Chapter 7 #2
My phone rings, vibrating against the bedcovers. I don’t move to answer it. Let it join the sixty-eight other missed calls.
But it rings again. And again. And again.
Finally, I pick it up. I plan to switch it off, but the image I have saved as Piper’s contact photo is blinking at me, and needing to talk to someone, to ease this emptiness, wins out over the echoing silence I’ve subjected myself to.
‘Piper?’ There’s a catch in the back of my throat as I say her name – a floodgate that opens and allows a wave of loneliness to carry me away.
‘No, it’s Meryl Streep. Yes, it’s Piper.
The only person on your team who apparently hasn’t completely lost her mind.
’ Her rapid-fire delivery is so familiar, so normal, I blink fast and swipe at my cheeks.
‘Where the hell are you? And don’t say “off-grid” again, because I swear to God, Isla, I will hunt you down and—’
‘I’m in Sea Salt Bay,’ I interrupt.
There’s a pause. ‘Salt the what now?’
‘Sea Salt Bay. It’s a little coastal town in Cornwall where my grandmother lived. Remember, I inherited her cottage, I spoke to you about it?’
‘…You’re in Cornwall.’ Her tone suggests I’ve announced I’ve moved to Mars. ‘As in quaint little villages and cream teas and absolutely no cell service Cornwall? You said you were going off-grid, not to the land of career suicide.’
‘I didn’t know where else to go, and’—my voice wavers—‘and I wanted to be here.’
‘Why? Babe, I told you I’d have people sort that for you. Listen, Isla, you need to get your ass back to London immediately. Richard said the Vale legal team is on the warpath, Simone is freaking out because everyone is cancelling your bookings, and you’re what – making sandcastles?’
‘I’m not making sandcastles,’ I mutter, though honestly, that sounds more productive than what I’ve actually been doing.
‘Whatever. I’m coming to get you.’
‘Piper, no—’
‘Piper, yes. I’ve got three different crisis management strategies prepared with Richard. But first, I need to physically lay eyes on you to make sure you haven’t completely lost the plot, dyed your hair black and taken to wearing capes.’
‘I don’t need rescuing.’
‘Your Instagram silence begs to differ. You haven’t posted in eighteen days. Do you know what people are saying? That you’ve had a breakdown. That you’re in rehab. That you’re pregnant with Reid’s baby and hiding out.’
I snort despite myself. ‘Not pregnant.’
‘No shit. But the point is, you’ve gone AWOL at exactly the moment you need to be visible and controlled. So I’m coming. Text me the address. I’ll be there in four hours … which is longer than it takes to have my hair done. It better be the most picturesque place I’ve ever seen.’
‘Piper—’
‘Not negotiable, Quinn. Address. Now.’ There’s a pause, and her voice softens slightly.
‘Look, I know you’re going through it. That’s why I’m coming.
Someone needs to have your back right now.
You need to be strong, if not for you, for all the women your story is helping.
Talking too. Hiding tells them to hide too. ’
The unexpectedly gentle tone almost breaks me. Makes me want to cry tears that will never end. I swallow hard.
‘I don’t know how to be strong for them. I just feel…’ I whisper.
‘Like a used car dumped by the side of the road. Address?’
My eyes are stinging like a goddamn bitch. I give her the details for Salt Cottage, warning her about the narrow lanes and unreliable GPS.
‘Great. I’ll see you this afternoon. Try not to drown yourself in the sea before I get there.’
‘No promises,’ I say, but she’s already hung up.
I drop the phone again and stare at the ceiling. Piper’s coming. Piper with her colour-coded schedules and complete intolerance of self-pity.
I should probably get out of bed. Maybe even shower. Definitely brush my teeth.
But my limbs still feel like they’re made of concrete, and the effort required seems monumental.
Five more minutes, I tell myself. Five more minutes of quiet before I have to prepare for the hurricane that is Piper Chen arriving to drag me back to reality.
Five more minutes becomes ten. Then twenty. Then I’m not sure how much time has passed because I’m staring at that water stain again, thoughts circling like vultures over a carcass.
Is this what giving up feels like? This strange, numb detachment from everything? I should be fighting back. I should be calling Richard, issuing statements, defending myself.
Instead, I’m hiding in my dead grandmother’s cottage.
My stomach growls, reminding me that crackers and chocolate digestives don’t constitute a sustainable diet. When was the last time I ate a proper meal and not crumbled snacks? The fish bap from Frankie and Bill’s shack? That was … four days ago? Five? A lifetime.
I should eat something. I should definitely eat something.
I don’t move.
Outside, the sky is the particular shade of grey that could mean it’s morning or afternoon or anywhere in between. Maggie would be horrified at me lying in bed past 7 am. ‘The day doesn’t wait for lazybones, Isla Quinn,’ she’d say, yanking open the curtains with military precision.
God, I miss her. I miss her certainty. Her absolute conviction about right and wrong. What would she say about all this? About Marcus and the allegations and the backlash?
She’d say something like ‘Well, you’ve made your bed, haven’t you? Now either lie in it or get up and make it again, but don’t whine about the wrinkles.’
Practical to a fault, my grandmother.
With an effort that feels Herculean, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. The room spins briefly, a reminder that humans need food and water to function properly. Method-acting starvation might win Oscars, but it’s not sustainable as a lifestyle choice.
I catch sight of myself in the antique mirror above the dresser and barely recognise the woman staring back. Pale, hollow-cheeked, dark circles like bruises under my eyes. My blonde hair is a nest of tangles, my lips chapped and colourless.
Piper will have a fit when she sees me.
I manage to stand, moving like an old woman, joints stiff from too much stillness. The bathroom awaits, promising hot water and the vague possibility of feeling human again.
But as I pass the window, something catches my eye. A small figure in a bright yellow raincoat, standing at the garden gate, looking up at the cottage.
Maisie Harding, rain hat firmly in place, clutching what appears to be a paper bag.
Our eyes meet, and she waves enthusiastically, as if spotting a celebrity in the wild – which, I suppose, is exactly what’s happening.
‘Perfect timing, kid,’ I mutter, raising a hand in a weak wave back. ‘Absolutely perfect.’