Page 11 of Rescuing Rosie
The muddy path led downhill and into woodland. As Rosie entered the trees, the wind dropped and the light dimmed, and she became aware of the quiet. She slowed her walk, listening, all at once reminded of times when, as a girl, her father would take her with him to the local lake, the silence broken only by the gentle swish of his rod casting its line, the plop of a fish jumping.
Rosie’s foot slid on a patch of mud, and she jabbed the umbrella into the ground to steady herself. Looking ahead, shesaw that the path led through boggy grass to a wide, rushing stream.
The air seemed to darken further, and she felt a spot of rain.Great. She hadn’t expected to need walking boots and waterproofs for a short stroll through the hotel grounds, but clearly the internet’s warnings had been on point. The rain grew heavier, and she put up the umbrella.
Gingerly she picked her way through the quagmire until she reached the stream, which was punctuated by three stepping stones. Rosie eyed them. They were wide and flat but looked slippery. Had the crew come this way, with all their gear?
Forward, or back?
I can do this.
She stepped onto the first stone, wobbling only slightly as she paused before carrying on, alighting successfully on stone number two. She was about to launch herself at the final stepping stone when a sharp gust of wind caught the umbrella, knocking her off balance. With a squeal, Rosie attempted to right herself, but her foot slid on the wet rock and flew out from beneath her. She had to make a split-second decision: land on her bottom, risking injury, or make a controlled landing in the stream. With another squeal she launched off her other foot into the water, letting go of the umbrella, which caught the wind then turned upside-down and began floating downstream.
‘Fuck!’ she gasped, as she began to wade through the icy water after the umbrella. ‘Fuck fuckfuck.’
Concentrating hard on remaining upright, Rosie didn’t at first notice the dog watching her from the opposite bank. The border collie was sitting on a rock with its tongue hanging out, looking as if it was laughing at her. And behind the dog was a man in a dark rain jacket with its hood up, waterproof trousers, and ‘sturdy’ hiking boots. He was carrying one of thosetelescopic walking poles with a spike on the end, and the dog’s lead. Unlike the border collie, the man didn’t look at all amused.
The umbrella became caught up in a bush. With the water lapping at her thighs, Rosie waded over to it, leaned across and pulled it out. She let it down and folded it up, then used it as a stick to help her traverse the stream, keeping her eyes fixed on the rushing water, partly so she didn’t stumble, and partly so she didn’t have to meet the man’s appalled gaze.
She could no longer feel her feet.
‘Can you manage?’ called the watcher, finally. She looked up at him, wishing the earth would swallow her up. He was probably in his late twenties; his hair was invisible beneath his hood. His eyes swept down her denim jacket and sodden tartan trousers in a way that reminded her of Reuben.
‘Fine, thanks,’ she said, attempting some dignity. ‘Are you by any chance with the crew?’
‘Crew?’
‘The photoshoot crew? Madison Tyler’s?’
‘I am not,’ he said. There was no flicker of recognition when she spoke the reality TV star’s name.
‘Wainwright –NO!’ he snapped, as the border collie stood up and edged closer to the stream. Wainwright sat down again and gazed at him with big, disappointed eyes, which Rosie couldn’t help noticing were a similar hazel colour to his owner’s.
She stepped carefully out of the stream and onto the wet grass. ‘They were shooting beside the lake, apparently,’ she said, wriggling her toes in her boots, trying to get the blood circulating again.
The man was still staring at her as if she’d escaped from a psychiatric hospital.
She attempted to lighten things up. ‘Creating content –beside the lake, beneath the trees –’ she raised a hand in themanner of a performance poet, ‘–fluttering and dancing…’ She tailed off as his frown deepened. ‘Never mind.’
‘You need to warm up,’ he said.
So do you, mate.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Up at the hotel, Grasmere Heights,’ Rosie replied. ‘I just got here from London, for the wellness weekend. I didn’t have time to change.’ The cold was creeping upwards, consuming her. Her teeth had begun to chatter. She jammed the umbrella between her legs and rubbed her arms. Her tartan trousers were stuck to her skin, and the cat’s head of the umbrella was poking out from between her thighs.
She looked up at him.
‘Wellness?’ he said, his eyes on the cat’s head.
‘I know, right? We’re supposed to be here for our health, but apparently Madison’s freezing her magnificent arse off frolicking in the daffodils, while I’m in danger of losing my toes to frostbite. I should probably go back to the hotel.’
He nodded. Still he hadn’t cracked a smile.
‘I’ll go then.’ She turned, mentally preparing herself for the return trip across the stepping stones. Although … maybe she should just wade on through. She couldn’t get any colder.
‘Wait,’ he said.
