‘I can see why Firholme would appeal to him,’ Lottie said, thinking of the rugged, tousle-haired guy she’d glimpsed around the site or striding off towards the high fells, with his dog at his side. Generally when she’d seen Jay, he’d had his head down, giving off every signal that he didn’t want company or to engage in small talk. ‘I get the impression he’s quite shy though,’ she added, to dampen down Shayla’s expectations of being able to turn him into a party animal overnight.
‘If anyone can draw him out, you will.’ Shayla’s eyes glinted. ‘Let’s face it, it wouldn’t be a hardship. He’s so fit … in every sense of the word.’ She sighed. ‘Fifteen years too young for me though, quite apart from the fact I’m his boss.’
Lottie had to smile. It wasn’t the most professional way to talk about a new colleague, but Lottie had known Shayla for years as a friend, even before she’d come to work for her. Despite their age difference, Lottie and Shayla had hit it off when they’d first met properly, at a local tourism awards ceremony. Lottie had been training as a junior events manager at a hotel in the South Lakes and Shayla had been running a rival hotel in the same area.
Lottie had admired Shayla’s drive and Shayla had taken her under her wing and mentored her informally over the years. They’d become friends and, finally, Shayla had headhunted Lottie from her previous job at the hotel to be the events manager for Firholme.
After her split from Connor, Lottie had been equally keen for a fresh start. She’d relished the chance to throw her energy into kick-starting Firholme, to leave old associations behind and have something to take her mind off her heartache and worries about Steph.
‘Oh, hang on.’ Shayla broke off to answer a call. She pointed at the phone, pulled a face and mouthed. ‘Sorry. It’s. The. Mayor.’
Lottie nodded and scribbled a note on a Firholme leaflet in her bag.
Sorting out trees with Jay. Back in half an hour. I’ve borrowed the decorations.
Shayla gave her an ‘OK’ sign and returned to her conversation. Lottie knew that she’d be ages talking to the mayor of the local town, a couple of miles from the Firholme estate. He had ‘verbal diarrhoea’ according to Shayla, and having arranged a recent civic awards evening for him at Firholme, Lottie was inclined to agree.
He got on well with Shayla, however, and had put a lot of valuable business their way. Shayla drew people to her like a moth to a flame. She had a way of persuading people to go the extra mile – and then some – for her.
Lottie scooted out of Firholme House so she could change from her suit and heels into something more suitable for a freezing forest. Her breath misted the air the moment she stepped out of the door, and she was glad it took only two minutes to dash across the courtyard from where the offices were located to the Bothy. When she’d been offered the job at Firholme, accommodation on the estate had been a massive bonus, and every morning, she’d opened her curtains onto magnificent views of Derwentwater and the fells.
Well, maybe not quite every morning, because it did tend to rain a bit, as Lottie was keen to point out to guests, with a wry smile. On this early November morning, however, the highest fell tops, soaring three thousand feet above the lake, were covered with snow. At Firholme, frost spiked the grass and glistened in the morning sun.
Back in the day, Firholme’s courtyard would have been alive with servants and estate workers, hurrying around the stables, laundry and brewhouse, or to and from the kitchen and vegetable garden. In recent years, one side of the single-storey buildings had been turned into offices, an information centre and refreshment kiosk. The other side of the courtyard overlooked the lake, so that had been converted into a smart café and shop with a terrace that made the most of the view.
In the summer it would be packed with visitors but today it was quiet apart from a few walkers with their dogs. All of the walkers were cossetted in down coats and woolly hats, cradling hot drinks, while their dogs lay at their feet, most with their own little jackets.
Through the steamy windows of the café itself, Lottie glimpsed the less hardy souls hunkered down with hot chocolates and Cumbrian breakfasts. From the start of November, the aroma of mince pies, cinnamon lattes and mulled wine had drifted tantalisingly into the offices while Lottie and the rest of the Firholme staff were trying to work.
The Bothy was typical of an estate worker’s cottage, with grey stone walls and a slated roof spotted in yellow lichen. Its windows and door had been painted a subtle pale green, which gave it a cheerful air. The modest gardens were separated front and back by a low hedge and a garden gate, painted in the same green. To the rear of both cottages, there was a small coppice of trees with a rough path that eventually led down to the lake.
Lottie opened the door to the scent of the previous evening’s woodsmoke. The cottage had central heating but she also enjoyed lighting a fire in the sitting room on cool evenings, which could happen any time in these northern mountain climes. To the rear of the cottage was a small dining kitchen, while upstairs there was a bedroom, bathroom and a box room, which was crammed with possessions left over from her life with Connor.
All those hopes and dreams from two years together seemed so far away, and the plans she’d allowed herself to make on that magical week in Cornwall were as cold as the ashes in the
