I shrug. Not much I can do about that.
She presses her fingers against her brow. ‘Just so you know,’ she says, ‘I do krav maga.’
I don’t smirk, but I highly doubt she’s telling the truth. ‘Okay.’
‘I could totally take you down if I need to.’
‘You honestly won’t need to,’ I say. I think of Susie and how I’d want someone to act around her if she ever found herself in this position. ‘Look, I’ll sleep out on the porch tonight. I’m not saying you’re right or that I’m leaving, just that I get that it’s dark and we don’t know each other. We can sort it in the daylight.’
She stares at me, indecision all over her face. ‘I need to think,’ she mutters, opening the door to step outside. There’s a rumble of distant thunder as the wind tries to yank the door from her grip and she slams it shut again. The weather is really ramping up out there. She leans her back against the door and swallows hard. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’
I step aside so she can pass, and breathe a sigh of relief when she’s out of sight. Christ, I could really use that beer.
Cleo
2 October
Salvation Island
HOLED UP AT THE END OF THE WORLD WITH HAN SOLO
I don’t know what to do. I mean, I do. I know I’ve got no choice but to share Otter Lodge with a random American. Having seen how wild the weather is just now, he’ll probably do something dramatic like die if I take him up on his offer to sleep on the porch. And now here I am hiding in the bathroom, sitting on the loo with my horrible wet jeans bunched around my chafed ankles, wishing with all my heart to be back in my flat in London. So much for solitary beauty.
I fight my boots and jeans off and kick the ball of wet denim across the room in temper. God, that bath looks inviting. The lodge might be remote, but someone with a flair for interior design has worked some serious magic here. I couldn’t properly take in the main room because of the six-foot American standing in the middle of it, but sitting here now I appreciate the calming neutrals, the roll-top copper bathtub, the expensive bath products, the fat church candle and jar of long matches. The slate floor is blessedly warm under my feet and a pile of snow-white towels sits on an uneven wooden shelf that looks as if it might have washed up on the beach. If I was going to search for something like this on Pinterest, I’d type in ‘rustic-luxe’。 It’s proper cottagecore. I can’t wait until I can enjoy it without a stranger in my peripheral vision.
‘Can you please pass my suitcase?’ I shout, hoping he doesn’t try to score any more points by refusing.
‘By the door.’
I crack the door open enough to make sure he’s not lurking, but he’s out of sight so I haul my case inside and flip the lid open on the floor.
I’m married, if it helps. I roll my eyes as I remember his words. I mean, what did he think was going through my head to make him say that? Are all murderers unmarried? I don’t think so. For that matter, how does he know I won’t murder him? I triple check I’ve locked the door and tip a little of the luxurious bath oil into the running water, my shredded nerves soothed by the scent of exclusive spas and far-flung, sun-soaked shores.
‘I’m taking a bath,’ I yell, dragging my jumper over my head. Every layer that comes off feels like a weight leaving me. I’m not a winter person; I don’t understand anyone who says they prefer snow to the dog days of summer. I’m a woman made for flip-flops and places where you never need a jacket. The opposite of here, basically. When I light the candle and slide into the bone-deep heat of the water, it’s so nourishing I could cry. I won’t though – I’ve already chalked up my out-of-nowhere crying incident for the day. God, that was bizarre. I didn’t feel driven to tears by the horror-hike up the mountain. If anything, I was elated to have reached the summit, and then side-swiped out of the blue by this almighty gulp of emotion.
I hold my breath and duck my head beneath the bathwater, immersed. This place is definitely getting the better of me. Or more likely it’s just been the longest of days, the journey to get here full of peril, and my much-anticipated time alone has been punctured by an unwelcome intrusion. I try, on the whole, to be an adaptable person, someone who makes the best of a situation, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve fallen at the first hurdle.
‘There’s coffee on the stove.’
I nod, unable to squeeze words of gratitude out of my lips, even though I feel marginally more human now I’m bundled in my PJs with my hair in a towel.