Page 11 of Highland Getaway
‘Aye,’ says Hunter, following the direction of my gaze. ‘The Highlands have a way of changing people. I would know.’
He bites his lip, as if he’s trying to stop himself saying something else. I really want to ask him what it is, but, before I can find the courage to actually do it, he whistles to Stevie, who comes bounding over from where he’s been curled up in front of the fire.
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ says Hunter, abruptly bringing the conversation to an end. ‘Make sure you drink plenty of water. You’re going to need it.’
Without waiting for a response, he turns and goes striding towards the double doors of the hotel, Stevie at his heels. I stand there for a second, wondering what I said that made him want to get away from me so quickly, until another thought arrives to wipe Hunter Stuart completely from my mind.
What was it Sabrina said to all of us before she went clacking off in her spindly heels earlier?
Competition?
Didn’t she say something about acompetition?
Chapter 5
With Hunter gone, Agnes shows me to my room, which is on the third floor of the hotel, and accessed via at least four different corridors, plus a narrow set of winding stairs, which I’m almost certain I’ll be falling down at some point.
I keep my eyes peeled for any sign of ghosts as we make our way through the old castle, but, with the exception of a few of those creepy oil paintings which look like the eyes of the person are following you all the time (one of them looks a lot like Dante, the hotel manager, actually, which makes it even creepier .?.?.), everything seems fairly normal: in a ‘five-star hotel that used to be a castle’ kind of way.
Room number six turns out to be in one of the turrets I briefly saw from the driveway, and I coo with delight at the perfectly round room, which has a four-poster bed, and a free-standing bathtub with little gold feet next to one of the windows.
‘There’s an en-suite shower room through here,’ says Agnes, opening a door to reveal a modern bathroom with a rainfall shower and double vanity. ‘And this is the wardrobe. It’s one of those walk-in ones.’
I sit down on the end of the bed, not sure if my legs are weak from dehydration or just plain excitement.
I can’t believe all of this is forme.
‘The turret rooms are our best suites,’ Agnes adds, seeing the look on my face. ‘They’re super-expensive.’
‘I bet,’ I reply, lovingly stroking a soft tartan blanket that’s draped over the end of the bed.
‘Well, I’ll let you get some sleep,’ Agnes says kindly, seeing me fail to stifle a yawn. ‘Your stuff’s all been unpacked for you, so you can just relax.’
I watch as she gives a cheerful little wave and leaves the room, before turning back to the bed, which looks so inviting that I waste no time in climbing into it, a bottle of water from the mini fridge clutched firmly in my hand, so I can attempt to rehydrate from a horizontal position.
It’s been one hell of a day.
Tomorrow, though, will be better. Tomorrow I’ll wake up refreshed, ready to start over. Tomorrow my ‘journey of reinvention’ will really begin.
Because, let’s face it, it’s not like it can possibly be any worse.
* * *
The next morning, I wake up to find my makeup imprinted on my pillow, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and a scene straight out of a movie outside my bedroom window.
The room I’m in is at the back of the hotel, and it looks out over a vast formal garden and down to the sea. The sun’s just coming up, and the water shines silver in the early-morning light, a solitary seagull soaring high above the waves. The grounds themselves are perfectly symmetrical and it’s still early enough that there’s a light dusting of morning dew over everything, creating an ethereal, other-worldly effect that doesn’t seem quite real. There’s even a small, perfectly manicured maze in the centre of the grounds, which I make a mental notenotto enter, because, the way my luck’s being going so far, I’d probably never find my way out of it.
After a quick shower, during which I use each of the expensive toiletries in turn, I put on my best jeans and the new red cashmere sweater I bought the day I got the invitation to the Chrysalis: the magic one, that promised it was going to change my life.
Well, let’s just hope it was right about that.
After a final look in the mirror to make sure I don’t have lipstick on my teeth, I let myself out of the room, trying my best to remember the directions Agnes gave me to the hotel dining room last night. But it’s no good. After five minutes of walking up and down apparently endless corridors, all of which seem absolutely identical to me, I realise I’m hopelessly lost.
Shit.
What do I do now?
I really don’t want to be late for breakfast – especially not after the way Sabrina warned us all to be on time – but I’m pretty sure I’m just going around in circles here, and getting nowhere. Quickening my step, I march down the corridor, trying doors at random in the hope that one of them will lead to the staircase I remember from last night. Most of the doors have room numbers on them, and are obviously guest rooms, but finally I come across one that creaks slowly open when I try the handle, with a noise that reminds me of the sound I made when I was trying to get out of the train bathroom yesterday.
