of the flight, and after touching down, we mutter our goodbyes – ‘See you around’, ‘Yeah, you too’, while both fervently hoping that’s not the case – and grabbing my bags, I go outside to get a taxi.
‘Menemsha Inn, please,’ I say to the driver, as I climb inside and roll down the window.
It’s a lovely warm evening and I turn my face to the slowly sinking sun. It’s the magic hour. Everything is bathed in a honey-coloured light, and after the frenzy of New York, the island feels quiet and sleepy. Like the pace of life has slowed down, I muse, as we drive down country lanes bordered by handcrafted stone walls, by fields filled with wild flowers and past clapboard houses and quaint village stores that remind me of The Waltons.
According to the driver, I’m staying ‘up island’, which is the more remote side of the island and where Artsy has his studio. It’s also much wilder, I decide, as we pass white windswept beaches with grassy bluffs and a lighthouse standing proud up on the cliff.
After thirty minutes we arrive at the small ramshackle fishing port of Menemsha – blink and you’d miss it – and the cab pulls up a gravel driveway. At the end is a pretty inn with a pitched roof, white-painted windows and a wooden porch complete with a rocking chair on which is curled a big, fat ginger tomcat, fast asleep.
As I pass him with my bags, I tickle his tummy and he stretches out like a draught-excluder and yawns languorously.
‘Welcome to Menemsha Inn,’ beams a stout, ruddy-cheeked woman when I walk into reception. ‘I’m Sylvia.’
‘Hi. I’m Lucy Hemmingway. I’m checking in for two nights.’
‘One moment, please.’ She taps cheerfully at her computer. ‘Ah, yes, we’ve got you in the shell room. That’s one of my favourites. It’s just down the corridor in a separate annexe. It has an uninterrupted view of the ocean.’
‘Super.’ I smile happily. Despite the shaky start, I’m really looking forward to my time here on the Vineyard. It really is like turning back the clock, I note, glancing around at the vast stone fireplace, the framed black-and-white photographs of fishing boats, the grandfather clock ticking quietly in the corner.
‘Oh dear.’
I turn back to Sylvia. Her smile has slipped slightly.
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘Erm . . .’ She’s still tapping at the computer keyboard. Only now she’s not so much tapping cheerfully as jabbing frantically. ‘I’m afraid we have a slight problem.’
I get a twinge of apprehension. I don’t like how she uses the word ‘we’.
‘Problem?’
‘We seem to have double-booked the shell room.’
‘Oh.’ I feel a beat of disappointment. After her big sell on the shell room I was looking forward to staying in it. Still, I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’m only here for two nights. ‘Well, never mind. I’m sure all your rooms are lovely,’ I say placatingly. ‘What else is available?’
There’s an ominous pause. ‘Well, that’s the problem. There isn’t anything else available. We’re fully booked.’
I look back at her, not quite computing what she’s saying. ‘But I have aŸ ‘Be aŸ ‘B confirmation.’ I waggle the documents that Magda gave me.
‘I know, my dear, but so does the gentleman.’
I frown. ‘What gentleman?’
At that moment the door swings open and my heart sinks.
I should’ve known.
‘Nathaniel,’ I say stiffly.
‘Lucy.’ He nods curtly.
‘Oh, you two know each other?’ cries Sylvia, glancing between us in astonishment.
‘Intimately,’ says Nate, through gritted teeth.
A look of relief flashes across Sylvia’s face. ‘Oh, silly me, I didn’t realise you were together.’
‘No, we’re not,’ I refute quickly. ‘Together, I mean . . .Well, we are . . .’ I glance at Nate, who’s typing an email on his iPhone ‘ . . . but we’re not supposed to be . . .’ I trail off. This is hopeless.
‘Oh, I see.’ Her eyes widen, then lowering her voice, she says quietly, ‘Don’t worry, here at Menemsha Inn we’re very discreet. The Vineyard has a history of accommodating presidents and world-famous celebrities.’
I look at her blankly.
‘Who just happen to be married,’ she adds, raising a bushy eyebrow.
Suddenly it registers. Oh my God, she thinks we’re having an affair! ‘No, it’s not like that,’ I try explaining quickly, but she’s pinned a coy expression on her face and is holding out a key.
‘Very discreet,’ she repeats in a whisper.
I glance at the key. For a split second I think about trying to demand another room, but it’s been a long day and I’m exhausted. I just want take