The Summer Job - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Lizzy Dent (mis)spent her early twenties working in Scotland in hospitality. After years travelling the world making Music TV for MTV and Channel 4, and creating digital content for Cartoon Network, the BBC and ITV, she wrote three Young Adult novels as Rebecca Denton published in the UK. This is her debut adult novel. Now in her late thirties she lives between London, Austria, and New Zealand with her young family.

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1

May

You here for a wedding?" the driver asks, his cheery eyes focused on me and not on the tiny track we're careering up.

"No, no," I reply, as my fingers begin to ache from all the seat clenching they're having to do. He's got to be doing at least seventy.

"Aye, you're not dressed for a wedding," he agrees.

I look down at my shirt, self-consciousness pushing away fear for a moment. I'd bought a white silk shirt for sixty percent off from T.J. Maxx, but several hours into my journey I'd remembered that white silk shirts were only for rich people or anyone who liked doing laundry. The deal clincher for me, when buying clothing, is whether it will come out of the dryer like it's been ironed.

The car takes a sharp turn and the single lane thins to a ribbon before the woods clear completely and we drive through a simple iron gate fixed to two old stone pillars. Vast lawns rise slowly upward, and along the approach, rows of towering trees stretch their branches across to meet in a tunnel of crooked wood and leaves. Everything is sepia in the fog.

Ahead, the house comes into view, though in truth it looks more like a small castle. A gray-and-sandstone mother ship, with pointed turrets flanking the sides and an enormous staircase leading from the circular drive to the entrance. It's far grander than I'd imagined, but strangely bleak. I text Tim immediately.

I'm in a fucking gothic novel.

I'm pleased with my tone. Funny, irreverent, mysterious. I think about calling him to elaborate but I'm not entirely sure he'd get the joke. Tim isn't exactly well-read.

The car tires skid, jolting me back to the reality of the speeding vehicle. We are momentarily stuck as the tires spin hopelessly in the mud and the driver revs the engine. He switches gears and we thrust forward.

"Round the back there's a short road to the stables and cottages. And then a small car park," I say, double-checking the instructions on my phone.

"Staff entrance?" he questions, with a single raised eyebrow.

"Yup," I say, nodding, then stare wistfully out the window.

The back of the house is just as grand as but arguably more beautiful than the front. The ground drops away from a pebbled courtyard and rose garden down to a river, which I can hear but not see. The stables sit about a hundred meters to the side of the house, and the car pulls to a halt between them and a trio of small stone cottages. I look at the house, which is barely in view through a small grove of oaks.

The largest of the three cottages has wood smoke rising in pleasing spirals from the squat chimney, and there's a small slate-and-silver sign on the wooden door that I can just make out. staff only.

"This is it," I say, getting out and handing the driver 200 pounds in Scottish notes, trying not to wince as I say good-bye to all the money I had left in the world. "Thanks for the ride. Who knew you could get to the west coast in under one and a half hours from Inverness? It must be a world record."

He looks inordinately proud.

There are about a dozen cars in the car park, a white van, some four-wheel drives, a few of those big, black, expensive-looking SUVs, and a couple of golf carts-but still no humans. A dog barks once, far in the distance, the sound echoing ominously around the estate.

I feel my anxiety blossom into full nerves. This is it. The literal end of the road, and potentially the craziest thing I've done since walking out on that stupid West End play. Right before my first line.

"Hope you enjoy Scotland, lass," the driver says, then takes off with a screech of tires on gravel.

I knock a few times on the wooden door. For late spring, it's far colder than I'd imagined, and my thin trench coat is proving a nonsense kind of cover-up for this weather.

My phone beeps and it's Tim.

What do you mean? 

I chuckle. He's so predictable.

There is still no sign of anyone. Crossing my arms to try to brace myself against the icy breeze, I look around the courtyard for some sign of life. I can hear the horses scuffing at the hay-covered stone floor in the barn, and I can sense the smell of mossy earth. I lean forward to look through the small window of the end cottage, and a small motion light springs on, blinding me to my surroundings.

"Heather?"

I jump at the voice behind me-deep, with a thick but soft Scottish accent. I hold my hand up to my face and try to make out the figure emerging from behind the white van. He is tall, dressed in chef's whites underneath a dark coat that is open and flapping in the wind, with a dark woolen beanie pulled down over his forehead. Tall, mysterious, and can poach an egg. I am instantly intrigued.

"Hello! Yes, I am. That's me," I say, saluting him like a general, my nerves apparently turning me into a comedy idiot.

"We need you to start right away," he says nervously, pulling up the collar on his coat.

"Right this minute?" I reply, desperate for a hot cup of tea and a shower.

"Our emergency cover fell into the river while taking a tinkle," booms a posh English accent, as a much older, shorter man in a dark suit with a bulging belly arrives, dragging one of those fancy bellhop trollies behind him. The light shines onto his reddish face, which is heavily lined but jolly. "Hospitalized with exposure."

"Double exposure," I reply with a giggle-I can't resist-and he shoots me a wicked grin.

"I'm William. But everyone calls me Bill. And this is James, here to welcome you on behalf of the kitchen," he continues, glancing down at my bag. "Well, I won't need the trolley. You travel light. Goodness gracious me. You should have seen last night's late arrival-poor night porter had to make a dozen trips up and down the stairs. And he's got a dicky leg."

"I don't like having more than I can manage on my own," I say, smiling at him.

"Well, I hope you brought some wellies," he says, glancing down at my shoes.

"No. I'll need to get some. And a coat. Didn't anyone notify Scotland it's May, for God's sake?" I say, clutching at my arms.

"Northerly. They're bitter, even in summer," says Bill as he sticks the key into the lock of the cottage, and it makes a heavy thunk as he turns it. He pushes the door open, but instead of showing me in, he pops my suitcase just inside and pulls the door shut. "Couldn't grow a Pinot in this wind chill, eh?"

I stutter, then scramble for a quick reply. "Yes. Certainly it needs to be warmer. Except when there's a frost. You also sometimes need frost." He's staring at me, so obviously I continue my verbal drivel. "For the grapes, because sometimes they need frost. To make the wine, er, better."

"We need you to start tonight," James says again, cutting through the chatter. He and his tense shoulders are looking back toward the main house as if he's left a pan of hot fat on full.

I start to feel a little panicked. "I'm not dressed," is all I can think to say. "I thought there would be some kind of formal orientation first? Watch one of those Welcome to the company films. Spend hours getting your e-mail set up? Meet the boss? Go for a welcome drink?"

"My kinda girl," Bill chortles again.

"We've got you a uniform." James furrows his heavy brow my way, then turns sharply away to do more brooding.

Bill turns to me with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, this is all very sudden. But I'm sure you'll take to it just fine, with your incredible experience. Oh, don't look so sheepish-I was the one who hired you, remember? I've seen your...