Bella

THE DAY BEFORE THE SOLSTICE

HOUSEKEEPING HAVE BEEN IN MY room already. Everything's spick and span, the cocktails from last night cleared away. And on the dressing table they've left a writhing arrangement of green-leafed branches, bound into a circle. It gives me a brief jolt, it looks half-alive. I pick it up, read the note attached to it:

Join us tomorrow for our midnight feast. Dress code: woodland coronets and white.

For a moment I just stand and stare at the note. Midnight feast? They're actually calling it a midnight feast? How fucking dare she. Of all the sick, evil, twisted—

A second later I glance down and realize I've torn both the note and the "woodland coronet" itself to pieces. Leaves and scraps of paper litter the floorboards. I sweep them into the bin. Let housekeeping make of it what they will.

Twenty minutes later, sitting at breakfast, I try to look as casual as I can scanning the Seashard restaurant. Like I'm taking in the scene, just another guest enjoying her breakfast on a sunny morning in the countryside. It's difficult, though, when it feels like every nerve is standing on end, primed on a hair trigger. Waiting for a sighting. It doesn't help that I feel so conspicuous: surrounded by oh so many couples, holding hands like they can't bear not to touch while they pick their way through their Bircher.

Slightly in contrast to the studiously zen interior of the restaurant there are people chatting at the tops of their voices, almost as though they want to be overheard by the tables around them.

"We're going to have this, like, huge event in the metaverse. It is going to be so sick. We're like... internet memes, but make it Banksy. Elon is one of our biggest collectors. Who says exploding kittens can't be art, right?"

Or: "You know, I actually spent most of lockdown in Tulum. It was crazy! There were so many people there. It was super-social. I went for a week and ended up staying for months! You just had to watch out for the cenotes because they were a total corona breeding ground."

Or: "Microdosing is where it's at, my man. But not acid, and forget any of that pharmaceutical crap: it's all about the organics now, all about mushrooms. Lion's mane in my smoothie in the morning and then if I need a boost a little sprinkling of the old psilocybin. It has changed. My. Life." The guy actually speaks like that, like there's a full stop between each of the words.

I go for seconds at the breakfast table so I don't have to listen to any more. It's a cornucopia of delights. A huge pyramid of fruits, some of which I couldn't even name and—I think—local produce from the hotel gardens. Burnished golden pastries that nobody seems to be eating; I take a fat croissant.

There's enough food to feed everyone here several times over, especially judging by the average BMI. They're going to be chucking stuff away. Yet everyone is emitting a low-level hum of panic, clustering around the offerings as though they're about to run out. These people can't relax—even while they're here in the Dorset countryside. But then maybe it's especially while they're here, considering this is the "new place to be seen." They're the queue-jump, turn-left, I'm-a-member strata of society. I'm familiar with the type, from work. They're the ones who came into the agency to purchase second homes when the pandemic hit, who were ushered into the special private meeting room to "discuss your requirements" (read: exactly what digit goes at the front of that seven-figure budget).

Back at the table my phone buzzes. Mum. Shit, I totally forgot to call. I pick up.

"How is she?" I ask, guilty.

"Taking the bottle like a dream. And she slept through till seven."

I let out a breath. "Great. Phew."

"Is that—hang on, is that a seagull I can hear in the background?" Mum asks. I curse the open windows. Mum has always had irritatingly batlike hearing.

"Yeah," I say, cautiously. "Didn't I tell you? My work thing's by the sea."

"No," she says. "You haven't told me much at all, actually. Where by the sea?"

"It's near..." I think, wildly. "Southampton!" That's feasible, right? A big city, good links to London.

"Right," she says. "Southampton." Does she not believe me? It's not like I can tell her the truth. What would she say if she knew I was back here?

Besides, it's not unlike a work trip. It's been a bit like a second job, over the years. Keeping tabs. Especially since Francesca Meadows inherited this place. My job on reception isn't that taxing for someone who once had a place waiting for her at a top university (never filled). It's left me with the time and space to get on with other things, with research.

"I better go, love," Mum says. "She's just—"

I just catch myself from asking Mum if Grace is missing me. It's like wanting to press on a bruise. The guilt is real enough already.

I hang up and take a sip of my flat white (I had to beg for dairy, it was like asking for an illegal substance) while I look around the room.

And then I spot her. Sitting in the middle of the hubbub. The image of calm, everything revolving around her still center. She's haloed in light, almost too bright to look at, like an angel in a medieval painting. Then I realize that she's positioned exactly under one of the skylights, morning sun radiating down through the glass. Coincidence or design? She wears a serene half-smile as she lifts a glass of something to her lips: a drink that is exactly the same sunshine yellow as the off-the-shoulder linen dress she's wearing.

I read about how she went on a pilgrimage: how she "found myself" and "healed myself" while meditating at some ashram in the foothills of the Himalayas. It detailed how much "work I've done on myself." About how, rather than some holy visitation, she found the clarity she needed for what to do next with her life: start running high-end wellness retreats for women with excess cortisol and money. And then, of course, she opened this place.

I watch her, riveted. I'm not the only one. Many of those who aren't focused on guarding the pastries they're never going to eat are keeping an eye on her. There are three or four famous faces here: a couple of actresses, I think, and one man-child who might be a singer. But somehow right now they pale in comparison to the radiant Francesca Meadows.

Then she turns and, for a few seconds, meets my gaze. There's a trembling of something in the air between us. Her smile remains in place and she continues surveying the room. I dip my face beneath my hair. But she saw me, I'm certain of it. A shiver passes through me. It's the feeling they say you get when someone has walked over your grave.