A Sneaky Peek into my next book

A wine-tasting weekend at Hollow Pines Hotel, on a remote Scottish island, turns claustrophobic when a storm traps the guests indoors. In the hotel’s library, two women - famous actress, eighty-year-old Ivy, and young barista, Catrina, - bond over books, heartbreak, and betrayal. Catrina is grieving her missing fiancé , and Ivy is still carrying the burden of guilt following the tragic death of her fiancé on the island 50 years ago. At Hollow Pines, the truth could shatter them, or finally set them free.

Chapter One

Ivy

The minute Ivy steps off the ferry onto Holm Island, she is sure she has made a terrible mistake. She almost turns back to ask the ferryman to return her to the mainland. But she already knows this is the final crossing of the day. The anchor will be moored, and the ropes fastened tight. The ferryman will be looking forward to his dinner. Tonight, as the ferry stays here, then so must she.

Despite wanting to do an about-turn, she drags her small suitcase to the end of the short wooden pier, following the other foot passengers, where she sees a local taxi driver waiting for her by the side of a battered black Ford saloon, silently displaying a hand-written sign in front of his chest, which looks like it has been made from the inside of a cornflake box. ‘Ivy Montclaire’ has been scribbled with a black permanent marker in a large cursive font. She wonders who wrote the note for him. A wife? A daughter? The writing is too feminine for it to have been him.

When she walks towards him and tells him her name, he takes her suitcase with a perfunctory nod and deposits it in the boot of the car. He doesn’t say hello, comment on the weather, or ask her how she is. She is accustomed to chatty London cabbies. Their friendly smiles and polite questions are almost a trademark of the city. They always ask her about where she has been and whether she has had a nice day. They tell her little anecdotes about the famous people they have met, and she pretends to be interested — thankfully, not many people recognise her any longer, so she doesn’t feel the need to make her way around the city incognito — and the journeys are generally pleasant ones. But she can tell this man isn’t the type to be interested in her harrowing and extremely long journey from London all the way to the west coast of Scotland, or the purpose of her stay here on this small island, so she doesn’t offer to tell him. He’s terribly dour. But that’s fine, as she is not in the mood for talking anyway.

The man is wearing an off-white knitted Aran jumper that looks as old as the hills, with faded corduroy trousers that probably used to be bottle green but are now the colour of weather-beaten moss. On his feet are sturdy brown boots, the type usually worn by hikers or farmers. But they are clean, Ivy notices. If they have been speckled with soil at any point, there is no evidence of their previous activity now. It isn’t easy to guess his age; somewhere between forty and sixty. She knows from previous experience that all the men on the island are quickly aged by the constant assault of wind and rain, so she wouldn’t be surprised to find that he is much younger than he looks.

He holds open the rear passenger door, and she climbs in. Her spine cracks and creaks as it sends shooting pains down the backs of her legs. She should have taken her painkillers an hour ago, but they are packed into the depths of her suitcase. Now she will have to wait until they get to the hotel.

The driver starts the engine, and they set off. She doesn’t need to tell him she is going to Hollow Pines Hotel, although she does, just to be sure. The extremely helpful travel agent back in Beckenham assured her that she had sorted everything out for her, including all her train tickets, two nights at the hotel, and this taxi pick-up. Holm Island Taxis is the only taxi company on the island.

‘You just need to make sure you’re on the right ferry on the right day, and leave everything else to me,’ the agent said as she gripped a sheet of paper as it shot out of the tabletop printer on the end of her desk. She folded it in half and handed it to Ivy with a smile. ‘All the details of your trip are on there. You’re going to have a fabulous time, I can guarantee it,’ she said. It is she who suggested the wine tasting weekend. The hotel does them twice a year. ‘They are really popular,’ she told her. ‘You’re lucky to get one of the last available spaces.’

Ivy had wandered into the travel agency to escape a particularly vicious late summer downpour two weeks ago. Unsuitably dressed in a thin skirt and a white cotton blouse that was bound to become see-through with the mere hint of precipitation — and the days of her wanting to show her underwear to anyone are well and truly behind her — she thought she might take cover inside the doorway for just a few moments.

‘Come and take a seat,’ the kind travel agent said. ‘You look drowned. Here, let me get you a towel to dry your hair.’

The agent disappeared through a door at the back of the shop and reappeared with a clean cotton tea towel, which she placed around her shoulders. Within minutes, as Ivy dabbed at her damp hair, she heard herself telling the agent that she had a momentous birthday coming up next month — her eightieth — and she wanted to treat herself. She had been shopping on the high street, but hadn’t found anything she liked, apart from a cashmere cardigan in a beautiful baby pink, but the sleeves were far too long, and a delightful raincoat, the colour of soft morning mist, which she decided she didn’t need. As she gazed around at the colourful brochures and holiday destination posters on the wall - one depicting a contented couple sharing tapas on a tiny round table, one showing a gaggle of women linking arms down a sunlit cobbled street, and the other of a young family running into the sea, all having the time of their lives - it occurred to her that Fate had led her there. She could have taken shelter in the dry cleaner’s next door, or the coffee shop on the other side of the road, but she was there for a reason — so she could book a fanciful trip to the Italian Lakes or an exciting city break to Geneva or Vienna. It had been so long since she had dusted off her passport. She told herself that by the time the storm had passed and the sky was once again as blue as the Mediterranean, her holiday would be arranged.

When the travel agent told her about the wine weekend, she should have stopped her there. She should have explained that she couldn’t possibly step foot onto Holm Island again, not as long as she lives. Even thinking about Scotland gives her palpitations. As the travel agent swivelled her laptop screen to show her how beautiful Hollow Pines Hotel is, and how she could amble around the gardens after breakfast, and, later, take a swim in their brand new pool, enjoy delicious food and wine, and even take a walk on the beach, which is only moments away from the back of the hotel, Ivy found herself in a state of silent acquiescence.

She didn’t tell the agent that she had been there many times before, although the last time was nearly fifty years ago. She didn’t tell her that she knows Hollow Pines like the back of her hand, although that was when it was a private home, not a hotel. She didn’t tell her she was part of a couple then. When she gave her name — Miss Ivy Montclaire — there was no flicker of recognition. She decided the agent was too young to have heard of her and Terence, everyone’s favourite celebrity couple in the 1970s. The agent wouldn’t have been born then.

The thought of Terence tugs at her heartstrings, and she, once again, questions her decision to come here. She knows her visit won’t be the same as it used to be. How can it without her other half? Terence liked to call himself her ‘other half’, but in fact they never married. Time slipped by and arranging a wedding, something which started as a priority, slipped down the To Do list until time tragically ran out.

Now, as the taxi jerks and jumps across treacherous potholes as they pull away from the dock and join the coast road, Ivy can feel her heart rate rising. Nothing has changed in all this time. It looks identical to the pictures in her memory. They pass the ancient pub and the row of fisherman’s cottages with their front doors painted in the same bright pastel colours of fifty years ago. At the end of the row, there is a bench looking out to sea. It is still there. Old and weathered, but still standing.

She fumbles in her jacket pocket for her angina spray and squirts it under her tongue. She closes her eyes, ignoring the glorious view of the Hebridean waves bursting over the rocks on the shore. They are nothing new, and neither is this road. The memories are disturbingly vivid. She knows that in a mile, the road will sweep off to the left, away from the coast, inland towards the forest where the pine trees stand like sentinels on either side of the narrow road. Eventually, the forest begins to thin out again, allowing light to pass through the trees, scattering itself onto the road. From there, the road begins to climb and climb until eventually reaching the hotel at the top of the hill.

An image of Terence’s old Morris Minor, the first time they brought the car, spluttering up the hill in first gear. The pair of them laughing and him telling her she needs to prepare herself for getting out and giving it a push. Both of them excited for their annual summer trip.

Another image of them shouting. Years later, the old car long gone. The darkness on the cliff top pressing in around them, the stars watching their angry exchange. Terence waving his arms in the air, like a horrid game of charades, his face red, his forehead shiny with sweat, despite the cold. Ivy screaming at him, pointing her finger at his chest. Her last, unforgettable words to him were so cruel.

She knows where they are now, even with her eyes still tightly shut. She can feel the taxi beginning to climb. She is pushed back in her seat. The road is smoother than she remembers. She wonders if it has been recently tarmaced, part of the hotel's renovation project perhaps. She takes a deep breath. She can feel the driver watching her through the rearview mirror. He must think she’s asleep. She hopes he doesn’t see the tears she is desperately trying to hide.

It is a mistake to come here. The ghost of Terence is on this island. She can feel him. She should be sipping mint tea in Limone by the side of Lake Garda right now, as she waits for her lunch — freshly caught fish and locally grown salad. She shouldn’t be here, somewhere she has avoided all these years. The idea that she could somehow make her peace with the loss of poor Terence and fight her demons head-on is ridiculous. She has kept them buried all these years. Why has she chosen to face them now? What a stupid old woman she is. She will spend the night here and then go back home tomorrow. The concierge will arrange it for her if she asks. She feels slightly better at the prospect of having to spend only one night at Hollow Pines.

Then, as the taxi takes a familiar sharp bend, another memory hits her. Kneeling in the middle of the road in the pitch dark. She chose a specific spot, just after the bend, where a speeding car couldn’t possibly miss her. Nobody sticks to the speed limits around here. Her hands were clasped tightly across the back of her head as her forehead and her knees pushed into the road. Child’s pose. Except that it wasn’t the gentle, resting posture after a yoga session. Tiny stones dug into her young skin, but she bore the pain as a penance while she waited for an inevitable impact. She doesn’t know how long she was there. Not long. Maybe ten minutes.

The driver of the car stopped just inches from her taught body.

‘What the bloody hell…’ she heard him exclaim as he clambered out of his car. He was English, but she didn’t recognise his voice as someone who was staying at the house. The engine was still running; the driver’s door left open to the horizontal whipping rain. He grabbed her elbow and pulled her to her feet.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked. She couldn’t tell whether he was angry or concerned. A bit of both, probably.

Of course, she isn’t okay, she wanted to tell him. Do normal people lie in the road waiting to be driven over?

‘What are you doing?’ he shouted over the noise of the rain hammering on the bonnet and roof of his car. A small red one. ‘I nearly killed you.’

Yes, but you didn’t, she thought.

She wished he had.

Copyright© Caroline Blake 2025

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First published December 2025

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Website: www.carolinemelodyblake.co.uk