Chapter Two
There’s a whiteboard by our flat’s front door with a list of problems on it. Our landlady is supposed to come around to fix them but we have only met her once when she moved us in five years ago. The biggest, most critical issue is the hole in the floorboard in the hallway, large enough to drop a shoe down. That has been on the list for three years. There’s a sorry-looking corn plant covering it, with a red bauble dangling from the top leaf. Our rendition of a Christmas tree. But it is now May, and nobody has bothered to move it. The mould in Jen’s room is home to three slugs. The window in the loo doesn’t shut, and we have a worrying crack across the ceiling in the living area.
Our three-bed flat is home to five fully grown adults because there are two couples living here. I’m pretty sure it’s illegal, but they share some of the overall rent, so I work very hard to pretend not to notice.
The kitchen is one and a half metres wide. There is only one tray in the oven. The sink is rusty. The fruit bowl is full of random things nobody will claim as their own: an out-of-date condom, a random key, a dead fly and a half-used pack of Kleenex. No fruit.
Living here is actually not conducive to a healthy lifestyle. But it’s in a nice street so, I guess, you give, and you take.
I’ve procured a dehumidifier in my room that also acts as a clothes horse. It’s badly ventilated in here without the windows open but it’s too cold in winter to open them. As I shrug out of my dress and into my cosy pyjamas, I realise it has already gone nine in the evening. There’s an ongoing battle between myself and James as to who will leave the office last. Michael stays late and I would hate for him to think I’m not invested in my job.
I am.
But the issue is, so is Gloatman.
Luckily, he got a call that had him sighing, running a hand through his perfectly shaped hair as he strode out of the office, giving me one last miserable glance. Thankfully, it meant, despite our battle in the meeting earlier today, I had triumphed. But on top of this I actually had a lot of work to get done, or reassign within my team, thanks to this last-minute work trip that Michael has flung on us.
His email came through at four fifty-five, just as my team were giving each other anxious glances about when it might be suitable for them to leave without looking uncommitted to the cause. I don’t expect them to hold the same standards as me, but it would be nice if one of them showed an ounce of willingness from time to time. I’m pretty certain they think I’m a workaholic.
Over the past couple of years, getting back to my room has been the worst part of my day, and I struggle to pinpoint why. I can cope with my messy, damp-infested flat. If anything, it’s character building. It’s the way my heart starts juddering at an uncomfortable rhythm as I lie back. It’s the way, despite adding a softer mattress and the weighted blanket to my bed, my limbs seem to go rigid as I try to relax. It’s the way my breathing becomes laboured even though I’m just lying here doing nothing at all.
My brain spins, going over the day, the commute, the meetings, the challenges. I scrutinise every part of it until I’m on the verge of throwing up. I should’ve said something else to Michael. I should’ve held my tongue with James. I let him get to me. It’s not long before I sense my cheeks are damp. The room is dark, somehow both stuffy yet cold, and I take a shuddering, calming breath as I realise how very tired I am.
“I love my job. I love my job. I love my job,” I preach quietly into my pillow.
Maybe I do need a break? I’m not sure the break I need is the one Michael has organised. No. I think I need to do a Mamma Mia! , find an island in Greece and a long-lost auntie who has a half-ruined farmhouse I can do up. Hopefully I’ll bump into three gorgeous men over one summer and have some exciting, wild affairs under the sun.
Instead, we were sent our boarding passes for Inverness. Inverness! And our return flight isn’t until Saturday. He didn’t even ask us if we had plans at the weekend. The man just assumes we’re free.
I am. But that’s against the point.
I love my job. I can do this.
I sort of wish one of my housemates were around so I could chew their ears off about this whole thing, but alas they’re all out working their second jobs. For a moment, I’m thankful I earn at least enough to avoid that. I honestly think a second job would kill me. Especially as sleep claws over me now, my eyes heavy, weary.
Before I drift off, I set my alarm for 3 a.m. An overwhelmed cry falls from my lips.
I love my job.
*
Heathrow is quiet at this time in the morning. There’s a lull in activity for a few hours each night, and Michael appears to have booked our flight at an unsociable time. I sit in sleepy silence at the gate, waiting for my flight to be called, and when it comes to boarding, Gloatman and the rest of the team are still nowhere to be found. Apparently, Michael would be finding his own way there, and Mel in HR decided it would be more conducive to a healthy work environment if she stayed. An appropriate decision, considering Gloatman’s team can be total arse wipes to my team.
For a moment, I sense a pocket of adrenaline bursting inside of me. Where are they? Why am I on my own?
I open my phone and dial for Fiona. There’s no answer. I frown at the boarding queue getting smaller by the second. I haven’t got long to decide. I think about calling James briefly to see if he’s on his way, before realising that I hope he isn’t coming anyway, and this may be the best thing that’s happened to me in a while.
This does feel suspiciously weird though. I look behind me at the way I came into the terminal. I could turn around now, travel home and slither back into my bed for a kip, all before 7 a.m. That’s not how you get promoted though. Must remember to show willingness.
The queue is getting shorter, and they’ve already called for final boarders. This is it. I need to make a decision. Oh, flip. I bite my bottom lip, considering. What’s the worst that can happen? If it turns out Michael cancelled the trip last minute and forgot to tell me then I’ll just turn around and come home. I’m a grown woman. I shouldn’t be afraid to get on a flight on my own. And yet, uneasiness is bubbling under my skin.
I sigh, stepping towards the cabin crew waiting to scan my pass, then board the plane.
Once seated, I pretend to enjoy the flight, despite the worry of what’s to come from my unpredictable manager making me fidgety, whilst peeking out of the window as the light, fresh blue of morning leaks into the night sky. There’s a slight orange tint, the promise of summer just around the corner. It’s such a short flight, I don’t even get offered a hot drink. Luckily, I bought a bottle of water at the terminal that I sip on slowly, popping my ears as we descend.
Scotland from this height looks like a lot of water and barren land.
I peek at my phone on flight mode and realise I haven’t called Mum back yet. She rang whilst I was still in the office yesterday evening, and I didn’t want to let that vulnerable side of me leak into my fierce facade. Mum has a way of making me fragile. My dad, on the other hand, has a way of making me a little cross and bossy. Their divorce, when I was fifteen, felt very personal to me.
They made me sit at the head of the table as Mum took my hands into hers. She was a bit teary; I remember that. Dad looked more resigned, tired. Mum said, “We’re getting a divorce.”
Dad said, “It’s been a long time coming.”
To which Mum made a gasping sound, as if he’d personally slighted her. “We never really loved each other at all, to be honest. We only stayed together because I got pregnant with you.”
My dad rubbed his face, shaking his head in exasperation. “What your mother means is that we love you very much and it meant the world to us to raise you together but that we haven’t ever been truly happy. Not really.”
Of course, at first, I’d been devastated. There was this ever-present need to feel all the warmth and cosiness of my life prior to their breakup. Baking gingerbread with Dad on Christmas Eve whilst Mum watched from the dining table, sipping on eggnog as festive tunes rattled on in the background. Opening presents on my birthday, watched dotingly by my two favourite people in the whole world. The summer barbeques with Mum’s exquisite array of salads and Dad’s charred black burgers we’d have to scrape before we could eat. It was all gone, and nothing I tried with them individually could ever match what we had had.
And besides, they’d explained none of it had ever been real anyway.
For some reason, even now, we all play this fun game where we don’t talk about any of it. I think it was, and is , better that way. I still juggle Christmases between them, and so far, it runs relatively smoothly. Bringing up those discussions would more than likely cause a rift. There’s a lot of life admin to consider with separated parents, but the worst part, with Mum single, is how her emotional baggage falls on me.
That’s why I decided to ignore her call earlier on. I can’t be talking her down off a ledge over a bad date whilst I’m at work.
I sigh inwardly. That’s not fair.
She’s a highly empathic woman; something I try to smother in myself. And I think she has this ability to spark deep and traumatising fear into any man she meets. She’s a crier. And she’s been known to do this on first dates.
This may have happened to me one time. But in my defence, there was a puppy.
*
As we come in to land, I promise myself I will call Mum as soon as I’m in the privacy of my own room. I really hope I have my own room . The air in Inverness is cooler than it is in London. There’s a fresh nippiness about it. It’s as if they’re in early spring and not the start of summer. I’m glad I chose tights this morning, knitted black ones that go perfectly with my little red ankle boots, red cardigan and black skater dress with a high-cut neckline.
I’ve always enjoyed mixing it up with colours. Dressing blandly draws attention to my otherwise plain self. There’s nothing particularly exciting about me underneath my clothes and makeup. I’m average in many ways: height, waist circumference and ordinary green eyes. They’re not even bluey-green or hazel. Just green. I wouldn’t call myself pretty and yet I wouldn’t call myself unappealing either. I’m right there in plain Jane world. So, I add some colour, to make myself memorable.
I wrap my cardigan tighter around my shoulders as an icy breeze whips off the sea and across the taxi pick-up area. There’s a saltiness in the air. The stench of seaside lingers here. Rather than the lovely aroma of beaches and ice cream, there’s the waft of rotting seaweed and dampness.
On the planning email Michael sent last night, he advised that he had arranged a car at Inverness to collect us, which now turns out to just be me. What am I supposed to do with that little information? The details of where and when this car would be here are missing from his instructions.
I glance around for a sign of some sort. Something, or anything, that will make me feel just a little less flustered and frantic.
Surely my colleagues must be here by now? Did they take another flight?
I pause with a huff. This is ridiculous . I open my phone and try for Fiona again. It’s 7 a.m. now so she must be awake. But, again, no answer.
Gah. I so do not want to have to call James for clarification. He probably knows all the details. What if Michael has cancelled, and now, I’m the only prat who flew to Scotland? He’ll be so smug. I give the small airport one last scan to check for their familiar faces but, alas, they’re still nowhere to be found.
I dial for Gloatman, a defeated feeling weighing heavy on my shoulders. His phone doesn’t even ring. Straight to voicemail. Well, damn.
I decide to walk a little further towards the taxi rank. To my surprise, I spot a driver holding a sign for The Starr Agency. I let out a small gasp of happiness that at least something seems to be going to plan, but then, once I reach him, I realise I know nothing about this strange person I’m about to get into a car with.
“Felicity Rainer?” he asks, his bushy eyebrows rising.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I confirm. “Just quickly though: do you know where we’re going? Are we waiting for anyone else to join us? Do you have proof Michael booked you?”
The man looks at me curiously, but to my relief, he doesn’t seem offended by my questioning. “Sorry, lass, I was booked by the company. I don’t have any proof other than that. You can call ’em though, if you like? Sally in the office might know more. All I know is I am picking you up and taking you to Davey Castle. It’s about a forty-minute drive from here.”
I contemplate calling this Sally, but then again, his black SUV does have branding on it and all the relevant registration plates so he must be legitimate. And in addition to that he seems friendly and kind. He’s only an inch taller than me. I think about who would win in a physical confrontation. He’s quite old. I reckon I could take him.
Fine. Since I’m out of options, I let him load my small suitcase into the back of his taxi. He then speeds out onto a faster single carriageway towards this mysterious castle destination.
I check the time. It’s only just gone 7 a.m. My stomach is rumbling, and I have this sudden urge to lie down for a moment. Must be the stress of the morning getting to me. Something tells me, however, that Michael won’t have sleeping in mind.
The scenery is vast and bare here. It’s both rocky and green, with lakes and long stretches of sea clawing its way through the landscape. We follow a road along an estuary that dips and burrows its way beside the sea, through grey hills and past small, sparsely populated villages, until the landscape becomes thicker with sharp, thorny bushes that seem to have grown harsh in the bitter weather and trees that grow tall but thin.
The car takes a right turn onto a driveway, surrounded by a magnificently green golf course with manicured lawns. Well, that’s how it appears anyway. I know nothing about golf, of course. I’m sure it’s the sort of dull activity you’d find Gloatman doing to network with his clients.
I roll my head from side to side to loosen my neck. I really hope whatever this retreat turns out to be, James doesn’t make it. He’d just be trying to find a way to win Michael over to his idea. At least if he doesn’t show, I can act as if that argument never happened. I can prove to Michael I am a calm, creative, gentle employee who favours image over money. I see the bigger picture. The longevity of the business.
The car follows the drive until it arches around in front of a grand castle. The front is all grey and menacing with its turrets and gargoyles, but the windows glow a light orange in a friendly, welcoming way. There’s the faint smell of brewing coffee and cooked breakfast that makes my mouth water.
Just looking at this place has the stress melting away from my body.
I take a deep breath of the fresh Scottish air once I’m out, holding my bag with a smile. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. Maybe this is what I need. Maybe this week will help me get rid of the anxiety that lingers inside of me, never wanting to shift.
“Felicity,” a deep voice comes from behind me.
I jump, spinning, as my calm composure evaporates like water thrown over a volcano. “ You! But you missed the flight.”
James is dressed in another tweed suit jacket, beige chinos and a white shirt, a few buttons undone at the top, a whisper of dark hair on show. Although it’s still a smart look, it’s more casual than usual. Wait… Is that the same outfit he had on yesterday? Just without the tie?
He shrugs, unbothered. His face is one of bored confidence, as he says, “I shared the jet with Michael.”
I try not to let it irk me that James got one-on-one time with Michael. I bet he used the time to chew his ear off.
Another thought occurs to me. Is he considering James for the director role too? No, he can’t possibly be. James is an idiot. He’s only interested in money. He doesn’t see the bigger picture at all. Directors need to be able to see the bigger picture… Don’t they?
I feel a sudden urge to stamp my foot. I was already tired. Now I’m irritable too. And still hungry.
“Yes, it was the perfect opportunity to discuss business ideas and my potential promotion,” he says, giving me a knowing look, his eyebrows lifting. Well, damn. Why hadn’t I even considered James would be in the running for director too?
But, of course he would. He’s always trying to find ways to slither into Michael’s schedule. And his ideas! His stupid bloody ideas! They’ve been more frequent recently. I should’ve seen this coming.
Michael never said there were two of us in the running… This changes everything.
There’s a tingling in one side of my brain and if I don’t turn away from James soon, he’ll catch an eye twitch.
“Where’s Michael and the others anyway?” I demand, peering around the car park, trying not to make eye contact with Gloatman.
But as if saying his name somehow conjured the man, Michael appears to our left. I have to physically catch myself from gasping and stepping backwards.
He softly places his hand on my shoulder and does his magnificent, if slightly creepy, pearly white smile. “My team!”
I give James a look. Wasn’t he with Michael all morning? Surely this isn’t a surprise to either of them.
“Follow me,” Michael says, whooshing past us both towards a beat-up minivan.