Bliss (24 page)

Leandra decided she hated surprises. But anything that got her away from the duke and Oliver's snotty friends was probably an improvement.

*   *   *

Two hours later, Oliver and Leandra's borrowed chopper landed on a tiny island off the coast of southwest Scotland. Loch Lorrain and Grayson Castle were hundreds of miles north. Looking out the windows, Leandra couldn't make out much of anything on this green, craggy dot in the North Sea.

They ducked low as they jogged away from the still spinning helicopter blades toward a man waiting with a pickup truck. He wore a saffron orange robe, sandals, and glasses.

“Welcome to Holy Isle!” he said, bowing his shaved white head.

Holy Isle? Make that
holy shit
. She turned to Oliver. “What're we doing here?”

“You haven't heard of Holy Isle? I thought you must have. It's world famous. I've asked my mates to come here too many times to count, but they begged off. I knew you'd be chuffed about it, and as luck would have it, we got the last two spots for the final meditation retreat of the year!”

“Meditation retreat?”

Saffron piped in. “A week of silence, contemplation, rock painting, flower arrangement, and shadow watching. We also have morning yoga and sheep-shearing seminars.”

Oliver introduced himself and Leandra. Saffron said, “I'm Lama Winterfield.” Instead of shaking hands, they bowed to each other.

“Silence? Like, no talking? For a
week
?”

Saffron nodded. “Mr. Bracknell told me you two are vegetarians. It should be an easy transition to our raw vegan diet.”

His Scottish accent was quite thick. She must have misunderstood. “I'm sorry, did you say raw vegan?”

“Yes! Mostly locally foraged grasses and leaves.”

Leandra felt faint from hunger just hearing about it. She'd starve to death!

Lama Winterfield directed them to climb into the back of the truck with their luggage. Grimly had packed a small shoulder bag for her. She took a quick look inside and found only toiletries and her wallet. She had no makeup, no clothes, no jewelry. Was she expected to meditate and be silent
in the nude
?

“It's just a few minutes to the compound, but it can get a little bumpy,” said Lama Winterfield.

They were thrown around the truck like socks in a dryer. Oliver had the nerve to say, “Isn't this fun?” She wanted to kill him. Along the way, they swerved to avoid hitting some wild goats grazing on the side of the road. She'd be on the same diet as they were for a week.

Bruised and exhausted, Leandra limped after Oliver and the Lama into a barnlike structure the Lama described as “the dormitory complex.”

“The men's dorm is over there. This is the women's dorm,” he said. “Right this way. I'll show you your room, Ms. Hunting.”

The Four Seasons, it wasn't. Leandra's rooms would have been considered Spartan in Sparta. A bed with a scratchy blanket (“Made from indigenous Soay sheep wool!” he said), and a dresser already full of clothes. She held up a pair of enormous drawstring pajama bottoms, and a tunic. “Made with indigenous cotton?” she asked.

“Yes, in fact!”

“I'm supposed to wear this all week? I only have the bra and panties I've got on.”

“We don't wear undergarments here,” he said. “No clothing that binds.”

Leandra and Oliver both looked at Lama's robes at crotch level.

“It's our policy not to use any electronics during your stay. Since we don't have electricity in the dorms or wireless technology, your devices are useless anyway. I'll take you to your room now, Mr. Bracknell. You should say good-bye to each other. You won't see each other again until breakfast tomorrow morning at six
A.M.
”

“What about dinner?” asked Leandra.

“We've already eaten. I can ask someone to bring you a tray, but just this once. It's an early morning, so after you eat, please go right to sleep. From this moment on, there will be no talking.”

Lama zipped his mouth closed, and threw away the key, then urged them both to do the same. Leandra did so ironically, but Oliver beamed at her, way into the spirit of spirituality. After they left, she flung herself on her cot and cried, full drama. She'd been airdropped into her personal version of hell. She'd wail if she wanted to.

Dinner arrived, brought in by a woman in saffron robes. It was a plate of greens, a biscuit made of rock (tasted like it), and a glass of water. She ate every bite, wishing she hadn't been so rocked by the duke's nastiness that she didn't chow down on the smoked salmon and watercress sandwiches at the polo match.

She was almost too hungry to sleep. But exhaustion and emotional upheaval got the better of her, and she crashed hard. She awoke before dawn to a tinkling of bells, put on her organic daytime PJs and slippers, and followed the line of sleepy seekers into the dining room. Oliver waved at her from the men's section. He looked overjoyed with his lumpy plain oatmeal.

The day was strictly structured. The men and women were led like Soay sheep from one area and activity to the next. A watercolor workshop in the art studio, yoga class in the dojo. The last activity before lunch: meditation.

A woman sat cross-legged on a pillow at the front of a white-walled room. She was skinny with a long gray braid down to her waist. Leandra envied her all-black robe and leggings ensemble. “Good morning,” she said. “Find a pillow and sit in the lotus position.”

Leandra held up her hand. “I thought there was no talking.”

The instructor said, “I'll be leading the meditation with as few verbal cues as possible. Let's begin with deep pranayama breathing. I'll ask you to place one hand on your heart, and one on your belly.”

Leandra's pillow was thin and her anklebones hurt on the hard, wood floor. She raised her hand again. “Can I get a few extra pillows?”

“It's not supposed to be comfortable. We meditate to learn to sit with discomfort.” Insane. Why would anyone choose to be uncomfortable? The instructor continued. “Let's begin our breathing practice. Deep breath in, belly rises … what is it now?”

“We're practicing breathing? I can't speak for everyone here, but I kind of do that pretty well already. Like, thousands of times a day.”

“I'll ask you to remain silent and follow instructions.”

Leandra did her best. Really she did. But after five minutes of breathing, sitting, counting backward and forward from one to ten, she'd had enough. “Excuse me again. Is this it? If it is, then meditation does not work for me, at all.”

“I'll ask you to leave the room.”

“You're throwing me out?” Meanwhile, what was with the “I'll ask you to…” verbal tick?
I'll ask you to fuck off
, she thought.

The instructor just pointed to the door.

She was ejected from her first meditation session, after only five minutes! And she'd be stuck here for another six days without clothes, food, or the Internet? It was unthinkable. She would surely go crazy.

Not knowing what to do or where to go, Leandra stormed away from the meditation room, picking her way through the hallways until she found the front door. Fresh air would help. She exited the building into a cloud of cigarette smoke. A man in beige PJs and slippers stood there smoking, which was one thousand percent against policy. He was around thirty, dark brown hair and olive Mediterranean complexion. He was slim, but not a toned yoga skinny, just naturally lean. When she saw the cigarette, her heart leapt. She wasn't a smoker, but to find someone here with such an unhealthy habit? He probably ate meat, too. They were going to be new best friends.

“Hey,” he said.

“You talked.”

“Sue me.”

American, and about as happy to be there as she was. They got to talking (with their voices), and she learned Harris Belsky was a movie producer from Los Angeles. He'd come to Glasgow to meet and woo a Scottish actress to appear in his next movie. “She said she'd consider it if I brought her here,” he said while snuffing out his cigarette in the mud with his slipper. “I've spent two days eating dirt and drinking my own piss, trying to get her alone to talk, but she won't even look at me.”

“Drinking your own piss, really?” asked Leandra.

“I exaggerate a little.”

He handed her a smoke. While she enjoyed the tobacco product, she told him her story, about being brought here against her will by a man she'd only just met (she exaggerated a little, too). She felt just as suckered and trapped as Harris did.

“So let's get out of here,” he said.

“How?”

“The ferry. It comes in every day at noon with supplies and returns to a harbor town on the mainland. From there, you can go back to London, and I can get to Glasgow and then fly to LA.”

“I don't have any money,” she said.

“I do.” Harris arched his eyebrows conspiratorially. “So we're making a break for it?”

She considered her options. Stay here, starving, free boobing, sitting and breathing, or go on a madcap adventure with a smoking hot, rich American?

“I'm in,” she said, her heart speeding up. “I have to go to my dorm room and change into my real clothes.”

“The ferry leaves in half an hour and it'll take about that long to get there.”

She had to get her wallet and her phone. “I'll be super quick.”

He had stuff to grab, too, so they ran to the dorm complex and separated to get their stuff. In five minutes, they were on the road, in their PJs and slippers, to the ferry landing.

“I can kick your ass if you try anything. I know Muay Thai,” she lied as they hoofed along, past the goats and the sheep.

“Whatever that is. But, yeah. Noted.”

*   *   *

Their great escape went off without a hitch. First, they walked double time to the ferry at Brodick on the Holy Isle. It was freezing on the boat, even after they put on their regular clothes. She and Harris had no choice but to huddle together for warmth. Being forced to cleave to a complete stranger had a way of breaking down barriers. By the end of the hour-long ferry ride, she and Harris were as cozy as kittens in a basket. The ride ended at Ardrossan Harbour, where they found the general store. Harris whipped out a platinum card, and they bought Scottish sweaters, dry jeans, and fleece-lined wellies. The logical choice would be to taxi to Glasgow and then go their separate ways, but Harris had another idea.

“Let's drive to London together,” he said. “It's only five hundred miles from here. We can see the countryside and be not silent the entire way.”

That did sound tempting. “How do I know you won't rape and murder me, and leave my corpse on the moors for some Sherlock in a deerstalker hat to find?”

“I'm not forcing you to go with me. You can do whatever you want. I can do whatever I want. He”—Harris pointed at Shane MacCreedle, the ferry master, who waved—“can do whatever he wants. It's simple. I want to drive to London, smell heather, see Shetland ponies and Guernsey cows, eat greasy pub food and drink stout in every town along the way, maybe spend the night in a village inn called The Bucket of Haggis or The Swan with Three Heads. I want you to come with me. We'll have fun. Promise.”

He really was cute when he referenced
The Notebook
, his thick, brown hair wafting in the wind, his dark eyes beaming certainty. This man knew exactly who he was, what he wanted, and where he was going. His confidence was hard to resist. He offered Leandra an adventure, which was what she'd set out to have. Plus, he had a platinum card, and all she had in her wallet was a rolled-up hundred-pound note she'd swiped off Oliver's dresser one night.

They walked to Discount Car Hire, the only rental place in town. Harris prowled the lot, looking for a decent ride, and chose a vintage Jaguar convertible. She snapped a photo of Harris leaning against it, debonair and scruffy in his oversized sweater. The rental office had WiFi, incredibly. “What's your Insta handle?”

He told her.

She posted, “Driving from Scotland to London with @actionHarris!” on Instagram. Now, if she disappeared, the authorities would know where to look and whom to question.

If Harris wasn't a rapist/murderer, he had
serious
boyfriend potential. He seemed to know her from the first moment, tapping into her sense of adventure and hunger for food she could tear into with her teeth.

They hopped in the Jag and headed south with nothing but miles and moments ahead.

 

16

love is the elixir of life

Demi took a sip from her cocktail. It was her first taste of alcohol since the night of the arrest two months ago. The smell alone sent her into rapture. God, how she'd missed the first swallow.

“How is it?” asked Sophia.

“It's divine.”

The Los Angeles night was clear, dry, starry, and seventy-six degrees. Although Sophia thought their two-bedroom at the Rosewood Mews was small, Demi's bedroom was the same size as the one at the Grace, and the kitchen/living room/dining room might be larger. Their apartment could be the size of a matchbox, Demi didn't care. They were finally fulfilling their dream of living together. The chant from childhood (“no parents, no teachers, no rules”) didn't resonate the way it had at fifteen, but Demi felt a teenage rush of excitement. California represented a rebirth for her, a chance to start over and really find out who she was and what she could do. She could become anyone here, and she couldn't wait to find out how her new life would unfold. The Rosewood Mews pulsed with promise. She was sad to leave Catherine at the Grace. But she proudly broke the chain, and left the lobby of death alive and kicking.