‘Go with the flow?’ she says. ‘You?’
‘Yes, me. And I’m even going to have a little holiday.’
‘You are kidding me!’
‘I’m attending a poetry-writing summer school in Scotland.’
‘Poetry!’ Grace sounds astonished. ‘I never knew you liked writing poetry.’
‘I didn’t either,’ I confess, ‘but I guess reading Michael’s stuff has sort of made me want to give it a try.’ I pause before carrying on. ‘And I definitely won’t be going back to Adam when I return.’
‘Well, thank God for that!’
‘It’s over, Grace. Time to move on.’ I hadn’t realised how satisfying it would be to finally say those words aloud.
‘Well, you’re welcome here anytime, and for as long as you need.’
‘Thanks sis, but you know, for once I actually think I might be all right.’
‘Oh, Kat.’
‘You’re not crying, are you?’
‘Of course I’m crying,’ she laughs. ‘All I ever wanted is for you to be happy.’
I’m not sure happy is something I’m aiming for. Not quite yet anyway.
26
I leave Cornwall at six a.m., travel all day and arrive in Perth at five. I considered stopping over at my sister’s house in Cambridge, but the thought of having to go over my marriage break-up with her in minute detail is too depressing. I just want to move on.
In a moment of indulgence, I’ve booked myself into a posh manor hotel with a glorious view of the Tummel Valley. Though tired from my long drive, I still take time to walk off my fatigue. The heather is a vibrant, ready-to-burst purple, and the valley stretches out before me like a lush, green carpet. I watch in wonder as a falcon punches a wood pigeon from the sky, before vanishing into the treetops. It’s as if nature itself is a sealing wax to my wounds.
I swim in the outdoor pool until my arms ache. Dinner is venison loin with blackberry sauce. I drink only sparkling water. After a hot bath in peat-infused water, I slip on a pristine white bathrobe and step onto the balcony. The sky is swathed in stars and a cool breeze gently lifts my fringe. I pull my bathrobe tightly around my body and stare into the wide gulf of darkness, striving for a focal point, something to fix on to. I thought by now the feeling of adventurousness that has recently seemed to infuse me would have settled my uneasiness, but in truth I still feel lonely and afraid. My desperate search for answers has become so much harder than I ever expected, the sacrifices greater than I ever could have imagined.
I sleep soundly and I don’t dream. I wake to the ping of an incoming text, and seeing that it is from Adam, delete the message without reading it. Then I block his number.
‘A whole new life,’ I whisper; then I turn over and go back to sleep.
The three days at Beginsy Hall have somehow finally grounded me. Whether it’s the homemade porridge, or the daily five-mile hikes, I can’t say. All I know is that the anxiety that has dogged me since leaving Cornwall is starting to fade. There’s still the uncertainty of what I will do once I get to Lennoxton and finally meet Susan O’Neill – or rather Desra McKinley – I must call her that from now on – but there is also a new sense of assurance, of resolve.
On my final morning I follow the footpath from the hotel to the water’s edge. I gaze into the distance, past the pine trees and rocky outcrops, over glistening water to where Lennoxton Academy sits waiting.
‘Not long now, Desra,’ I whisper, before turning and heading back to the hotel.
I check out early the next morning and drive the twenty-six miles to Lennoxton, arriving just before nine. Check-in time for the summer school isn’t until eleven, so I find a café and nurse my way through a cappuccino while reading a local tourist information brochure. At ten o’clock I drive the last few miles and park in a lay-by opposite the school’s front entrance. Towering stone walls are drawn together by an ornate wrought iron gate. On top of a stone plinth sits a large bronze statue of a stag. Clouds steal in from the nearby loch and within seconds my windscreen is pelted with hailstones.
I wait until I see three cars pass through the gates before I start my engine. I follow a long gravel drive that bisects the school’s private golf course and then gently curves past the riding stables. A low mist has settled, but as I near the school, sunlight dissipates the vapour and I get my first proper view of Lennoxton Academy.
The first thing I notice is the long, gabled facade of the main building.
‘Looks like something out of Jane Eyre,’ I mutter. I follow the drive as it loops past the main entrance and around to a parking area. I pull up under a row of sticky pines and pause to take in the world around me. To my left I can see an expanse of cricket and rugby pitches, and beyond that a wide curtain of leylandii. To my right is the main building, and behind that I get a glimpse of what appears to be a chapel. I take the site map from the glove box and study it closely.
‘The Rep,’ I say, referring to the main building and reception area. I trace my finger along the wide arch of buildings that spread out behind it. ‘And there’s the quad with all the teaching rooms.’
Beyond the quad are the boarding houses and sports centre, and in recognition of a key Eastern European patron, The Arkady Ishutin Business and Enterprise Centre.
‘What the hell am I doing here?’ I whisper, overcome by doubt. There is a soft tap on the car window which makes me jump. I look up to see the smiling faces of two young women.
‘Are you here for the
