Page 33 of A Summer of New Beginnings
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Setting her tent up in the pitch black wasn’t exactly Zara’s idea of fun. But having the rain lashing down whilst she did so put the crap icing on the shit cake.Why, oh, why aren’t there more hotels in this godforsaken part of the country? Or bed and breakfasts? Or even a bloody barn to shelter in, for goodness’ sake?This was officially the worst night of her life and she prayed, as she shiveredin her soggy clothing, that Noah would somehow miraculously contact her and call the whole thing off early; tell her she’d done her bit for the good of the magazine. Even breaking up with Josh had been less horrendous andthatwas saying something.
After the hurried, slapdash way she’d erected her tent she wasn’t sure it would even last the night. And in fact she wasn’t sureshewould either.She’d tried so hard to catch up on time and had failed miserably and her lack of dry map and daylight meant she had no clue where she was. In the end, the field where she’d set up camp could’ve been filled with rampant bulls for all she knew. But with the way she was feeling she would simply accept her fate if it was. The fact that her waterproof jacket was bright red didn’t exactly help in the bullscenario, but at least it was dark now; so,sodark and silent, apart from the rain lashing at the tent from every angle. She was sure that it was even raining upwards at one point; it wouldn’t have surprised her. Nothing would have at that moment.
Sitting there, shivering and shaking with a combination of cold and fear, she was swamped by an oppressive feeling of loneliness. Her heart achedand, admittedly not for the first time since being an adult, she longed for the warm, familiar embrace of her mum. She closed her eyes and imagined her laugh, loud and cackling, and for a moment she smiled fondly. What would they all be doing now, her family?Watching some typically British comedy, no doubt. Reruns ofThe Royle Familybeing their favourite. She wished she were there too; curledup on the squashy old sofa, giggling along next to her dad, with their old Yorkie, Queenie, in her lap. That old dog had been in the family for as long as Zara could remember but she kept on going. She was toothless and smelly but still adorable nonetheless.
Zara became aware that tears were adding to the overall dampness of her cheeks and she swiped them away angrily. What was the point of gettingall emotional? The way she saw it, in spite of her recent – albeit short-lived – enjoyment, this trip was something toendureand then she could go home and forget all about this wretched place and the awful experience of the trip.
Sleep must have taken her at some point, as she awoke with a start to find herself in a very uncomfortable position, scrunched in one little corner of her minute,temporary abode. She rubbed her sore eyes and felt at her clothing. Thankfully Josh had been right about something: the clothes did dry quickly.
From the silence of her surroundings she was grateful to note that the torrential downpour of the night before had ceased. Her stomach growled and she fumbled around in her backpack for the piece of flapjack bestowed upon her by the lovely bistro ownerat Lochinver. She hadn’t eaten since lunchtime the day before and would need to find somewhere to eat pretty soon else die of starvation and be eaten by cattle; only to be found months later by some oafish farmer, who’d no doubt comment on her excellent attire, which would still be in perfect condition, of course.Bloody hell, Bailey, you’re such a drama queen sometimes,Marco’s voice crept intoher mind, and she smiled in spite of her solemn mood.
She grappled her body out of the sleeping bag and opened the zip on her tent. She stuck out first a leg; if that didn’t get ripped off by a wild animal she would risk the rest of her limbs. When nothing tried to eat her she clambered free of the confines of the small space and stood.
‘Ahem. Good morning.’
Zara almost jumped off the groundand she twisted round to find a man standing there, hair in disarray as if he’d just woken up, arms folded and a scowl of disapproval on his unshaven face.
‘Oh, erm… good morning. Can I help you?’ she asked boldly, standing her ground and hoping to God he wasn’t an axe murderer. There was something eerily familiar about him and she racked her brain, trying to decide if she had seen his photoonCrimestoppers.
‘I think it’sIthat should be askingyouthat question,’ the man replied gruffly. He had a fairly mild Scottish accent, unlike most of the people she had encountered up to now in these parts, and his voice sounded familiar too, which increased the feeling of dread that was building. He wore dark green overalls that would’ve looked more appropriate on some old, fat, ruddy-cheekedman. Instead this man was broad and muscular, dark-haired with dark, brown eyes and was probably in his late twenties or early thirties.Quite handsome in an oafish, farm worker/axe murderer type of way.Not that she found him attractive, obviously. She had sworn off even looking at men after what had happened with Josh. She even would have ignored Brad Pitt if he’d stood before her naked at thatprecise moment; or at least that was what she insisted on telling herself.
After remembering how the Daughters of Anarchy bulled her up, she snorted at his intimation thathecould somehow helpher. ‘Not likely. Thanks, though.’ She scrunched her nose up at him. What the hell was his problem anyway?
‘Okay, so maybe you wouldn’t mind explaining why you’re wild camping on private property, then?’
Frustration got the better of her and she mirrored his defensive stance. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your damn business, actually. Now sod off and leave me alone. I have a schedule to stick to and standing here arguing withyouisn’t helping me get on.’
He stared at her for a moment and then he seemed to smirk before letting the mercurial mask fall into place once again. ‘It’s every bit my business,actually.’
Anger built further and after the night she’d had she wasn’t going to take rubbish from some glorified shit-shoveller.
She snidely tilted her head to one side, stuck out her bottom lip and asked in a mocking tone, ‘Going to tell your boss on me, are you?’ She was aware at how patronising and utterly out of character she was behaving but she was past the point of caring. ‘Well, goahead. Believe me, you can’t make things any worse right now. I’ve had the shittiest night of my damned life, which consisted of a puncture, getting lost, being terrified in case my appendix burst or I was raped, mugged or murdered in the middle of nowhere, getting rained on and soaked to the skin, struggling to put up a tent in the pitch dark and having no food.’ Her voice was getting louder andmore high-pitched as she ranted. ‘And to add insult to injury I didn’t even want to make this stupid effing trip in the first place. So you go ahead, report me to the landowner and have him get the police. At least if they arrest me I’ll get to sleep on a half-decent bed and have a hot bloody meal.’
Her heart pounded and her chest heaved as she took out her frustration on this complete stranger.To make matters worse, hot tears were streaming down her face and her nose was uber snotty. She knew for a fact that she already looked a sight with her unwashed, ratty bed hair and lack of make-up but now she was puffy-faced too, no doubt.
The man huffed. ‘I’ll help you pack up your tent, then you can come up to the house with me.’
She yelled, ‘I don’t need your bloody help, thank you verymuch. I’m a strong, independent woman. And I’ll come with you quietly so there’s no need for you to keep your beady eye on me. There’ll be no need for a pigging citizen’s arrest!’ Her etiquette had completely flown out of the non-existent window now.
He shrugged with nonchalance. ‘I doubt you do anything quietly, but fair enough.’ He folded his arms across his chest and stood there watching,in spite of her demand, as she went about gathering her things and shoving the tent into its minuscule pouch. It was so much easier when the damned things were dry. She had to keep pausing to swipe away the damp trails that insisted on trickling down her flushed cheeks. The tears were now part embarrassment, part anger and part self-pity. And all the while she could feel his eyes on her; mocking her;pitying her maybe too.Poor little southerner trying to be all outdoorsy and failing miserably. Yeah, well, I’d rather be in some swish Caribbean resort, thank you very much. In fact, I’d rather be anywhere right now than this bloody dump.
Sulkily she hauled her backpack on and clipped the chest strap closed before lifting her useless bike from the sodden ground. ‘Right, I’m done. Take me toyour leader,’ she sneered.
Without speaking the man turned and headed off up the field to a quad bike and trailer that was parked by a low stone wall that circled a cemetery – good thing she hadn’t noticedthatparticular feature last night. She followed obediently, silently cursing the man for not offering to carry the bike, whilst simultaneously knowing she would’ve refused help anyway.
Whenshe looked to her left her breath caught. The sun had made a dramatic appearance and what she could see of the landscape now left her lost for words. There was a rugged limestone pavement that led to the water’s edge where there lay a tiny deserted beach with pale golden sand and crystal-clear, azure-blue water that glinted in the early morning light. It was by far the most stunning sight she hadever woken up to and she stopped to take it in for a moment.
‘Come on! Stick the bike in the trailer. You’ll have to hop on the back of me,’ the man called out to her, pulling her from the daydream in which she was toes deep in warm sand, inhaling fresh, salty air.
She chuntered, ‘Keep your bloody hair on,’ under her breath as she stomped over and lifted her lightweight bike onto the small open-toppedwooden trailer, and then reluctantly she clambered onto the back of the man’s quad. She sat there awkwardly, unsure as to how she would stay on the damn thing.
‘You’ll need to put your arms round me or you’ll fall off,’ he informed her, a hint of frustration straining his voice.
Of course, I will. Stupid arse. Ugh, why did I not just run away? Because I can hardly bloody leave my wrecked bikehere, can I? Let alone run at all, that’s why.Her inner dialogue rampaged around her head and she gripped the man’s waist tightly. It was all a little too intimate for her liking.
After a few uncomfortable, bouncy minutes crossing rough terrain, her captor, as she had now begun to think of him, pulled the noisy beast of a vehicle to a halt in the cobbled courtyard of a farmhouse.Here we go,she thought.Let the bollocking begin.She wondered what the farmer would be like. Would he be the type to have a soft spot for damsels in distress? She hoped so. Maybe if she cried in front of him he would take pity on her and not call the police after all. She could try it, perhaps.
