket.
‘They all went back down to the lake when the rain stopped. Thank god,’ she added under her breath, handing Rosie a key on a chunky wooden fob.
‘The photographer took a couple of portable lights, so hopefully it’ll look less like a wet weekend in Workington. ’
‘I hope Madison got to wear a coat this time,’ said Ashley.
‘I should probably let Jono and the Vybe PR person know I’m here,’ said Rosie. ‘Could you tell me how to find them?’
‘Of course,’ said Ashley. ‘I’ll have your bag taken up – you’re in Tennyson, on the first floor,’
Rosie grinned. ‘And who’s in Wordsworth?’
‘That’d be Madison.’
He led her through a dining room already laid for dinner, and over to its huge picture windows. The hotel was on a rise overlooking the lake, with sweeping views of the surrounding hills – probably – but the cloud had lifted a little, and they could now see more of the lower slopes.
‘Exit via the bar,’ said Ashley, ‘then follow the path down the hill. Be careful, though, it’ll be slippery after all this rain.’ His eyes went to her black Doc Martens. ‘Did you bring walking boots?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘I don’t own a pair.’
‘Not to worry – those should be okay for a short walk, if you don’t mind getting them muddy?’
‘It’s fine – I have a second pair,’ she said. ‘Right, I’ll make my way down. And thanks for picking me up, Ashley, and for my informative introduction to the Lakes.’
‘Anything you need, Rosie.’ He clicked his heels together. ‘The bar’s that way,’ he said, pointing to a doorway. ‘I’ll ask Gaz to get you a Xanadu later – it’s the house cocktail. Something tells me you’ll be needing it.’
The old grandfather clock in the bar informed her it was just gone two.
Next to the door leading onto a terrace was an umbrella stand, and Rosie fished one out, just in case.
It was a lovely thing – scarlet, with a black handle in the shape of a cat’s head, with painted-on green eyes and white whiskers.
As Rosie stepped outside, she regretted not fetching an extra layer from her suitcase. But it was too much bother to locate her room and find a jumper now. She’d have to hope the walk would warm her up.
The muddy path led downhill and into woodland.
As Rosie entered the trees, the wind dropped and the light dimmed, and she became aware of the quiet.
She slowed her walk, listening, all at once reminded of times when, as a girl, her father would take her with him to the local lake, the silence broken only by the gentle swish of his rod casting its line, the plop of a fish jumping.
Rosie’s foot slid on a patch of mud, and she jabbed the umbrella into the ground to steady herself. Looking ahead, she saw that the path led through boggy grass to a wide, rushing stream.
The air seemed to darken further, and she felt a spot of rain. Great. She hadn’t expected to need walking boots and waterproofs for a short stroll through the hotel grounds, but clearly the internet’s warnings had been on point. The rain grew heavier, and she put up the umbrella.
Gingerly she picked her way through the quagmire until she reached the stream, which was punctuated by three stepping stones. Rosie eyed them. They were wide and flat but looked slippery. Had the crew come this way, with all their gear?
Forward, or back?
I can do this.
She stepped onto the first stone, wobbling only slightly as she paused before carrying on, alighting successfully on stone number two.
She was about to launch herself at the final stepping stone when a sharp gust of wind caught the umbrella, knocking her off balance.
With a squeal, Rosie attempted to right herself, but her foot slid on the wet rock and flew out from beneath her.
She had to make a split-second decision: land on her bottom, risking injury, or make a controlled landing in the stream.
With another squeal she launched off her other foot into the water, letting go of the umbrella, which caught the wind then turned upside-down and began floating downstream.
‘Fuck!’ she gasped, as she began to wade through the icy water after the umbrella. ‘Fuck fuck fuck.’
Concentrating hard on remaining upright, Rosie didn’t at first notice the dog watching her from the opposite bank.
The border collie was sitting on a rock with its tongue hanging out, looking as if it was laughing at her.
And behind the dog was a man in a dark rain jacket with its hood up, waterproof trousers, and ‘sturdy’ hiking boots.
He was carrying one of those telescopic walking poles with a spike on the end, and the dog’s lead.
Unlike the border collie, the man didn’t look at all amused.
The umbrella became caught up in a bush.
With the water lapping at her thighs, Rosie waded over to it, leaned across and pulled it out.
She let it down and folded it up, then used it as a stick to help her traverse the stream, keeping her eyes fixed on the rushing water, partly so she didn’t stumble, and partly so she didn’t have to meet the man’s appalled gaze.
She could no longer feel her feet.
‘Can you manage?’ called the watcher, finally. She looked up at him, wishing the earth would swallow her up. He was probably in his late twenties; his hair was invisible beneath his hood. His eyes swept down her denim jacket and sodden tartan trousers in a way that reminded her of Reuben.
‘Fine, thanks,’ she said, attempting some dignity. ‘Are you by any chance with the crew?’
‘Crew?’
‘The photoshoot crew? Madison Tyler’s?’
‘I am not,’ he said. There was no flicker of recognition when she spoke the reality TV star’s name.
‘Wainwright – NO!’ he snapped, as the border collie stood up and edged closer to the stream. Wainwright sat down again and gazed at him with big, disappointed eyes, which Rosie couldn’t help noticing were a similar hazel colour to his owner’s.
She stepped carefully out of the stream and onto the wet grass. ‘They were shooting beside the lake, apparently,’ she said, wriggling her toes in her boots, trying to get the blood circulating again.
The man was still staring at her as if she’d escaped from a psychiatric hospital.
She attempted to lighten things up. ‘Creating content – beside the lake, beneath the trees –’ she raised a hand in the manner of a performance poet, ‘– fluttering and dancing …’ She tailed off as his frown deepened. ‘Never mind.’
‘You need to warm up,’ he said.
So do you, mate.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Up at the hotel, Grasmere Heights,’ Rosie replied.
‘I just got here from London, for the wellness weekend. I didn’t have time to change.
’ The cold was creeping upwards, consuming her.
Her teeth had begun to chatter. She jammed the umbrella between her legs and rubbed her arms. Her tartan trousers were stuck to her skin, and the cat’s head of the umbrella was poking out from between her thighs.
She looked up at him.
‘Wellness?’ he said, his eyes on the cat’s head.
‘I know, right? We’re supposed to be here for our health, but apparently Madison’s freezing her magnificent arse off frolicking in the daffodils, while I’m in danger of losing my toes to frostbite. I should probably go back to the hotel.’
He nodded. Still he hadn’t cracked a smile.
‘I’ll go then.’ She turned, mentally preparing herself for the return trip across the stepping stones. Although … maybe she should just wade on through. She couldn’t get any colder.
‘Wait,’ he said.
‘It’s fine, I’m sure I’ll manage.’ She wished he’d stop watching her, that he’d just go away. He was making her so nervous she was almost certain to fall in again.
‘No, this way’s easier,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’ Without waiting for a response, he set off, his dog bounding on ahead.
In less than a minute, during which neither of them spoke, they were out of the trees and onto a grassy bank overlooking the lake.
Not far away was the crew, and Rosie spotted Jono packing up his gear.
Madison, wearing leggings and a cropped sweatshirt, was standing beneath a large umbrella held by a middle-aged man Rosie didn’t recognise – probably her manager.
Two more women, dressed in brightly coloured puffer jackets and leggings, were deep in discussion, also under an umbrella – the stylist and Vybe’s PR person, Rosie assumed.
Finally, a young guy was helping Jono with the camera equipment and lights.
‘That’s the path back to the hotel,’ said the dog owner, pointing to a well-maintained gravel track winding its way up the slope.
‘How did I miss that?’ asked Rosie, dumbfounded.
‘I cannot imagine,’ said the man. He whistled for Wainwright and set off back towards the woods.