White Nights - Ann Cleeves [69]
Perhaps this was a new hotel, she thought, though she surely would have heard about its opening and there’d been no sign on the main road. Besides, when they got closer she could see it was empty, almost derelict. There were slates missing on the roof and the windowframes were rotten, the paint entirely peeled away. Frayed threadbare curtains hung at the windows.
She thought he was waiting for more questions. He wanted her to ask about the house, what they were doing there. She said nothing.
The track came to an end by the entrance to the small garden. Tall double gates, rusting, stood slightly open. Beyond, the vegetation was surprisingly lush and overgrown, an oasis which had somehow survived the battering of the westerlies. There were more irises, a patch of rhododendron.
Fran wondered if he’d taken the road by mistake. She sat, expecting him to turn the car round, but he was opening his door.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ve arrived.’ Now his excitement was unsophisticated. He was like a child desperate to show off a new achievement.
She followed him. What else could she do? He put his weight behind the gate to make the gap wide enough for her to squeeze through. The long grass behind it stopped it opening further. A path led to another smaller gate at the top of a shallow cliff and steps cut into the rock. The beach below was tiny, a perfect half-moon of sand. Beyond was a flat grassy island.
‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What do you think?’
She was wondering where they were going to eat. Why had he brought her here? Had she mistaken the nature of his invitation?
Perhaps he could guess what was going through her mind.
‘I’ve brought a picnic,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch it from the car. I thought we could have it on the beach. That is all right?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It’s a lovely idea.’
‘I only found this place a couple of days ago and I wanted someone else to see it. It’s so perfect.’
‘A secret garden,’ she said, reassured by his excitement. He wasn’t a stranger. He was a famous writer. His photo was on his website along with the jackets of his books.
‘Yes! Yes!’ He was beaming. ‘But you probably know it already. You’re a local after all.’
Oh no, she thought. I’ll never be a local.
‘I’ve not been here before,’ she said. ‘Thank you for bringing me.’ She could tell he wanted her to be as excited as he was and realized she sounded like a polite child who’d been taken out for an unwanted treat. But the lunch date was turning out to be so different from what she’d been expecting that she wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She’d imagined a lunch in a crowded restaurant, conversation about art and books. Not a picnic on the beach.
The food was in a cold-bag. Wilding carried it from the car with a woven rug, which he draped over his shoulder. It made him look as if he was in fancy dress and only added to Fran’s sense of unreality.
‘I cheated,’ he said. ‘I asked Martin Williamson from the Herring House to put something together for me. I hope that’s OK.’
He set off down the steps in the cliff without waiting for an answer.
On the beach, sheltered from the breeze, it felt very warm. Warmer than Fran could ever remember feeling in Shetland. The sand was white and fine. Seals were hauled up on rocks at the end of the island. Wilding spread out the rug. She lay on her side, propped on one elbow, watching him unpack the picnic. He took out a bottle of wine, still chilled so the glass was misty, pulled a corkscrew from his pocket with a flourish, and opened it. There were real glasses. But Fran thought the heat and the light had made her feel slightly drunk already.
‘How did you find this place?’
‘I was house-hunting.’
‘The house is for sale?’
‘Not exactly.’ He gave a sudden wide grin. ‘Not any more.’
‘You’ve bought it?’ It seemed to her an astonishing thing to do on the spur of the moment. He hadn’t even been in Shetland that long. She thought of Perez, the agonizing there’d been over his future, where he would live. She admired Wilding’s ability to take a life-changing decision so lightly.