The Retreat(3)

‘I meant third door. Third door. Room Six.’ She had her hand on her chest, breathing hard, pink spots on her cheeks. She noticed me staring at her and forced a smile. ‘Sorry, that room isn’t made up yet. It’s a bit of a mess.’

She stepped past me and pushed open the door of Room 6. I followed her inside.

It was an impressive space: wooden floorboards, in better condition than those in the hallway, a neatly made double bed, a wardrobe and dresser. Best of all, there was a huge desk beneath the window with what looked like a comfortable, ergonomic chair. I ran my hand over the desk’s smooth oak surface.

‘I’m sorry there’s no en suite,’ Julia said. The pink spots on her cheeks had faded and she was calm again. ‘The bathroom is a little way down the hall.’

She stood beside me at the window, so we faced our reflections in the glass. It was dark outside now. No stars or moon. Save for a few lights dotted here and there across the landscape, it was as if the world beyond this house had ceased to exist when the sun went down.

‘I’ll show you around when you’ve had a chance to unpack, but you can either write here or in the sitting room, or even in the cottage.’

‘Great.’

She produced a room key and laid it on the desk. ‘You pretty much have the run of the house, except . . . can I just ask you not to go into the basement. It’s not . . . safe.’

‘Oh?’

‘The stairs need to be repaired.’

‘Understood.’ I couldn’t imagine wanting to go into the basement anyway. I sat at the desk. ‘This is wonderful, Julia. How long have you been open?’

‘Only a few months. I haven’t really got going yet, not properly. I mean, I know a lot of writing retreats have guest authors, classes, et cetera. I’m going to organise all that at some point. For now, this is just a quiet, secluded place for people to come and get their heads down.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m looking for.’ I didn’t explain there was another, more specific reason for choosing this particular retreat, so close to where I spent my early childhood. ‘Are you an author yourself?’

‘Me? No.’

She was about to leave me to it, but hesitated by the door. ‘I don’t mean to be nosy, but what kind of books do you write?’

‘Horror.’

There it was: a faint look of distaste. A reaction I was well used to. ‘And is this . . . your first book?’

‘No, I’ve written tons, most of which sold somewhere close to zero copies.’

‘Most?’

‘Um. The last one did pretty well. It was called Sweetmeat.’

She looked blank and I must have appeared disappointed because she said, ‘Sorry, I’m not really a big fan of that type of book. I mean, I’ve read a couple of Stephen Kings but I’m a total wimp.’

I smiled. People were always saying this to me.

‘I have enough nightmares as it is.’ I could tell she immediately regretted saying this, as she quickly added, ‘Anyway, let me leave you in peace. Dinner’s at eight, when the others get back from the pub.’

‘Great. Thank you.’

She shut the door, leaving me alone at my temporary desk. I stared at the space where she’d been. She was mysterious. A woman with a story. I was looking forward to finding out what it was.





Chapter 2

A clatter of noise came from downstairs: a booming male voice, footsteps, a slamming door. The other guests, back from the pub.

Fellow writers. I instinctively bristled, then chided myself. I had come here not only to get my head down and work, but because I was in need of human company. I had spent too much time on my own since losing Priya. So much time alone that I had begun to talk to next door’s cat when she came to visit, and to order parcels from Amazon just so I’d see another human face. I was sure the courier had started to avoid me, tired of making conversation with the crazy guy in Flat 3.

I went downstairs, following the sound of conversation to the dining room.

There were three of them, a man and two women, seated around an oval table. They all looked up as I walked in.

The man was seated on the far left. He was in his late thirties, with a high forehead and a neatly trimmed beard. I recognised him, but couldn’t quite place him. Sitting almost on his lap was a young blonde woman with pale eyelashes and a small mouth. Pretty, in that English-rose way, but not my type. On the other side of the table, a woman in her fifties with an expensive-looking haircut was thumbing an iPhone.

The man gestured for me to take a seat.

‘So you’re the new guy,’ he said, sticking out his hand. ‘Max Lake. This is Suzi Hastings.’ The younger woman mouthed hello.

‘And I’m Karen,’ the older woman said. ‘Karen Holden.’

I’d heard of Max Lake, of course I had. He was a writer of literary fiction who’d been talked about as a kind of enfant terrible a decade ago. Now, as far as I could tell, he spent most of his time on Twitter, trying to make every injustice in the world about him. I didn’t recognise Suzi’s name. A first-time novelist? She and Max were sitting very close together, almost touching. I was sure I’d seen Max mention his wife in an interview – yes, he was wearing a wedding ring – so it would be faintly scandalous if he and Suzi were sleeping together.