The Burnout(23)

Suddenly, all I want in this world is shortbread and coffee in the lounge at eleven. But I can’t give up so quickly.

“No thanks.” I smile briskly. “I’ll be too busy with my schedule.”

“Of course.” She eyes my Hula-Hoop curiously. “What’s that? Looks like a Hula-Hoop!”

“It’s … exercise equipment.” I hastily nod at the sewing machine, to change the subject. “What are you doing?”

“Etsy business,” explains Cassidy. “Bit of cash on the side. I make personalized underwear to order, see?” She holds up the yellow fabric, and I see that it’s a thong with pink embroidered words on the front, stating You’ll Be Lucky. “You can have any slogan you want,” she says brightly. “Up to five words. I’ll make you one, if you like! I make quite a lot saying Happy Place with an arrow downward—d’you want one of those?”

I try to imagine wearing a thong saying Happy Place with an arrow downward. But it just seems like a bad joke. Happy place? Dead and forgotten place, more like. Thrown away the key, more like.

“You seem busy,” I say, avoiding the question.

“I’m doing really well!” she says proudly, holding up a multicolored handful of thongs. “Although I don’t even want to tell you what I’ve had to embroider for some of the customers.” She lowers her voice. “I had to look some of it up! I can’t do it at home, my gran would have a hissy. She goes to chapel. This one’s nice, though.” She sorts through and finds a turquoise thong with the slogan F— Me. “Quite classy, I thought,” she says, admiring it. “You know, understated. Don’t you think?”

“Er …” The phone rings before I can answer, and she picks up the receiver.

“Hello, the Rilston,” she says cheerily, twirling the F— Me thong round and round on her forefinger. “No, that’s the other Rilston, in Perthshire. OK. Enjoy your stay!”

As she puts down the phone, I decide to raise something that’s crossed my mind a few times since I’ve arrived.

“Cassidy, is the Rilston … all right?” I venture. “Only it’s quite empty, and half the furniture’s gone, and …” I look around the faded lobby, wondering how to put this tactfully. “It’s a bit different from how it used to be. It’s not going to … ?”

I can’t bear to say go bust.

“Well.” Cassidy leans across the desk as though for a good gossip. “Here’s what it is. They are a bit short of cash. We’re what you call a ‘skeleton staff.’ Not real skeletons!” she adds, with a sudden laugh. “We’re not ghosts!”

A skeleton staff. OK. That explains quite a lot.

“So anyway, they need to get investors on board for the new lodges,” continues Cassidy. “They’re going to get those done first, then fix up the main hotel. They’re going to be called Skyspace Beach Studios,” she adds with relish. “All glass. Hot tubs on the decks.”

“Wow,” I say, taken aback. “That sounds … different.”

“Oh yeah, you should see the designs.” Cassidy nods. “They’re amazing! Simon’s planning a reception for all the investors, actually,” she adds, putting another thong in her sewing machine. “Or, rather, would-be investors. That’s why he’s a bit stressed out.”

“Right.” I nod too, digesting this. “He does seem quite tense.”

“Simon takes everything so seriously.” Cassidy shakes her head sorrowfully. “Poor love. We had a fire recently. I was like, ‘Simon, relax, it’s only a fire!’ But he’s all like, ‘We shouldn’t have fires in the hotel! It’s dangerous!’ Perfectionist, you see? Oh, you’re invited to the reception,” she adds as she starts embroidering again. “I’m printing out the cards later.”

“Me?” I stare at her. “I’m not an investor.”

“They want some guests along,” she explains. “Liven it up. Oh, do come! There’ll be champagne! Or—wait. You won’t want champagne, will you?” She thinks for a moment. “I’m sure Chef Leslie will make you a lovely kale cocktail.”

“Great,” I gulp. “Well, maybe. See you later.”


The beach is empty again when I arrive. I stand on the sand for a few moments, taking in the wide-open sky—then head to my lodge. I dump my wetsuit, mat, foam roller, and rucksack on the floor and slump on the sofa. For a while I just stare out the window at the sea without even taking off my coat, letting my jangled brain calm down.

Then at last I rouse myself and rub my face. OK. Time to start. I sit up straight, pull my bullet journal out of my rucksack, and find my list for the day.

DAY ONE: 1. Wild swimming.

Wild swimming. Excellent. I can’t wait to plunge into the freezing-cold water.

I mean, bracing water.

I put down my bullet journal and peer through the window at the heaving sea, trying to imagine getting into the water. Actually into it. In February.

I glance at my new black wetsuit, lying pristine and dry—then look through the window again at the forbidding sea. Waves are lashing the shoreline. The seagulls tumbling in the sky above sound plaintive and warning. It’s quite different from the sunshiny blue of my childhood.