The audio goes off.
‘Ah, come on,’ she says, assuming that they are listening. Whoever they are. ‘I was enjoying that.’ She frowns. Does a few bends and stretches, hearing something in her neck make a little cracking sound as she tips her head from side to side.
She doesn’t stretch enough. Doesn’t relax enough. She’s a victim of her own success with the business she’s built up. The London Stock Exchange might rest for a few hours, but then it’s overlapped by New York and the Dow Jones . . . and Tokyo. There’s a two-hour window where nothing happens, and this is when she rests, or tries to. Margaret Thatcher famously ran the country on four hours’ sleep a night, so surely Brenda can run her own empire with only two?
It’s always an intense two hours. As though her body goes into complete shutdown, desperately trying to regenerate the things that would take seven or eight hours for anyone else. But she is not anyone else. That’s the point.
She takes a few steps towards the edge of the cliff, looks down. The sea is smacking gently against the rocks below. She looks up and around at the vast blue sky. Clear and cloudless. The shriek of a gull before it lands on a rock partway down the cliff face. Someone once said to her that there is no such thing as a ‘seagull’ – there are several different types and the generic term shouldn’t be used to describe any particular bird. What a load of nonsense. She has no idea what kind of gull is sitting on the rock. It’s white and grey with an angry-looking black beak. It swivels its head and looks up at her. It’s probably wondering what she’s staring at.
It squawks loudly, its beak opening wide. Then it flies off. Shrieking, squawking, flying high until she can’t see it anymore.
There’s a rustling sound in the bushes somewhere behind her. She turns back to the clearing where she’s been sitting, squinting, trying to focus on the shrubbery. Some sort of small animal. She decides not to investigate.
She might be in the great outdoors for a day, but it doesn’t mean she has to find a sudden interest in the flora and fauna.
‘Ready for your lunch?’ The voice comes through the earpiece. ‘Take a look behind that bush.’
She hadn’t even thought about lunch yet, but her stomach rumbles at the mention of it. ‘I assumed I’d be joining the others for lunch,’ she says. She’d felt self-conscious at first, talking to someone who wasn’t there. But it’s not really any different to an audio Skype call, and she has plenty of those. She’s used to having an earpiece stuck to the side of her head. Not quite like this one, but still. The other difference is that she usually knows who it is she’s talking to.
‘This is your moment, Brenda,’ the voice says. ‘You wanted relaxation. You don’t need the others bothering you. Am I right? That irritating Instagrammer and her full-of-it boyfriend? The stupid American with his pseudoscientific nonsense? You’re better than them, Brenda. You’re a captain of industry. You’re Queen of the jungle. You eat these people for breakfast.’
There is a pause and Brenda smiles to herself, enjoying the praise even as she steels herself against it. It would be hard to overstate her wariness of this situation she’s unaccountably volunteered for. Whoever is behind all this is moving them around like chess pieces, and Brenda is accustomed to being the player, not the played. But she’ll go with it. For now. There’s bound to be an angle here she can exploit, if she gives it a little time.
‘Have you ever watched one of those videos on YouTube, Brenda? A snake eating a mouse. Whole. Doesn’t even need to bite it. Just opens its mouth wide and grabs hold of that little critter. Swallows it whole and lets it dissolve slowly in its stomach juices. What a painful, protracted death that must be. Don’t you think, Brenda? The ultimate in control.’
‘No,’ she snaps. ‘That’s not who I am.’
The voice chuckles. ‘I’ll let you ponder that for a while. Enjoy your lunch.’
Brenda balls her hands into fists. They’ve got her wrong. She’s strong, yes. She’s determined. She can be ruthless. Yes, she’s a control freak – what successful person isn’t these days?
But she’s not a monster.
Her appetite has gone, but her traitorous stomach disagrees with a rumble. It has been a while since she last ate. Maybe she could have a nibble of something? Then she’s going to ask to rejoin the group. There’s a reason why she doesn’t have time for solitary relaxation. It’s because she can’t relax. And being on her own here is leaving her vulnerable to attack. They can play their little games – she knows what those reality shows are like. Because that is what it is, whether it’s being filmed or not. Throw a bunch of disparate characters together, put them under some sort of pressure, and see how quickly they turn on each other.
It’s not unlike banking.
She’s bored now anyway. Wants to know what the others are doing. Maybe she can put the lunch in her backpack and take it with her. She’d been into listening to that audio drama for a while; she’d needed to recharge. But she’s lost interest now. She’s had quite enough ‘me time’.
Behind the bush is a wicker picnic hamper, laid on top of a red-and-white chequered tablecloth. A collection of thick, puffy floor cushions is arranged around the space, leaning against the side of the hill to form a makeshift sofa. There’s a tray with napkins and a glass, and next to that an ice bucket with a variety of bottled drinks. She flips open the lid of the hamper, and her stomach rumbles again.
Inside, a selection of mouth-watering treats. Sandwiches cut into triangles, with the crusts cut off – laid out like a pyramid, and with various fillings. A cheese and ham quiche with cherry tomatoes pressed into the top. Slices of smoked salmon arranged like flowers and entwined with dill. She picks up a sandwich and takes a small bite. Cream cheese and cucumber. Her favourite. She finishes the sandwich, then picks up a piece of quiche and pops it into her mouth.
Now this is the life, she thinks, eyeing the ice bucket filled with drinks and trying to decide what to have. Elderflower pressé? Champagne? She leans down to pick up a small plate from a pocket on the inside lid of the hamper and notices a container of strawberries in the corner. She takes one out and is about to place it on her plate – then realises it’s chocolate-dipped and shoves it into her mouth instead. It’s plump and juicy, and a dribble of liquid seeps out of her mouth and down her chin. She grabs another one, then a sandwich, and plops them on her plate while also grabbing a napkin – red-and-white, to match the tablecloth. Then she looks down at her chest to where she is sure she’s dribbled strawberry juice.
And that’s when she sees it.
For a split second, she thinks she’s mistaken. It’s just a broken branch. It has been there all the time, but she hasn’t noticed it. She blinks. It’s still there, and it has moved. It is dark brown with barely visible markings. She wants to believe that it’s merely an adder, and that there are probably thousands of them on this island, slinking around in the undergrowth. She’s frozen to the spot. Plate in one hand, napkin in the other. The snake slithers closer, too close now to her foot, her bare ankle. Too close for her to step away. Her hands start to shake, and the strawberry rolls off the plate and hits the ground, causing a small cloud of dust to puff into the air. The snake flinches, pulls away from her and raises its head. It begins to coil itself upward. Its mouth opens wide – a strangely white mouth contrasting against the dark of its body.