Page 7 of Rescuing Rosie
Here, the clouds were lower, greyer. The trees were still mostly bare, and the fields winter-brown. Evidently spring hadn’t yet sprung in Lancashire. Drops of rain began hitting the windows, tracking horizontal. It was starting to feel properly grim.
‘Sorry!’ said Rosie, turning her attention to the man with the trolley. ‘I was miles away. How much is a cup of tea?’ She went to take her purse from her bag.
‘Och no, put that away,’ he said. His accent was Scottish. ‘Snacks and drinks are complimentary.’
‘Oh my god – free snacks?’ Rosie was very much enjoying the first-class experience, courtesy of Vybe Activewear. She’d already resolved to write nice things about their wonderful clothes. Good job she was a genuine fan, bearing in mind her incorruptible journalistic principles.
‘Yes indeed.’ He set down a white plastic tray, on which were a pot of tea, cup and saucer, milk, sugar, a twin-pack of biscuits, and a plate with a scone, a dish of jam, and one of cream. ‘The complementary scone says your groovy tartan pants are to die for,’ he added, with a cute smile.
Rosie giggled.Oh.He was gorgeous!
‘Are you heading to Scotland?’ he asked, nodding at her yellow-and-black-check trousers. It was the first time she’d worn them in months, as Reuben hadn’t been a fan. He’d never come right out and criticised her taste in clothes; it had always been more … oblique. He’d sweep a look from head to toe and ask, ‘Is that what you’re wearing?’
At first, he’d professed to love her ‘originality’. But as time went on, his enthusiasm for her eclectic style had waned, and he’d attempted to mould her look into one more appropriate for the girlfriend of a lawyer with his eye on a partnership.
‘No, I’m going to the Lakes,’ Rosie replied. She may have batted her eyelids. ‘But it’s all North, right?’
The man dramatically sucked in a breath. ‘Darling, the trousers arefabulous, but just wear them as a fashion statement, not as a cultural nod. Now enjoy your tea, and do press the wee knob if you want a top-up!’
Chapter Four
At Windermere, Rosie alighted from the connecting train into air that instantly numbed her extremities. The little station, which sat at the end of the line, was old and quaint, but as she exited onto the forecourt her overwhelming impression was one of grey. The surrounding buildings were grey slate, the sky was slate grey, and she hunched deeper into her denim jacket as she stood looking up and down the road, buffeted by the biting wind, for the promised hotel transport. But at least the rain had stopped.
She spotted the white van parked in a row of cars opposite. On the side it saidGrasmere Heights Hotel and Spa, and beneath was a quote: “The loveliest spot that man hath found!”~ William Wordsworth.
Maybe in Georgian times, thought Rosie, before tourists had easy and reasonably priced access to the Med.
A man appeared from behind the van, waving her over. She quickly trundled her case across the road, avoiding puddles, hoping this hotel didn’t have Wordsworth-era heating systems.
‘Rosie?’ he called. ‘Hop in; I’ll take your bag.’
Rooooh-seh. He dragged out the ‘o’, and as if compensating for that, the ‘ee’ was sharply cut off. Rosie smiled. Strangely, she liked the way it sounded.
He opened the passenger door for her, then slid open the back and hoisted in her case. He was dressed in a smart navy jacket, beige trousers and shiny black shoes, his dark hair swept neatly back, his teeth bright in a wide smile.
His dapper appearance seemed somehow at odds with his accent.
Don’t stereotype, Rooooo-seh! They don’t all wear flat caps!
She did as he instructed, hoping it wasn’t far to the hotel. Rosie wasn’t in the mood for prolonged polite conversation. But – she pulled herself up sharply – her assignment should probably start now, as in, the complete wellness retreat visitor experience. Plus, with her journalist hat on, every local should be treated as a source of information.
‘I’m Ashley, general manager at Grasmere Heights,’ he said, slamming the door shut and starting the engine. ‘Welcome to the Lakes! Have you been here before, Rosie?’
‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling politely. ‘No – I’ve been to the Peak District though. Is that near here?’
Ashley looked sideways at her before putting the van into gear. He had twinkly green eyes, and his lips twitched.
‘I’m guessing not?’ Rosie felt herself colouring.
‘Starter hills,’ said Ashley. ‘Waysouth of here.’
‘Oh. But it was very pretty,’ said Rosie.
As they set off through the town (more slate-grey stone, but picturesque, she had to concede), Ashley lifted a hand from the wheel and waved it at the view. ‘The peaks here are far prettier, as you’ll find out.’ He glanced upwards out of the window. ‘At least, if you get to see higher than the first hundred feet.’
The town soon gave way to deciduous woodland bordered by mossy dry-stone walls. There was the occasional house, withstone or whitewashed walls and slate roofs, many advertising bed and breakfast, with names featuring words like Ghyll, Fell, and Howe. Most also hadVacancysigns. On her admittedly brief acquaintance with Cumbria, Rosie couldn’t say she was surprised.
‘Madison and her crew came up last night,’ said Ashley. ‘Most of the hotel guests are up for the wellness weekend – there are a few who aren’t …’ He grimaced. ‘I’ll probably have to comp their stays, if they even stick it out. It’s a fooking madhouse. I thought Madison might bring an assistant and a hair and make-up person, but …’
