The buzzer shakes me awake. I lift my head but the throbbing pain between my temples sends me back into the pillow.
My back is killing me; my neck is stiff from where I drifted off at an awkward angle. I glance down to the pile of cuttings, photos, illegible notes and pizza crusts fanned around me.
I drag myself off the couch and stumble across the darkened room, eyeing myself briefly in the hall mirror. Darkness rings my eyes and I’m wearing a swollen cheek from last night’s assault. I pick up my Ray-Ban aviators from the sideboard and answer the intercom.
Grace Goodman stares back at me from the video link. Glancing from side to side in that impatient way she takes with her everywhere.
What now? The mere act of standing is painful.
‘I’ve just woken up.’
Grace smiles brightly into the camera then leans in. ‘Can you let me in?’
I grimace.
‘Open the bloody door, will you.’
Sighing heavily, I release the catch. Then I open the deadlock on my door and remove the chain. Grace is up the stairs before I’ve had time to run a hand through my hair. She eyes me up and down, looking at me suspiciously for wearing sunglasses indoors.
‘I had a late night.’ I shrug and lead us into my flat, picking up rubbish, opening a window to air the room, drawing the blinds. I quickly shut the spare bedroom door on my research.
Grace follows me into the lounge, her gaze sliding over the mess. Our eyes meet as she carefully takes a seat and I pick up last night’s bottle of vodka from the coffee table and take it with me into the kitchen. I can feel the weight of her judgement and it’s painful.
‘Want something to drink? Tea?’ I say over my shoulder, opening the fridge onto naked shelves. ‘You OK with no milk?’
‘You contacted the Ice Retreat again.’
I blink. ‘Did I?’ My body still fizzing with chemicals.
‘Last night – 4.45 a.m.’
The memory of last night spins, the blinding anger, the social media rant, glimpses vaguely swimming into view. I swipe open my phone to hundreds of alerts responding to my X post, quickly refreshing my memory of what I wrote.
Shit.
In my drunk emotional state, I’d called Ariel a killer.
And – I breathe in sharply – it’s already had 250 shares, 155,000 impressions and a stream of comments.
Shit, shit.
I look at Grace sheepishly. Then up rears the defensive wall. ‘I wanted answers. Martyn’s mum is losing her mind and nobody will help except me.’
‘You did what I specifically told you not to do.’
‘A post isn’t contacting her, per se.’
‘Even though I warned you off.’
‘OK. So, don’t tell me, Ariel’s made a complaint?’ I shrug defensively.
‘This is serious. You called her a killer.’ Grace looks at me in astonishment. ‘She could take you to court for defamation of character.’
‘She wouldn’t dare,’ I say confidently. ‘Ariel doesn’t want the press attention.’
‘It’s borderline harassment.’
‘People love me for this kind of thing.’
Grace subjects me to closer scrutiny. ‘What’s happened to your face?’
I touch my cheek and wince. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘Did something happen last night?’
I fill a large glass with water and press a paracetamol from a blister pack.
‘I ran into Mikkel, that’s all. Things got a bit heated, and—’
‘Jesus, did he hit you?’
‘No. Nothing like that . . .’ I trail off. If Grace knew I’d been attacked by an ice warrior, it would be the nail in the coffin for my investigation. She’d say it was too dangerous. ‘Christmas drunks, a fight in the pub got out of hand and I was in the way. Some rowdy lads.’
Fresh concern enters Grace’s voice. ‘Something I should be aware of? Will it make the press? I warned you about keeping a low profile now you’re in the public eye.’
‘It’s nothing like that,’ I say quickly. I love Grace like family but this eternal fussing, I’m still not used to it. Nobody gave a shit about me while I was growing up and that feeling’s stuck around. ‘Don’t worry, please. You’re making me anxious. What did you come here for?’ My head is now pounding. A dull ache drilling right the way down. I slump against the worktop.
‘Well, you can’t appear on camera with that shiner. You’ll need some make-up; it won’t translate well on screen.’
‘But—’ I frown. ‘We’re not filming until New Year.’
‘Can you sit down please, Hollie.’
I eye Grace warily. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘I have some news.’
‘Should I be worried?’
‘I can’t believe I’m saying this. You’ve been invited to the Ice Retreat.’
I feel an instant rush of blood to my head that almost throws me off balance.
‘Someone from their press team was in contact with the studio this morning after reading your post,’ she says. ‘They’re offering you the opportunity to interview Ariel Rose.’
I blink. ‘Is this a joke?’
‘No joke. It’s gone beyond all that.’ She lifts an eyebrow at me.
‘On the record?’
Grace nods.
‘For the documentary?’
‘That’s what I’m assuming.’
My head is spinning, the pain between my temples intensifies as I try to take in the enormity of the news. No journalist has ever been granted access to the Ice Retreat. It doesn’t add up. My eyes sharpen. There must be a catch.
‘Why did you wait to tell me?’
‘Your phone’s been off all morning.’
‘OK, but—’
‘Now I want you to listen carefully,’ Grace says.
I pick at the skin around my nails. Tearing at it with my teeth.
‘I’m worried. You’re reckless and impulsive, and you’re also sleep deprived.’ She stops, looking me up and down. ‘And if I’m honest, I don’t think you’re up to this. You need rest and lots of it.’
‘When can we do the interview?’
‘In two days’ time. Apparently, there’s a window before the weather worsens.’ Grace finds the email on her phone and passes it to me to read. It’s from their head of PR and comms, Katrine Ridge, who goes by the name of Tinx.
As you’ll appreciate, due to client confidentiality laws, we won’t be able to reveal personal information about members of our community, including Mr Martyn Eves. We take health and well-being seriously and adhere to the strictest of regulations.
However, that said, we want to be completely transparent about our work. We are extremely proud of our therapy centre, the results we’ve achieved and the lives we’ve transformed. Ms Jensen seems overly preoccupied with our methodology so we hope by inviting her into our magical healing universe for two nights we can ease any concerns and put her mind at rest.
Ariel is eager and very much looking forward to meeting Ms Jensen and introducing her to our treatment programme.
Yours sincerely, Tinx.
I smile – I can’t help myself. How did this work out in my favour?
‘I’ll be honest,’ Grace continues, ‘I don’t think we’ll get much out of this since they’re being so forthcoming. They’re clearly confident there’s nothing to show them in a negative light. They’d be risking everything otherwise.’
I can feel my smile widening, reaching my eyes. I’m glowing, I’m positively fucking iridescent and I’ve forgotten about the pain.
‘This is our way in.’ I’m still in disbelief.
‘You know I’m on your side. I want this as much as you. And if Ariel Rose is guilty of dangerous practice, she needs to be brought to justice.’
‘She’s on the back foot.’
‘Which is why I’m agreeing to this. Because that’s what we do – but we must go about it in the right way.’
‘Why else invite me?’
Grace stares at me. ‘Because she’s goddamn sick of you haranguing her?’
I let out a strangled laugh. ‘Think about it. No journalist has ever been granted access. Why me? Why now? Because,’ I bray, ‘I’m drawing too much attention. People are noticing what I have to say. She wants to throw us off the scent. This interview is a smokescreen. But calling my bluff will be the biggest mistake she’ll ever make,’ I say triumphantly.
Grace looks at me pointedly. ‘Remember, Ariel already has sufficient grounds to take us to court. It’s not going to help matters if you go in all guns blazing.’
‘Come on, you don’t need to tell me how to do my job.’
‘Be unassuming, be charming even.’
I throw her a look.
‘That’s exactly my plan. It’ll catch Ariel off guard; she won’t be expecting it. I’ll even fool her into thinking I need her help. I’ll make her trust me and then I’ll get to work.’
Grace nods warily.
‘She won’t see me coming. Forty-eight hours – it’ll be tight, but it’s enough time to expose her lies.’
A line deepens between Grace’s brows. ‘Tinx requested you travel light and bring only a small crew with you.’ Grace returns to the email. ‘She warned the weather this time of year is unpredictable and reaching the retreat and getting back down from the mountain can be . . . difficult.’
‘How hard can it be?’
‘You don’t want to get stuck up there.’
‘You worry too much.’ I smile. ‘And I’m fine going alone.’ No one checking up on me. I can’t have anyone watching me – not for what I’ve got planned. ‘I’ve done loads of interviews by myself. I can work the equipment.’
Grace laughs. ‘You’re taking a cameraman. I’m not having you up there alone.’
‘I don’t need to be nannied.’
‘It’s not up for discussion. End of.’
‘So . . . who?’
‘I’ll see who’s available short notice. And I’ll confirm later.’
Will it be him? My skin prickles in anticipation.
‘Plus we need aerial shots, panoramas – by all accounts, the views are breathtaking.’
Grace stands to leave, casting a final troubled look across the mess. The bottles. The neglect.
‘Listen . . .’ Her voice softens. ‘I need you to be careful, Hol. People like Ariel are highly skilled at reading others, that’s how they make money. Whatever you do, don’t let her inside your head.’
‘That’s not going to happen.’
Grace eyes me uneasily. ‘Because if there’s anything, even the smallest chink in your armour, she’ll find a way in.’
Almost everything about my childhood, I want to forget. If there’s anything I can take away from growing up in a violent foster care system, it’s mastering the poker face.
‘I’ve got nothing to hide,’ I say, smiling convincingly.