The Cottage

THE COTTAGE PAULA HILLMAN Copyright © 2023 Paula Hillman The right of Paula Hillman to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published in 2023 by Bloodhound Books. Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. www.bloodhoundbooks.com Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8628-8 Contents Love best-selling fiction? Also by Paula Hillman Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Acknowledgements You will also enjoy: A note from the publisher Love best-selling fiction? Love best-selling fiction? Sign up today to be the first to hear about new releases and exclusive offers, including free and discounted ebooks! Why not like us or follow us on social media to stay up to date with the latest news from your favourite authors? Facebook Twitter Instagram Also by Paula Hillman Seaview House Chapter One LAKE WINDERMERE. NOVEMBER 2018 The gentle dip of paddles, the swish of icy-clean water; these sounds are working with my fatigue, and my eyes close for a moment. The canoe pushes forward, rising and falling through the golden shimmer of the afternoon. My breath moves with it. Up from my stomach and out across the surface of the lake. There is a gather of warmth inside my layers of fleece and Gore-Tex, an enticing softness. But I mustn’t fall under its spell. ‘Evie.’ A spray of water on my face. ‘Evie. Everyone else is turning for shore. Are we?’ Ian Turnbull has stopped paddling. He rounds on me, cheeks pink and raw and flaky. I blink into the cold. ‘Yep. Heavy on your side.’ A nod of my head. ‘And less on yours, Danni.’ ‘Yeah, Danni. Ease off.’ Then, under his breath, ‘Idiot.’ ‘Leave her alone, and just do your bit,’ I say. It’s taken almost the full two weeks for me to be this relaxed with him. He gives a loud snort, then brings us around with his paddling. Danni waits; she’ll do nothing without clear instructions. ‘Good girl, Danni,’ I call. ‘As soon as we’re pointing straight to the shore, you start your paddling again.’ A nod of her small head and I know she’s heard. A week ago, taking the Canadian canoes out with these two would have been impossible. Ian would only follow his own rules. And Danni – her fear of the world doesn’t even allow her to choose her own breakfast cereal. For a moment, the only sound is the dip-and-shimmer of water. But Ian can’t keep his mouth shut for long. ‘Oi,’ he shouts across to another canoe, coming at us from around the frosted headland. ‘Beno. We’ve beaten ya, dickhead.’ A flick of his paddle. Danni groans. The others call back. ‘Turnip, you idiot. Fuck off.’ My colleague, Pip, has two boys with her in another boat, all acne and lip-sneers. They’re not as tricky as Ian, but they’ve had their moments. One of them is gesturing at us. We are near enough to the shore that we can allow some horseplay. ‘Evie,’ Pip shouts above their heads. Her bobble hat is pulled so far down that I wonder how she can even see me. ‘Frost Camps or not, last one back is going in.’ This is code for some splashing about at the water’s edge. Something that groups of teenagers don’t do anymore. Something called having fun. Most of the group had looked at us with undisguised contempt when we’d told them they couldn’t bring their mobile phones out onto the water. Ian had vocalised his feelings in a way that made his tutor snap out of torpor and try to reprimand him. I’d slung an arm around the boy’s shoulder and given a cutting challenge. It was taken up. If he managed to get across Windermere and back, and it wasn’t too cold, he could attempt to throw me in. There had been a kind of smile, after this. Something the tutor had never seen before, and thought was a snarl. But I knew different. Boys like Ian are easy. A few nips of razor-sharp wit, and a flash of superpower – mine is scampering up rock faces with minimal roping – and he had rolled over. In his own way. And that was the point of outdoor centres like ours. Challenge the body and the brain is forced to find new pathways. Old habits fall away, or most of them do: Ian has held onto his love of the f-word. I kneel forward and match the rhythm of my paddle to Ian and Danni’s. A crowd has gathered on the shore, a wall of fluorescent orange and multicoloured headgear. There are shouts of encouragement and some jeering, especially when Ian’s chalet-mates realise it’s him. ‘Go, Turnip.’ ‘Bury Beno.’ ‘Don’t let the fuckers win.’ Nobody mentions Danni. She is head down and paddling hard, but completely overlooked. ‘Danni. Champion of the World,’ I call, lifting my paddle to wave at the shore. Pip is pulling her boat alongside us. A scrape of metal and she’s there, holding on, beaming at me from under her hat. Danni moves her paddle forward and pushes against the gunwale of the other boat. Pip has no choice but to let go, and they do a quarter turn, springing away