“Your PA also said you need a reflexologist,” adds Cassidy, consulting her notebook again, “and I’m working on that. We do have a reflexologist in the summer—lovely lady, very holistic—but unfortunately she works at Burger King in Exeter during the winter, so she’s not presently available.” Cassidy sees that Finn Birchall’s hand is raised and turns to him. “Mr. Birchall!” she calls across the room. “How can I help?”
“Am I able to make a request directly?” he inquires, his tone deadpan. “Or should I ask my PA to phone the reception desk? Is that how it works here?”
In spite of myself, I flush. OK. I can see what I look like. Just for a nanosecond, I consider saying, It wasn’t my PA phoning, it was my mum. But then almost instantly I feel nettled at the idea. Why should I explain myself? It’s a free country. I can have a PA if I want to.
“Oh no!” says Cassidy earnestly, missing his point completely. “You can ask me anything, Mr. Birchall.”
“I’d like a black coffee, please.” He glances briefly my way. “But if I need to ask my people to email your people about it, then let’s make that happen and circle back. Maybe I’ll loop in my chief of staff.”
Ha ha. Hilarious.
“Oh no!” says Cassidy, wide-eyed. “Just ask me.” She beams at him. “One black coffee coming up—and Nikolai will be out for your food orders directly.”
I lift my chin, ignoring Finn Birchall as pointedly as I can, and sip my water. A moment later, Nikolai arrives at my side, holding the breakfast menu and a glass on a silver tray. It contains some sort of livid green substance and smells of algae.
“Kale smoothie,” he says with an air of pride.
My stomach clenches. It looks undrinkable. Unspeakable.
“Thank you!” I say, as brightly as I can, whereupon Nikolai proffers the menu, pointing helpfully at melon plate.
“Madame would prefer the melon plate,” he says confidently. “Melon plate as yesterday.”
Oh God. It’s easier just to say yes.
“Yes, please.” I force a smile. “One melon plate. Thank you.”
“How is the kale smoothie?” Nikolai gestures eagerly at the green slime, and my heart sinks. I can’t dodge it. I’ll have to try it.
I take a sip and try not to heave. It tastes of swamp. I’ve never drunk a swamp, but somehow I know instinctively that this smoothie is exactly what they taste like.
“Lovely.” I force another smile. “Perfect! Please thank the chef.”
Nikolai looks satisfied, then approaches Finn Birchall, at the other end of the room.
“Sir. Some breakfast?”
“Yes please.” He nods. “Two eggs over easy, bacon, sourdough toast, butter, marmalade, orange juice, and a stack of pancakes.” He pauses, noticing that Nikolai is scribbling frantically, then adds, “And maple syrup. And another black coffee.”
My stomach is growling desperately as I listen to this list, but I try to keep my expression pleasant.
“Kale smoothie, sir?” Nikolai gestures over at my glass. “Organic kale, very healthy?”
Finn Birchall looks nauseated. “No. Thank you.”
Defensively, I take another sip of the kale smoothie and nearly gag. What is in this?
Nikolai scurries off, and there’s silence while we wait for our food. I try to relax, but somehow I can’t. There’s something about Finn Birchall’s presence that makes me prickle. Is it because his fingers keep drumming the table? Is it because he looks so murderous? It’s breakfast! I feel like exclaiming. What’s the problem?
He’s tense, I realize. He’s tense and he’s making me tense too. I preferred it when it was just me and Nikolai anxiously saying “Madame” every three seconds.
At last, Nikolai reappears and I breathe a sigh of relief. First he sets down a plate of melon in front of me. Then he returns to the kitchen and brings out the epic feast that is Finn Birchall’s breakfast.
I want to swoon. The sight of it. The smell of it. Bacon. Eggs. Pancakes. A pile of toast. Solid, warm, delicious food with maple syrup sploshed all over it.
I can’t watch him eat all that, I’ll collapse with hunger. Hastily, I consume my insubstantial melon slices, sip my herbal tea, then survey the kale smoothie with childlike dread. Could I get up and just leave it? No. Not after they’ve gone to such trouble.
Could I throw it in a plant pot? No. There isn’t a plant pot.
Then, with a sudden idea, I call Nikolai over.
“Hi,” I say. “I need to get going, I’m afraid. Could I have my smoothie to go, please?”
Back upstairs in my room, I sit on the bed and stare at the wallpaper until I feel calmer. Then I pack up my stuff and walk through the lawned garden to the beach, clutching my smoothie in its paper cup. The air is cold, but there’s a hint of blue in the sky and crocuses peeping out on the lawn. It’s a good day, I tell myself. Let’s begin like I mean to go on, with positive thoughts.
As I walk, I visualize a successful meditation. I’ll sit cross-legged on the rock. Yes. I’ll gaze out to sea. Yes. I’ll listen to the waves and be inspired. Yes. I have such a clear image of myself that when I finally catch sight of the rock, I stop dead in shock.
Finn Birchall is on the rock. My rock.
Picking up my pace, I stride over the beach and head toward my lodge, which is the lodge closest to the rock. Just saying. I know rocks don’t belong to anyone, but if that rock did belong to anyone, it would be me. How did he get down here so quickly, anyway?
He doesn’t even turn his head as I draw near. He’s lounging in the hollow of the rock, just like all those entitled posh lodge kids used to, and I can’t help it, I feel a flare of indignation.
A voice inside me is saying, It’s just a rock. And Chill out, Sasha. But another, less rational voice is saying, It’s so unfair. The beach was MINE.
I approach the rock from the side and look up at him. He’s staring ahead at the sea, his face in a glower, his fingers relentlessly drumming. Is he meditating? He doesn’t look like it, unless his mantra is Sod the world and everyone in it.
Isn’t he even going to greet me?
“Hello,” I say, my polite manner masking a subtle passive aggression.
(OK, maybe it’s not that subtle. Also, maybe I’m not masking it.)
For a moment he doesn’t even respond. Then at last he turns his head to regard me with dark, impassive eyes.
“I thought we were going to ignore each other?”
“We are.” I give him an even more polite, loathing smile. “Absolutely. Just being a civil human being. Forget I said anything.”
“Apologies if I don’t leap down, shake your hand, and ask you in for tea,” he says, the sarcasm clear in his voice. “But I didn’t come here to be sociable.”
“Nor did I.” I fold my arms. “I came here for solitude. That’s why I was so pleased to see that the beach was empty. Until now, obviously.” I flick my eyes over him, and momentarily his face alters as he comprehends. Then he resumes his murderous stare.
“Well, sorry to ruin your party,” he says, with a shrug that clearly reads not-sorry.
“No problem. Nice rock.” I nod at it.
“Yup.”
“I used that rock yesterday to meditate.”
“Good for you.”
He turns back to gaze at the sea again; clearly our conversation is over. Well, sod him. I don’t need the rock, anyway. I’ll just get on with my wellness program and ignore him.
Except he’s there. He’s just there, and somehow I can’t ignore him.
From his vantage point on the rock, he has a view of the whole beach, I realize, as I walk along the sand with my exercise mat and Hula-Hoop. Trying to stay aloof, I stride straight down to the waves, plonk my mat on the sand, and sit cross-legged, facing the sea, to meditate. Calm thoughts, I tell myself firmly as I watch the waves whooshing in. Calm thoughts. Focus on the sound of the—
Is he watching me?
Casually, I glance round, catch his eye by mistake, and flush, instantly swiveling back to face the sea again. Damn.
Why do I care if he’s watching me?