Page 42 of Rescuing Rosie
‘Okay – we’re good to go,’ he said. ‘Just hold on while I report in.’ She stopped as he took out the walkie talkie again. ‘It’s Ant.’
There was hissing and crackling, then Dale’s voice came through loud and clear. ‘How is she? Is she okay? What happened?’
‘Nasty sprain but she’s in good spirits, walking down on the poles …’
‘That’s brilliant news. Tell her–’
Ant cut in. ‘Can Ashley bring the van to the end of the track, by the farmhouse. I’ll fetch the Land Rover later. We’ll be about half an hour.’
‘Okay, Ant. Can you tell Ro–’
‘Talk to her later. We need to move –see you at the van.’
He ended the call and hoisted on his backpack. ‘Let’s go. My car’s back the other way, but this path’s easier.’
Over the next few minutes, Ant kept up a stream of light conversation – undoubtedly another rescue tactic, to distract Rosie from her pain and the effort of walking on crutches on uneven terrain. He told her about other call-outs, from climbers with back injuries to youth-hostelling teens lost in the mist, to families who’d gone for a Sunday stroll in light sweatshirts and trainers only to find themselves in a howling blizzard.
They stopped at a bench overlooking the lake not far below, and Ant took off his backpack again. ‘You’ve earned a rest,’ he said.
She lowered herself onto the seat, leaning the crutches against it.
He remained standing, took the top off a water bottle and passed it to her.
‘Thanks,’ she said, drinking deeply. ‘Thirsty work, this being rescued business.’ She looked up at him with a smile. He was staring down at the lake, lost in thought, and she noticed how his eyebrows sloped slightly upwards. It made his resting face look sad. His skin was lightly tanned, even though it was only April, and his cheeks had the sort of healthy glow women would killfor. A proper outdoorsy guy, who loved the fells, his dog, and his other best mate – the human one.
Catching herself staring, she moved her gaze to Wainwright, sitting with his tongue hanging out, looking for all the world as if he was enjoying the view.
‘Shouldn’t he have a little barrel of brandy on his collar, like the Saint Bernards in the Alps?’ she asked.
‘That’s a myth,’ said Ant, his tone implying he’d been asked the question a hundred times before. ‘It stems from a Landseer painting and it became popular belief. The last thing you do to someone who might be suffering from hypothermia is give them alcohol.’
‘Oh,’ said Rosie. ‘Shame. Though not a drop will be passing my lips today, Ant – I’m still recovering from last night. God, those cocktails.’ She looked at him again. ‘I was letting off steam,’ she said when he didn’t reply, ‘after the very worst of times. I recently split up with my boyfriend …’ She paused. ‘Although I’m now certain this was in fact long overdue. The whole mountaintop perspective thing confirmed that, along with my dad saying Reuben was never right for me. Pity he didn’t tell me that months ago.’
Still Ant didn’t respond.
‘And I had a novel coming out this year, but my publisher cancelled it. I’m beyond gutted. My boss at the magazine sent me up here to report on the wellness weekend mainly to give me a change of scene.’
Ant looked down at her foot in its woolly sock. ‘So you came up here feeling sad, and now you’re sad and injured.’
She nodded. ‘So far –’ she ticked the events off on her fingers, ‘I’ve fallen in England’s coldest river, indulged in deplorable rebound snogging with the local fuckb– sorry, he’s your mate – the local Romeo, got lost in a thunderstorm, and sprained my ankle.’
‘Dale’s not–’
‘You know what?’ she said. ‘I’msoglad you appeared on the terrace last night. I might have done something I’d have deeply regretted.’
Ant regarded her for a moment. ‘A rescue call came in, that’s why we took off. Dale wasn’t happy.’
‘Well, you rescuedme, so this is in fact the second time you’ve done that.’
He passed over more chocolate. ‘We should be on our way. Ashley will be at the pick-up soon.’
She got back onto her crutches, aware that Ant was avoiding further discussion of Dale. For the next five minutes they said little, but as the track flattened out, skirting the lake, he said, ‘That must have been so disappointing, about your book. Why was it cancelled?’
That horrible sense of failure still sat in the pit of her stomach, coiled like a cobra, rearing its ugly head every time it was prodded. ‘It’s World War Two women’s fiction, and my publisher said that trend is dying.’
‘That can’t be right,’ he said. ‘The window of the bookshop in Grasmere is always full of those novels. Every other cover seems to feature a Lancaster bomber and a girl with a forties’ hairdo. And a Union Jack. And possibly an Eiffel Tower.’
Rosie smiled. ‘Maybe they ran out of cover ideas. Mine’s based on my grandmother’s story. She was parachuted into France and worked with the Resistance. Met my grandfather and fell in love – he was taken prisoner by the Nazis, escaped, and afterwards came to England and found my grandma. A proper happy ever after.’
