Page 20 of Highland Getaway
He pushes the phone on the desk towards me, and I push it right back at him, frustrated beyond belief.
‘I know I’m staying here for free,’ I say, with as much dignity as I can muster, ‘but I’m still a guest. And I’m .?.?. well, I’mupset.’
To my horror, my eyes obediently fill with tears, as if to prove this. Fortunately, though, it seems that a crying woman is the very last thing Dante wants to have to deal with (well, the second-last thing; the mysterious case of the missing clothes being the first .?.?.), and he carefully rearranges his expression into one of concern.
‘Of course, of course,’ he says, trying to sound reassuring. ‘Look, why don’t you go up to your room and relax? The kitchen’s about to send up some afternoon tea to everyone soon. And I’ll, er, have another word with the staff about the .?.?. other thing.’
‘Thank you,’ I say quietly. ‘I would appreciate that.’
I turn and march towards the staircase, hesitating as I reach it.
‘Third floor, second corridor on the left,’ says Dante helpfully.
‘Thanks,’ I say again. ‘Sorry.’
Then, groaning inwardly at the needless apology, and feeling grateful that Hunter Stuart at least isn’t here to witness it, I go slinking off in what I hope is the direction of my room.
* * *
It takes me just fifteen minutes to find my way this time (which I’m quite pleased about, because it means I’ve shaved two minutes off my previous record), and a mere thirty seconds to cross the room to the wardrobe, which, sure enough, is filled with clothes, just as it was when I left the room this morning, before breakfast.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ I groan, flicking quickly through them to make sure everything’s there. ‘Don’t get me wrong, clothes, I’m pleased to see you all again, but I really wish you could tell me where you’ve been.’
The clothes just hang there silently, though, with absolutely no signs of where they’ve been, or what they’ve been up to. I throw myself onto the bed and allow myself to lie there for a bit, wallowing in my misery, and wondering if I might have a brain tumour, or some other affliction that’s making me see things – ornotsee things, as the case may be.
Iamstarting to talk to my clothes, after all, and that can’t be a good sign, can it?
Eventually, though, there’s a knock at the door, and I haul myself up to answer it to Agnes, who’s carrying a tray laden with what she tells me is a Highland-themed afternoon tea. As well as a wide selection of scones, there are also tiny haggis bonbons, miniature bagels filled with smoked salmon and something Agnes describes as Cullen Skink tartlets, which she assures me taste much better than they sound.
‘Wait,’ she says, as I raise one to my mouth, ready to put this to the test. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be taking photos of this kind of thing?’
I lower the tartlet guiltily.
‘It’s a good job you’re here,’ I tell her, picking up my phone instead. ‘I’m not exactly doing a great job of “influencing”, am I? It didn’t even occur to me to take a photo of it rather than just eat it.’
‘Och, you’ll soon get the hang of it,’ says Agnes, smiling reassuringly. ‘Here, I can help you, if you like.’
She spends a few minutes rearranging things on the tray, then gets me to sit behind the table and pretend to be eating one of the little cakes, while she takes some photos with my phone.
‘Just pretend, mind,’ she says sternly, instructing me to move to where the light’s apparently more flattering. ‘You don’t want to smudge your lipstick by actually eating it.’
I do as she says, feeling horribly self-conscious as I pretend to tuck into the food, my stomach rumbling in protest the entire time. I’ve been an influencer for less than twenty-four hours, and I’m already getting tired of all of the pretending I’m having to do.
‘Haveyouever considered being an influencer, Agnes?’ I say, taking the phone back at last and scrolling through the photos. ‘You’re much better at this than I am.’
‘Och, no,’ she says, with a pleased smile. ‘I want to be a vet. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. That’s why I took this job, actually; I need to save up as much as I can, for university. Even if I go to the nearest one, I’ll still have to live there during term time, and it costs a fortune.’
She chatters away for a few minutes, telling me about how she’s wanted to work with animals since she was a little girl, and I absent-mindedly chew on a scone as I listen to her, feeling ever so slightly envious about how certain she is about what she wants to do with her life, and how she’s going to do it.
It must be nice to feel like you have some kind of purpose; a reason to get out of bed in the morning because you reallywantto, rather than just because youhaveto.
That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m looking for; and the kind of thing I’m hoping this trip will help me find.
A few minutes later, Agnes leaves, and I’m just about to tuck into my afternoon tea at last when I happen to glance out of the window just in time to see Bex and Daniel down in the castle grounds below us.
Bex has gone full Fairytale Princess, in a red evening gown with a huge tulle skirt which floats dramatically around her as she runs in slow-motion through the mist-covered grounds, while Daniel attempts to film her on both the GoPro and his camera at the same time.
I watch entranced, the spread in front of me forgotten. The red dress contrasts sharply with Bex’s pale skin and dark hair, while the length makes it look almost as if she’s floating in it. I can already imagine the comments this is going to get when she uploads it, and I’m just about to turn away in defeat and go and eat my feelings of envy about all of this (because that’sgotto be better than actuallyexperiencingthem, right?) when the scene abruptly ends, with Bex stopping in her tracks and holding out her hand for the camera to peer at the shots Daniel’s taken on the screen at the back.
