“You have eagles?”
“Yeah, and if I shoot one I get ceremonially burned to death, then arrested, then put in prison for a hundred years, then hung, drawn, and quartered,” said Colton. He saw Flora’s face. “I don’t want to catch an eagle, jeez. Just joking. Have to be careful, that’s all.”
“So you’ll bring your clients over here?”
Flora could swear she saw dollar signs in Joel’s eyes. He’d probably learn Gaelic if it would get him access to Colton’s colleagues.
“I’ll bring anyone over here,” said Colton. “Anyone I like. No one who’s going to ask me where the nearest Gucci store is.” He rolled his eyes.
“Where is it?” said Flora, interested. She hadn’t expected to like Colton but was finding out that she did. And she’d hoped to like Joel but was finding out that she wasn’t sure about that.
“Reykjavik,” said Colton. “See, no distance at all if you take the jet, don’t know what people moan about.”
They turned down a perfect sandy path—seriously, was someone up here raking it every morning? Flora supposed that when you were as rich as Colton, it was no hassle to have someone doing that. Where did all his staff come from, though? Did he keep them hermetically sealed in his basement? It was very odd.
And there it was.
Colton raised his arm.
“Look at this,” he said. “Look at this. Nothing. Not a thing. Not a telegraph pole. Not a television antenna. Not a house or a skyscraper or a subway system or a bus stop or a power station or an advertising billboard. Not a sidewalk, not a garbage can. Nothing man-made at all. In every single direction.”
Except for the Rock.
It was undeniably beautiful. Flora knew it wasn’t finished, and wasn’t expecting much of an improvement on the little ruined croft that used to sit here. But as she stepped off the quad bike, she realized immediately that this was a long distance from that.
She was genuinely amazed. She’d gotten used, she realized, to that swanky metropolitan outlook that there was really no point in going outside London for anything, and that anyone north of the Watford Gap probably couldn’t make you a cappuccino that wasn’t out of a packet.
But this . . .
There was a little jetty at the front, lined with lanterns that would be lit up when the dark months came. An actual red carpet led up a rocky path. They moved round to the front of the building, and walked up a flight of stone steps so clean they appeared to have been vacuumed.
The hotel itself was low, built of gray stone, the same color as the landscape, as if designed to look like part of the earth. There were pale gray wooden doors and window frames, and gentle lighting at each window, even during the day, that made it look like the most welcoming place ever.
There were coos from circling birds, but apart from that the only sound was the light tinkling of gentle music. Flora raised her eyebrows.
“We can pick guests up from the harbor, see?” said Colton. “Then nobody has to come past my house to get here. Plus you get to arrive by boat, which is, like, awesome and cool.”
To the side was a beautiful Japanese knot garden, with succulent plants that could survive the winter onslaughts while still giving off a heady scent. Next to it was a large herb garden with rows of lavender and mint. Flora found herself wishing she’d brought along a pair of nail scissors for clipping. And along the back was a walled vegetable garden, where she could just glimpse rows of cabbages and potatoes—she guessed everything grown there would be used in the hotel restaurant. Colton certainly had high ambitions.
The entire edifice was on the edge of a perfectly white beach, the sand bleached startlingly pale, like bone. It went on for what seemed like miles. Behind them were low gorse bushes leading back into the dunes. Ahead of them was nothing but sea, all the way to the North Pole. It seemed to Flora there was complete emptiness ahead of them, complete tranquility all around. She thought briefly about how much Bramble would like it.
“Apart from the Rock itself, there is nothing man-made here at all,” continued Colton gravely, as if he was narrating a film trailer. “Nothing at all. Do you have any idea how rare this is? How unlikely it is? Especially in this itty-bitty little country. But anywhere now. There are cell phone towers in the desert. There are plastic bags strewn over the endless jungles of Africa. There are ads everywhere. All over the world. And this little piece of it—with the freshest air and the best water—this is mine, and I’m paying a lot to keep it this way. Perfect. Pristine. I’m not developing the Rock to get rich—I am rich. I’m developing it to be wonderful, and beautiful, and after I’m dead, I want to leave it to the people of Scotland . . . and this is why you had to see it.”
Flora blinked.
“Why?”
“Because, just as we’re ready to open it, they want to stick a big wind farm right out there. Whirring away. Right across the eyeline of anyone who comes here. Spoiling my view, but most importantly, spoiling everything that makes this place special.”
As if on cue, two sandpipers marched past, chittering to each other with their long pointed orange beaks, as if making an arrangement to have lunch, which perhaps they were.
“The uniqueness of this place, what makes it special—what will make it special to anyone who comes here—all gone, to fulfill some stupid targets on renewables. Which, by the way, don’t even work; by the time you’ve used the fuel to make them and, Jesus Christ, to transport them out into the sea and put them down, that’s like half an oil field right there. But if they must—if they absolutely must do it, to line some guy’s pockets in Brussels or whatever—then they can take them a little farther. Or round the headland. Or, hell, opposite your damn farm; it’s hardly a beauty spot.”
“Thanks so much,” said Flora.
“I just want it off of here. Away. And that’s what I need you guys for.”
“Normally we handle business mergers and acquisitions,” said Joel thoughtfully. He was looking at the landscape, Flora noticed, but not like he really got it. Not like he saw what it meant, more like he was measuring it up, in pounds and pence. “I mean, Scottish planning . . . it’s different.”
“Yeah, but can you do it? I know you guys. I don’t want to have to start talking to some self-satisfied prig in Edinburgh who spends a lot of money on stationery.”
Joel nodded.
“Who approves these things?”
“Town council,” said Flora automatically. “They handle planning. Unless it’s a massive problem, then I suppose Mure Council would decide.”
“Why won’t they move it?”
Colton shrugged.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what they think of me round here, but I haven’t had much support so far.”