CHAPTER EIGHT
Flying Solo
October
AS THE TRAIN GATHERS SPEED,I feel light-headed.
Closing my eyes, I unleash the thousands of lines, cues, stage directions, and quick scene changes of the last eight weeks, allowing them to flow out of my brain, through the window, and into the ether.
I am hurtling towards the Lake District, to indulge in long walks, yoga, and meditationin the company of … ME. After all the craziness, I need to press the pause button, to be on my own for a while; to recharge, to reflect, to plan, and find inspiration to finally finish writing my one-woman show, which currently comprises of just one page of script.
This is another first for me; not so long ago the thought of going on a solitary mini break would have been my worst nightmare,making me feel exposed and self-conscious, but today I’m actually excited at the prospect.
‘We are now approaching Oxenholme station. Oxenholme station, the next stop.’
Google maps leads me along a main road, then left into a tree-lined, gravel drive. Sunlight flickers through the archway of heavy branches, the stillness broken only by falling droplets of rain from the earlier shower.
I turn the corner and gasp. The website hadn’t prepared me for the spectacular grandeur of The Forest Hill Hotel & Spa, a converted Gothic mansion, surrounded by beautifully landscaped gardens, set against a dramatic backdrop of towering mountains. This is how the new Mrs de Winter inRebeccamust have felt when she first laid eyes on Manderley.
No Mrs Danvers to welcome me, but Max, theelderly proprietor, who greets me from across the reception desk with a warm handshake.
After I’ve signed in, he unhooks a key from the rack, picks up my rucksack, and leads me up the wide, creaking staircase.
‘You’re in The Sycamore Suite,’ he says, holding open the studded, panelled door and gesturing for me to enter.
I absorb my surroundings: very olde-worlde, dominated by a wonderfullyopulent, four-poster bed and huge fireplace. There’s a chaise longue in rich fabric and lots of scatter cushions in country house colours. There’s a tiled wash stand in one corner, complete with pitcher and bowl (none of your £24.99-shopping-channel tat, but the real deal), and dried lavender and a sampler hanging on the wall:Catharine Alexander. Born in the Year of our Lord 1692.
‘Dinner’sserved between seven and nine-thirty,’ says Max. ‘And the spa is open from eight to eight. If you need anything just dial zero for reception. Enjoy your stay.’
He hesitates for a moment. Do I detect a pitying look fleeting across his face? I’m about to explain that I’ve come here alone through choice, in search of peace and quiet in which to write, but then why should I feel the need to explainmy solo status?
‘Thank you. It’s perfect.’
He bows his head, smiles, and pulls the door to.
I kick off my trainers and socks, and like an excited child, I run around, wallowing in the luxury I took for granted back in my flying days.
I peek in the bathroom, which has one of those traditional, roll-top, cast-iron baths with clawed feet. My radar homes in on the abundance of miniaturebottles of bubble bath, shampoo, cleanser, toner, and moisturiser; and not the cheapo stuff either – the Molton Brown range, no less (my favourite) – all there for the swiping.
There are even His and Her slippers withFHHstitched in green and gold thread. I wonder if you’re allowed to keep those. I mean, it wouldn’t be very hygienic to pass them on from one guest to another, would it? Youcould end up with verrucas or athlete’s foot. Oh, and as for the fluffy, white, monogrammed, towelling bathrobes hanging on the back of the door … don’t you dare even think about it, Emily Forsyth. That would be downright dishonest and not worth the risk of being rumbled.
I wander back into the bedroom, unhook the crooked, latticed window, and look out across the manicured lawn to the velvetyhills beyond, dotted with grazing sheep, like balls of cotton wool. Not a rambler in sight, and the only sounds a rushing stream, a bleating chorus, and distant birdsong.
I rip open the complimentary chocs, uncork the half bottle of champagne and recline on the chaise longue, my eyes scanning the list of spa treatments. Now, which one will I choose?
Tired, sore feet?Yep.
Then whynot try our fish pedicure?What?
Relax while they nibble dead and dry skin, leaving your feet feeling soft and invigorated.Eeuw!
I decide to play it safe and opt for the Thalaso Seaweed Wrap, followed by a paddle in the outdoor infinity pool, then dinner.
‘Good evening, madam,’ says the mâitre d’. ‘Room number please.’
‘Hi. I’m in room ten.’
‘Ah yes, table for one,’ he says,checking his list. ‘This way please.’
