Bella

I HURRY OUT OF THE private courtyard and round the back of The Manor, heart thumping. I wind through a small car park, which must be for staff. Even I know the gleaming silver convertible is an Aston Martin. The numberplate reads: D4CRE.

I cut through the walled garden—a perfect patchwork of vegetables: the vivid green and blood red of lettuce heads, frondy explosions of carrot tops waving gently in the breeze. Everything from the restaurant is apparently "organic and locally grown or foraged." At one end I spot a stone Gardener's Lodge that (for several thousand pounds a night) you can rent for you and your friends to live out your Mr. MacGregor fantasies.

Out of the garden gate and onto the main drive, which snakes between emerald lawns sparkling with dew. A few people sit in a circle on the grass, heads bowed. That must be the "morning meditation" I saw advertised in reception. Beyond is the sea, and the cliffs that drop down to a strip of sandy beach. I know that without the help of the hand-drawn map I received at check-in.

On the other side of the drive, behind the hedges, I can make out the top of the tennis court netting, hear the thwock of a tennis ball being hit even though it's so early. I can imagine the beautiful people playing behind that hedge, all tanned limbs and glossy hair, whooping and laughing and high-fiving. I feel like a scholarship pupil at some ultra-posh rural boarding school.

I wait for the great ironwork gates to open and release me from The Manor's grounds. Each stone gatepost is topped by a statue of a seated stone fox, spotted with lichen. Beneath, carved into the stone, are the words: TOME MANOR.

In front of me the road curves away from the sea, cutting inland. I find the sign for the footpath that peels off in the other direction, toward the cliffs. TOME, it reads: 1 3/4 miles. I walk through a corridor of hedges so full with midsummer growth I can't see anything beyond them: just leaves and then sky, gas-flame blue. For a moment I stop still and sniff the air like an animal. That smell. So distinctive—so familiar. The soapy smell of cow parsley mingled with the hot tang of cow shit.

Suddenly I'm at the cliffs. In the bright clean light the sea has a Mediterranean glitter. The wind punching at me is warm. Looks like someone got up even earlier than I did: a kitesurfer's already out on the water.

The road joins the cliffs again by a place called Seaview Farm. The place looks half-abandoned: bowed corrugated iron roofs, broken fences, a rusting mess of farm machinery. Black tarpaulin snickers in the breeze and flea-bitten chickens scratch about in the yard. I have the feeling of being watched. Maybe that's the whole herd of cows in the nearest barn, following me with their big dark eyes.

I hurry on: not wanting to linger. The air round this place tastes of sadness. Or maybe that's just me, projecting.

Round the next bend I approach a holiday park: a hundred or so mobile homes set back from the sea behind a picket fence. The paint on the fence is peeling, the caravans stained and empty, weeds tangling round their feet. Across the dirty magnolia wall of the nearest one someone has daubed in blood-red paint: YOULL PAY FOR THIS YUPPY CUNTS.

No... no, this isn't right. There should be hanging baskets and salty wetsuits drying in the breeze, the yells and thuds of kids kicking a football about, the scent of charred sausages on the air, the chatter and clink of cutlery and life.

"Jesus!" I startle. I've just spotted a figure sitting there in an old deckchair. So slumped and crumpled that, at first, it looks like some kind of bizarre scarecrow. Until the head turns my way and I see the red drinker's face beneath the knotted handkerchief he's wearing on his head. I can't stop staring. It can't be—

"What are you looking at, girlie?" he slurs, whisky sloshing out of the open bottle in his hand. "Come to gawp at poor old Graham? Fuck off with you."

I hurry on, shocked. Can't believe what's become of him...

Now I'm in the right spot. I take a deep breath, then veer off the side of the path. To anyone watching it might look like I'm about to jump over the edge of the cliff. But there's a route down if you know what you're looking for: bramble-choked, winding down the limestone face.

When I get to the hidden cove I take off my shoes and socks to feel the wet grit of the sand between my toes. The tide is out and has left behind little pools of salt water among the flattish rocks, on which someone has left a backpack and a small pile of clothes. I clamber over to the nearest pool, the rough pumice of the barnacles and slither of seaweed beneath my soles, and look into the glassy surface. A whole universe is contained inside. I watch for a flicker of life among the weeds: a crab or tiny fish. A little distraction while I work up the nerve to do what I need to.

And there it is, behind me: the cave. Just where I remembered, set into the steeper rocks on the far side. The dank cool of it as I step inside is such a contrast to the heat of the morning. The dim interior feels full of ghosts.

I don't want to go any farther, but this is why I'm here. I walk right to the back of the cave, where it's even darker. My phone's torch gives me just enough light to see the opening in the back of the cave wall, level with my sternum. I brace myself against the rock and lever myself up. I don't know if this is going to work. I'm slim but the girl who climbed in here before was a waif. I manage to haul myself up into the mouth of the tunnel. Then I crawl, lizard flat, on my stomach, trying not to think about the solid rock pressing in all around me. I grope in front with one hand. It seems insane that it might still be here. At the same time, if it's not, what then? What would that mean?

Finally, my fingers brush something. Something small, plastic-wrapped. My heart's beating so hard I think I can hear the echo of it against the stone. I tug the package free. Shuffle into reverse, dragging it with me.

Back outside, blinking in the sunlight, I look at my find. It might be wrapped in several plastic bags but there's something ancient-looking about it, like something just dug from the ground. I pull off the first plastic Spar bag—ripped, discolored—and the second, which has survived better, and the third, which is a little damp but basically like new. And there it is. The cardboard cover a little stained and damp, the pages warped by water. But not nearly as bad as I would have expected. Mostly intact after all this time.

I'm about to open it when a flash of color catches my eye. I look up and see a bright green kitesurf sail. I watch as the kitesurfer hits a wave and the board soars up into the air. I realize I'm holding my breath. If you fell off at that speed, hitting the water would feel like smacking into concrete, but he lands perfectly, carving a white swathe in the waves.

He turns toward the beach and comes in, springing gracefully into the water and towing the whole lot up onto the beach. He hasn't spotted me and I feel like a voyeur as he reaches to undo the zip of his wetsuit, shrugging off the top half. I see his wide brown back and the large black shadow of a tattoo which reveals itself to be a bird of prey, wings outstretched, each tip just touching each shoulder, fitting the canvas of his skin perfectly.

He's pulling the wetsuit lower now and I see two things: one, that his whole body has the same even, amber tan, and two, that he isn't wearing anything underneath the wetsuit. He really must think he's alone. He turns his head to the side and I see the proud profile, the Roman nose. It's Owen Dacre. Hotshot young architect, the "talent of a generation" according to the press. Owner of that Aston Martin convertible, presumably. The guy who designed all the modern extensions to The Manor. Francesca Meadows's partner in both senses. They made a striking couple in the wedding shoot I saw. He looked like Jim Morrison kitted out by Mr Porter. His dissipated look contrasting with her radiant wholesomeness. And the way he gazed at her in those photos. Like he was totally under her spell.

He turns fully round—Christ—and strides up the beach, butt naked, toward the rocks and what I realize now must be his backpack. I crouch back, frozen in place, knowing I should look away but unable to. Watch as he dries himself with a towel, pulls on his clothes, shoves the kitesurfing gear into his pack. Finally he turns this way. He has to see me now. He starts, then mutters something under his breath.

I raise a hand in greeting. "Hey," I call.

He's standing very still but with a kind of coiled energy, like a fox disturbed during a kill.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, abruptly.

"I'm staying at The Manor," I say.

He scowls at this. "It's not safe for you to swim here—there are hidden rocks off this beach. And the climb down—"

"It's fine," I say, nettled by his patronizing tone. "I've been here before." I catch myself. Was that stupid? It just slipped out. But I'm probably being paranoid. It's a popular enough part of the coast.

I watch him leave the beach for the cliff path, until I'm completely sure I'm alone. I take a deep breath. Then I lift the notebook back onto my lap. Before anything else I turn to the back, willing my trembling fingers to work properly. There it is. A scrawled map, drawn in biro. The house, the cliffs, the wood.

X marks the spot.

Time to drag the past screaming into the light.

I flip back to the front. I read the first line. Feel a sudden sting of tears.

Stupid little fool.