‘And my daughter—’
‘Yeahyeahyeah.’
‘…is the chosen destructor. Prepare to die.’
‘Yeahyeahyeahyeah.’
On my dressing table, I spy my birthday gifts, still all unused and with tags on. I throw them into my case, thinking that if I take pictures of them in the cabin, Faith won’t courier them up to me during the week in case I’ve made the horrific mistake of sleeping in an old T-shirt like the rest of the planet. I sweep the contents of my bathroom shelf into a plastic bag, zip my case shut and then spend twenty minutes sitting on the couch, giving myself a pep talk.
It has a hot tub, Nora. You like hot tubs!
There’s bound to be one normal person to hang around with. Maybe someone else has a pushy family member and a pair of pink pyjamas hidden in their case.
Oh, for God’s sake, Nora, it’s a free trip and you don’t have to serve anyone coffee for a week. So, you might be out of your comfort zone, but so what? Suck it up.
By 10.45am, my car has entered the A9 with Stevie Nicks blasting from the stereo, and I’m promising myself that if anyone tries to ‘audit’ me or cleanse my bowels, I’m leaving.
CHAPTER9
Four hours later, my rickety grey Peugeot makes its way along an exquisite tree-lined driveway, and I catch a glimpse of the spectacularly imposing Cairn Castle. It’s a huge grey-brick Baronial mansion which is most definitely home to at least one ghost and possibly a deranged housekeeper who’ll make me wear the former mistress’s clothing. Nerves rush through me and I begin to sweat, peering through the windscreen at the house ahead. What the hell am I doing? I’m forty years old and I’m about to spend the week with a bunch of singletons who have paid five grand to have some new-age wankers tell them they’re worthy of love. I know I’m worthy, I just choose not to get involved with all the bullshit that goes along with it. If I wanted to date someone, I would! If I really wanted to fall in love and get my heart broken again, I’m perfectly capable of organising that without the help of a ‘life coach’ with a pseudo-degree in breathing in and out a bit slower than usual.
There’s a road off to the left of the house, so I follow the signs for reception and Cairn Castle Lodges. As much as I’m against this whole ridiculous set-up, the idea of having a lodge with a private hot tub is very appealing, as is not having to wash clothes, iron, cook or be responsible for anyone else except me. No work. No school run. No boring bloody routine. No children. My thoughts stir a pang of guilt which forms a knot in my stomach. Charlie isn’t a chore. She’s the reason I have a routine and I wouldn’t change it for the world. I know she was happy for me to go, but that’s because she won’t miss me half as much as I’ll miss her.
I curse Victoria for putting this idea in everyone’s head. She is the ringleader. She is the intervention stager. She is the one who will get an astoundingly awful Christmas present this year. In fact, everyone is cancelled, well… except Charlie. She’s just grounded.
I pull into the car park and turn off the engine, rubbing my clammy paws over my jeans before looking at myself in the mirror and then immediately regretting my decision. This morning’s makeup has evaporated, and my hair looks like it’s harbouring a terrible secret. Thankfully, I’ll have the rest of the evening to myself before I’ll be forced to mingle with the great unloved tomorrow.
Alongside the car park, near the banks of the loch, stands a quaint, homely-looking reception and shop, with another small dirt road leading down to the right. Wooden lodges are dotted everywhere, all overlooking both the loch and the impressive mountains which surround it. I walk over to reception to book in, still feeling at odds with the week ahead but marginally better having seen the view I’ll be admiring. It certainly beats having to look at my neighbour’s ever-present wheelie bins and scattered fag ends.
The reception is at the back of a fully stocked and completely free store, which is heaving with everything from the essentials like bread and milk to junk food, health food, wine, local handmade gifts (available at an extra charge) and a huge pile of dry logs for the wood burners.
‘Can I help you?’ asks the young woman behind the counter. I nod, reaching into my bag to find my booking details. She’s wearing a dark green bodywarmer and riding boots, her hair tied up in a high, messy bun.
‘I have a reservation,’ I say, rummaging in my bag. ‘Nora… Eleanora Brown… It’s in here somewhere…’ Soon my arms are elbow-deep in the lining of my large weekend holdall, tipping it in various directions. Red-faced and flustered, my fingers finally grip the invite and whip it out through the massive hole.
‘Found it!’ I exclaim. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘No problem,’ she responds, like a woman who’s just stepped in fox shit. ‘One moment please.’
I watch as she inputs my details into the computer. Her name badge says Persephone, because of course it does. She oozes private school disdain. She is someone who owns a horse and has the phone number of at least two investment fund managers in her address book, while I must look like someone who once owned a budgie and sleeps in a hedge.
‘Ah yes, you’re here for the romance bootcamp,’ she confirms, a little too loudly for my liking. ‘Did you receive your welcome pack in the post?’
‘Yes,’ I mutter sheepishly. ‘I’m all set.’
‘You’re in lodge thirteen. Follow the road to the right and your parking spot is numbered. Wi-Fi codes, log burner and hot tub instructions are all in your cabin, but we’re here if you have any problems. Here is your site map, emergency number and your itinerary for the week. Have a great stay.’
Damn, her tone is ice-cold. She hands me an envelope and a key with an oversized wooden keyring attached and I’m certain that her parting smile is one of absolute pity. I’m tempted to explain that my friends (and daughter) forced me to come to this bootcamp and I am not some lonely, dusty desperado who can’t get a man but given my current appearance, I decide to get the hell out instead, so she’ll just stop looking at me.
Key in hand, I scurry back to my car and see a red sports car pull up beside me, its tyres crunching noisily on the gravel. Is everyone on earth more impressive than me? I watch as the driver jumps out and jogs into reception. He’s tall, well-dressed, mid-thirties perhaps, and I see Persephone cock her head to one side as she chats to him. There’s no way he’s here for the same reasons I am. He’s obviously here for some other event. Perhaps there’s a ‘Handsome as Hell’ conference going on? Maybe he owns the place? But I see him take a key and head back out to his Porsche, while I pretend to look for something under my seat so he doesn’t have to accidentally behold the Old Hag of the Loch.
I find lodge thirteen easily, noticing that every parking space in the neighbouring lodges is taken up with expensive cars, including Porsche man who’s staying in number six. It would make sense that I would have the shittiest car given that there’s no way in hell I could afford this under normal circumstances, but it doesn’t stop me feeling like the poor scholarship kid from a boarding school novel. I want to call Victoria. She’d make me feel better and remind me that not giving a shit is one of life’s greatest gifts. Unlike me, Victoria mastered this at the grand old age of twenty-one, regularly dismissing anything that doesn’t benefit her existence. Like the time she broke up with a guy because he owned a parrot:
‘I mean, he’s a great guy, but those things live for eighty years. I just don’t see that in my future.’
Once inside my cabin, I lock the door and begin investigating my new lodgings. I’m delighted. It looks exactly like it does on the website. It’s small but perfectly formed: open-plan kitchen and living room, small double bedroom with en-suite bathroom and underfloor heating throughout. Double patio doors from the living room lead out onto the decking which looks over the loch, and has a barbeque area and a large, eight-person hot tub. This beautiful cabin might just make my stay here tolerable.
I place my case beside my bed and hang my coat in the wardrobe because when I’m not at home, I’mtidyNora. The Nora who doesn’t leave everything lying around, hoping that fairies will pick it up at a later date. I might even becomestarts drinking before dinnerNora, who knows.
