in rapture as a small train letting out actual steam chugged by. Next to him, a black Labrador sat obediently. I wondered for a moment if the boy was Dylan’s son. Beyond the tree were two huge sofas facing each other, draped with fur throws, an ornate wooden coffee table between them, strewn with books and toys. Each window of the house had candles flickering in it, creating a warm, friendly glow.
As I took it in, I felt like a teenager again. After shifts at the hotel, I’d sometimes walk the streets of London at night, peering into the windows of the grand town houses nearby. I did it a lot at Christmas, imagining myself in there with my family. Remembering how it had once been, surrounded by the family I thought would for ever be devoted to me. I’d looked up the definition of ‘devotion’ once: Love, loyalty or enthusiasm for a person or activity. That summed up what being a parent is. Love, loyalty and enthusiasm … no matter what. But there had been a limit for my parents.
I noticed Dylan watching me, a slight wrinkle in his forehead. I forced a smile. ‘Very festive,’ I said, gesturing to the huge Christmas tree in the window.
‘The McCluskys don’t do anything by halves,’ he replied as we walked towards the front door. He opened it and gestured for me to step in before him. I was instantly struck by the contrast between the house’s chilly exterior and warm interior: inviting oak panelling, the smell of an open fire and Christmas spices, the delicious warmth of its air compared to the icy white setting outside. A large patterned rug lay in the middle of the hallway, and two wooden stairways swept up towards a balconied landing. Another Christmas tree stood at the back of the hall, so high the star at the top reached the top of the railing on the balcony. A stag-antler chandelier hung from the ceiling on chains, golden lights glistening.
It was just Dylan and me in the hallway, but I could hear talking in the distance, laughter, the faint trace of Christmas music tinkling from speakers. I could also hear people walking around on the floorboards above me. Perhaps they were getting ready for dinner in their rooms.
Now I felt even more like an impostor.
The sound of barking rang out and two glossy black Labradors came scooting through, nearly knocking me off my feet as they jumped up at me. ‘Down, down,’ Dylan said, shoving them out of the way. ‘Dad never trained them for anything but fetching game.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I said, fussing over them. ‘I love dogs.’
Dylan helped me shrug my wet coat off. ‘I’ll show you to the guest room,’ he said. ‘You can have a bath, shower, whatever you prefer. I’ll dig some of my sisters’ clothes out for you.’
I hesitated. ‘Are you sure this is okay?’
‘You’ve had a near-death experience. Go sort yourself out, and I’ll warn the others we have a trespasser in our home,’ he added with a faint smile. He placed the wet items on a radiator and led me up the stairs. I held onto the rail, looking around me. There were no family photos on the walls, just shelves containing beautiful wooden sculptures of trees, animals, the lodge itself.
‘These are good,’ I said, pausing in front of one that depicted a stag standing proud in the middle of an iced loch.
He picked it up, smiling at he looked at it. ‘Of course they are. I did them.’
‘Really?’ I said looking at him in surprise. ‘Is it what you do for a living?’
He placed the sculpture back down again with a thud. ‘No, just a hobby,’ he replied tightly. ‘I work for the family business.’
‘And that is?’ I asked as we continued climbing the stairs.
‘Building homes like this,’ he said, gesturing around him.
I wanted to ask him if he enjoyed it, or if he’d rather be creating wooden sculptures for a job. The latter, I guessed from the look on his face, but I didn’t get the chance as just then a young woman walked out of one of the rooms. She was delicately boned but tall like Dylan, dark-haired too. She was wearing all black: black leggings, a long, mohair black jumper. I couldn’t figure out how old she was. She held herself like a teenager, maybe seventeen or eighteen, but there was a look in her eyes that suggested she might be older.
She stopped abruptly when she saw me, tilting her head in confusion.
‘This is my little sister Heather,’ he said. ‘Heather, meet Gwyneth. She nearly died trespassing our land so I thought I’d extend her the courtesy of a warm bath and dry clothes.’
‘Did you shoot her like the last person who trespassed?’ Heather asked, eyes narrowing as she looked me all over.
‘Not this time,’ Dylan replied with a sigh.
I didn’t know whether to take them seriously. But then they both laughed.
‘Only kidding.’ Heather stepped towards me, putting out her hand. ‘Welcome to the madhouse, Gwyneth.’
I shook her hand. It felt very small and very cold, a surprise considering how warm it was in the house.
‘Gwyneth makes wildlife documentaries,’ Dylan said. ‘You should see her camera.’
Heather smiled in excitement. ‘Wow, really?’
‘Yes, that was why I was on the lake.’ I was in a rush to explain. ‘I wanted to film a bird, a rare one.’
‘That’s ace, Mum and Dad would love the loch to be in a documentary.’
‘Heather wants to make films,’ Dylan said, smiling affectionately at his sister. ‘She’s doing film studies at Leeds University.’
‘That’s cool,’ I said.
She nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, I want to direct them. Do you know anything about directing?’
‘A little.’
‘Excellent, we can talk about it over dinner,’ Heather declared as she went to skip down the stairs.
‘Oh, I’m not staying for dinner,’ I called out after her. ‘I’m just going to get out of these clothes then be on my way.’
‘Absolutely not,’ a deep voice from below said. I looked down the stairs to see a man in his fifties or sixties walk out from beneath the stair balcony. He was wearing an expensive-looking crimson cashmere jumper and dark blue cords. I could see Dylan in him: the dark, mischievous eyes, the handsome face and broad shoulders. I could see he was made of money too. There was something about people who had money; I saw it in the guests at the hotel who stayed in the presidential suite. A hands-in-pockets confidence that came with knowing the zero signs on your bank statement were a sign of good rather than bad.
Dylan leaned over the banister. ‘Dad, this is Gwyneth. She makes wildlife documentaries.’
‘So I just heard. Now this is what I call a welcome visitor.’ Dylan’s father walked up the stairs and put his hand out to me. ‘Oscar McClusky.’
I looked at his smiling face in surprise as I took his hand. ‘I trespassed on your land, you know.’
Oscar laughed. ‘As long as you got some good footage of that beautiful ptarmigan I saw gliding across the loch?’
‘You
