Bella

I WALK THROUGH THE WICKER archway and find myself surrounded by dancing hares and foxes, leaping stags, even the odd wild boar, all made of twisted willow.

But my thoughts are back in the woods, beside that dark pit. So, she got rid of the body. Of course she did. I should have known. Should have expected no less. Unusually sloppy for her, though, to leave something behind. My discovery is now a small weight in the safe confines of my bag.

Where is she? I look around me in a kind of daze. Staff flit back and forth wearing emerald-green cloaks stitched with fabric leaves, and tiny oddly realistic-looking horns. Lanterns hanging from metal stakes bob in the hazy dusk like so many fireflies and ahead, in front of the cliffs, stand three long tables, each to sit perhaps sixty guests. They're spilling over with a tablescape of green-leaved branches, moss, heaps of fat red berries and flowers, and long tapered candles in glass jars. I look to the right and see a small stage built from wood and greenery.

All so tasteful, so stylish. It's so hot though. I bet she didn't plan for this. No pleasantly warm English midsummer evening: this heat is unnatural, punishing. My dress sticks to my shoulder blades. All around me guests waft themselves with the white-feathered fans that are being handed out, but every face still bears a sheen of sweat. As I get closer to the tables I wonder if it's my imagination or if the table decorations really are already wilting in the heat: the leaves curling, the petals browning, the berries splitting and running with juice.

I jump at a sudden reverberation from the speakers. There she is, stepping up onto the stage in her long white robes, her hair rippling out behind, her feet ostentatiously bare. She looks like a pagan priestess. She surveys the assembled crowd, gaze roving busily over the faces beneath her. As though she's looking for something, or someone...

I feel suddenly exposed. Pluck a fan from the basket held by a nearby server, hold it in front of me as a kind of shield.

"Just look at you all," she says, smiling. "I want to say thank you for choosing us. Thank you for electing to spend your precious time here. Because I see you. I know how much you deserve this time to pause, to reset. I can only imagine how incredibly hard you all work. How much you need this break."

As though everyone around me works for Médecins Sans Frontières.

"And I feel this enormous sense of connection, of oneness with you all right now. We are bound tonight by something truly significant."

And that would be... what? The hundreds of pounds everyone here has forked up for the privilege? I think once more of the dark pit on the edge of the woods. My stomach clenches. She and I are bound by something more.

"I'm so proud of this place. So proud to share it with you all. And I am so very proud of the transformative creative vision of our architect. Owen, my darling, here's to you—"

She shields her eyes from a slant of evening light, looking out at the crowd. Her smile never falters as the pause stretches just the wrong side of awkward. This is clearly the moment Owen Dacre is meant to come forward for an acknowledgment. There's no sign of him.

She recovers gracefully. "No doubt he's still hard at work on the Treehouses. I can't wait to share them with you! They're already booked for this autumn—goodness, you wonderful people can't get enough of us!—but I think we have a smidgen of availability next year..."

Several guests around me take out their phones, begin urgently tapping.

She beams. "But for now, let's all take a pause to give thanks and inhale the cleansing sea air." She closes her eyes and holds up the microphone to the crowd, as though to absorb its shared breath. Then she opens her eyes again.

"I couldn't resist a little nostalgic touch tonight. A nod to the midnight feasts of my childhood. The glorious golden hours I spent in this place. When you hear the sound of the gong, we'll all take our seats to eat. In the meantime, enjoy yourselves and this gilded evening."

Another radiant smile. I have a sudden urge to rush up and storm the stage, to rip the microphone out of her hands, to denounce her in front of all of them. But I know it's not the right way. There's something else I need to do first. I scan the crowd. There he is, standing behind a makeshift, greenery-adorned bar that's groaning under the weight of dozens of glasses. Eddie. I can't believe I didn't see it before. Jake wasn't quite as fair and his build was a little slighter, but so much is alike. I try to remember. Did he in fact mention a brother, just a little kid at the time?

I start moving in Eddie's direction but a wood-nymph server blocks my path, offering a tray of drinks. "Would you like some sparkling cider?"

Isn't most cider sparkling? "Er, yes... thanks."

I take a sip from the flute and regret it. It tastes off—earthy, almost rotten. But maybe it's the heat or the penchant of the wealthy for a freebie because everyone else is knocking theirs back like it's water. I watch one guy halt another tray-wielding server and glug down three glasses, one after the other, liquid spilling over his chin and soaking the front of his shirt.

When I next look at the bar Eddie's vanished from sight. But through the milling crowds, I spot another face I know. Hugo Meadows. Holding forth about something to the group surrounding him. His hand cupping the arse of the woman next to him who's wearing the blingiest version of the dress code I've seen yet: a clinging floor-length sheath of white paillette sequins, its sparkle a good match for her impossibly shiny dark hair. The same Hugo Meadows I saw yesterday lounging by the pool like some kind of medieval king, arrogant and entitled as ever. Next to him—like a strange optical illusion—stands his double, Oscar Meadows. As though he feels the pressure of my gaze, Oscar turns in my direction, frowning, but his attention's caught by the woman approaching them. The hotel manager: so sensible-looking in her white shirt and black skirt, like the only adult in the place. Does she look familiar, now I come to think of it? Or am I now imagining shadows of the past everywhere?

Moving a little closer, I hear her say: "Mr. Meadows, Mr. Meadows. I understand you're not a fan of our cider. Such a shame!"

"Don't understand why you're serving it," Hugo Meadows drawls. "Tastes like rotten apples and piss to me. My sister's idea of rustic chic, I suppose. What's wrong with a nice white burgundy? Frankly it's embarrassing—got a prospective investor here and he's not a fan of the stuff either." He mops his brow with a handkerchief plucked from his top pocket. "And it's too bloody hot. Can barely think in this heat." Like it's something the poor woman has any control over.

"Well, look," she says conspiratorially, with a tolerant, nothing-too-much-trouble smile, "why don't you both follow me to the wine store and take your pick instead? It's nice and cool down there if you need a break from the heat. And we've got some fairly fabulous English vintages—"

"As I should know," Hugo cuts in. "Maybe you're not aware, darling, but I'm actually responsible for half of them being there—put Francesca in touch with my contacts in the biz. Wine's kind of my thing? Think we will, thanks. Come on Osc." He turns to Oscar, who nods, ever the follower. Then Hugo gives his wife/girlfriend/escort's arse a little slap, like a piece of punctuation, and I watch as the two of them follow the woman toward The Manor.

I carry on past them, still searching for Eddie. I find myself wandering in the direction of the pool, which has been lit with hundreds of floating lanterns.

Suddenly, like a strange optical illusion, all I can see is what was there before—when the pool was kidney-shaped and bright turquoise with that stone nymph at the end. Glimpsed through a fug of barbecue smoke, a little cluster of teenagers sprawled about as dusk began to fall, with no idea how the night was about to unfold.