Page 37 of Highland Getaway
‘Not aboutyou,’ he says after a pause. ‘I can see you’re neither of those things. Youdolike shopping, though.’
I shrug, because there’s no point arguing with that one.
‘Look,’ he says in a gentler tone. ‘You’re right. I do want the hotel to be a success. I want to be able to stay here. I want Hannah to grow up somewhere with enough space to run wild when she feels like it, without worrying about who she might be disturbing. So I’m sorry if I sounded a bit . . . well, sceptical .?.?. about what you do. I didn’t mean to.’
‘It’s not really whatIdo,’ I admit. ‘I’m not even supposed to be here, remember? But itiswhat Bex and the rest of them do. And this is an amazing place, Hunter,’ I go on, twisting around in my seat so I can see his face. ‘It just needs the right publicity, so people know it’s here. And once they do, they’ll want to come and see it for themselves. I just know it.’
‘And you think you and your pals are the right people to give it that publicity?’ The amused tone is back, although he’s doing his best to hide it.
‘Maybe,’ I reply, with a defiant tilt of the chin. ‘We can’t just let the arsehole nephew sell the place, can we? We have to defeat him.’
This seems like an excellent line for me to exit the car on, only I forget about the turnip and have to go back to get it, and I’m not sure a turnip isquitethe prop I need for my big moment. Not even a particularly large and tasty one, which Ian assures me this one will be.
It’s the best I can manage under the circumstances, though, so, holding the turnip in both hands so I don’t drop it, I make my way up the steps that lead to the castle, feeling like Erin Brockovich or .?.?. or Moana, say.
OK, maybe not like either of those.
But as I stride into the lobby, giving Agnes a breezy wave as I march past her at the reception desk, and then another one as I pass her for a second time, having realised I’m going in the wrong direction, I walk with a renewed sense of purpose; because now I’m not just here to get a few spa treatments while taking part in a competition I have no chance of winning. Or even to have myself the journey of transformation I was promised.
No, now I’m here to save the hotel from the property-developing Nuckelavee from Glasgow who wants to sell it to the highest bidder; and, not only that, but to save dozens of people’s jobs in the process.
And if that’s not a lofty goal, as Hunter sarcastically put it, then I don’t know what is.
Chapter 15
Back in my room, I conduct my now customary search for horses’ heads and missing clothes, then, finding everything in order, I settle down in a seat by the window to edit and post some of the photos and videos I took this morning in the village.
There are quite a few of Izzie and Ian, and not too many of me; but the village looks picturesque in the sunshine that finally broke through the clouds, and the shots of the market stalls have actually turned out quite well – or as well as photos of vegetablescanturn out – so, all in all, I figure my bid to save the hotel by influencing people to come to the area is off to a good start.
According to the fresh copy of the itinerary Luna pushed under my door this morning (this one without any notes relating to dress codes, I notice .?.?.), this afternoon’s activity is a picnic on the beach; which sounds lovely until I realise we’ll be getting there on horseback.
In the rain.
Putting down my phone halfway through a video edit, I get reluctantly out of my comfy chair and stare out of the window at the tiny drops of water that are suddenly obscuring the view, in a stark contrast to the sunshine of earlier.
The guidebooks really weren’t joking when they said the weather changes every fifteen minutes here, were they?
The combination of pouring rain plus horseback riding presents me with the kind of sartorial dilemma that’s going to be no fun at all to solve (as opposed to the dinner-plus-dancing kind, whicharepretty fun to solve), so I spend a stressy half-hour or so in the walk-in closet in my room, emerging at last looking like Nanook of the North, in a tight pair of jeans and a large, puffy jacket which I’m just going to have to hope is waterproof.
This is not going to look good in photos, unfortunately, but there’s not much I can do about it, so I head stiffly downstairs, where, of course, I find everyone else waiting for me, looking like they’re about to be photographed for a magazine shoot. Bex, in particular, has gone all out in a long, flowy white dress, which she’s accessorised with a chunky knit jumper, which I fully expect her to describe as ‘rustic’ in the resulting Instagram caption.
‘Ooh, another brave outfit choice, Wrong Rosie,’ she coos, in her pretending-to-be-nice tone. ‘Can you even bend your arms in that jacket?’
‘Almost,’ I mutter, a tiny bead of sweat starting to trickle down my back, because it might be raining, but it’s also strangely humid. ‘And it’s just plain old Rosie, thanks.’
‘Oh, you’re notthatplain,’ Millie assures me earnestly, as we all file out of the door and onto the driveway where, of course, I find out the rain has stopped already, rendering my waterproof jacket completely redundant. ‘Orold. I bet you’re only about thirty-five, aren’t you?’
‘I’m twenty-nine,’ I tell her, making a mental note to update my skincare as soon as I can afford it. ‘That’s not what I meant, though. I really hate the way everyone – well, Bex, really – keeps calling me Wrong Rosie and going on about how I’m supposed to be the “average” one. It’s . . .unkind.’
Following Sabrina, who’s wearing a long leather trench coat, like some kind of international spy, we turn and walk around the side of the castle, towards the grounds, where I can see Hunter Stuart standing waiting for us with a group of stocky little Highland ponies beside him.
Oh, please tell me he’s not going to be around to witness this, too. That’s all I need.
‘Look,’ says Millie, falling into step beside me as we crunch our way across the gravel to where Hunter’s waiting. ‘The Wrong Rosie thing. You need to lean into it. Own it. Embrace it, even.’
I look at her doubtfully. I’m not sure I reallywantto lean into average. To embrace ‘ordinary’. And Idefinitelydon’t want to keep on being referred to as Wrong Rosie for the rest of my stay here.
‘The thing is,’ says Millie with a sigh, ‘you need a gimmick, right?’
