Page 44 of Hard Lessons

Farmhouse.

A glimmer of hope sparked an idea. If she could sneak away, head toward the tractor, hopefully she’d see the farmhouse. There she could ask to use the phone, call a cab and get herself to the nearest airport. If she played her cards right, and used some of the cash, she could be flying out of Scotland by nightfall.

Back on course for her original plan.

Quickly she opened her suitcase, dumped all her designer clothes out, and then tugged at the secret opening in the lining. One hundred thousand pounds was revealed in thick rolled-up bundles, each one held together with a small red elastic band and in a waterproof plastic bag.

She tipped out the contents of her handbag, glad it was a good size, and began to stuff the money into it. Once it was pressed to the base she covered it with her purse, small makeup bag, a compact, her Kindle, and a pack of tissues. After zipping it up she tested its weight. Not too bad. She could run with it easy enough.

“Serena, coffee’s poured.”

She stared at the door. “I’ll get it in a minute, thanks.”

After scrabbling through her clothes she selected underwear, Gucci jeans, a pale pink Armani sweater. She’d team them with sneakers, that way she’d be able to cover distance as quickly as possible. It would be practical if she had to wait around at an airport too.

The bathroom was a lurid orange suite with a bathtub, shower complete with grip rails, and a toilet and sink. The windowpane was patterned so it didn’t need a curtain in front of it. The tiles were a sickly green, a few had purple thistles painted on them.

The shower was a weak trickle and as she stood under it washing, she wished for her ten-jet affair back in London. Using that had been a treat; this was simply functional, and only just that.

Soon she was dressed, her hair tied up, and her face fresh and makeup free. The thought of coffee and food was good. She’d need energy to make her escape.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Luca said when she stepped into the small kitchen.

Serena didn’t answer, just reached for her coffee.

“I’m making eggs and bacon, okay?”

“Where did you get that from?”

“It was in the refrigerator. Good old Paulo, he made sure we had supplies.”

“He’s hardly my favorite person in the world.” She frowned and sipped her coffee. It was surprisingly tasty.

“He’s a good guy.” Luca pointed a wooden spoon at her. “And if you’d needed anything while I’d been locked up, he’d have sorted it for you.”

“I can look after myself.”

“Of course you can, one of the many things I love about you. But you don’t have to, not now. I’m here.”

The way he spoke, as if they hadn’t been apart for a year, continued to astound her. Didn’t he see? She’d changed. Wanted different things now.

She walked to the window and looked out. The tractor was still in the distance.

“Go sit down in the other room, I’ll bring this through,” he said. “Almost done.”

The scent of bacon and toast filled her nostrils and she wandered from the kitchen.

Now in daylight it was clear the living area was in need of modernization. A fat old-style television sat in the corner on a dusty table. The curtains were similar to the bedroom; a tartan rug sat on the floor before a stone hearth though the fire had been stacked with kindling and a pile of logs were perched in a wicker basket next to it.

She walked to the door. The key was still in it. The bolt was slid across, locking them in.

Beside it was the table, pushed up beneath the window, the curtains open. She sat gingerly on a wooden chair that creaked, then cradled her mug. Beyond the outdoor bench and table it seemed the land fell away within a hundred meters. Beyond that was the blue-gray of the sea, froths of white topping the surface.

After that... she didn’t know.

Her only hope was to run in the direction behind the cottage. Find the farmhouse. The guy driving the tractor had to live somewhere.

“Here you are. We didn’t eat much yesterday, but this will make up for it.”

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