Double Booked Ch 01

~Author's Note~

Hi! We are amateur writers trying to improve our prose so please feel free to critique in the comments. This will be a two-parter and a slow burn, so be patient. It WILL get there.

That said, we hope you enjoy,

Venus_and_Cupid

~Matt~

Wales. Not the mammal - that's whales. Drop the 'h'. Wales. A pint-sized nation full of mountains, picturesque countryside and excessive quantities of sheep. It's that one nuzzled by England, two hours from Oxford, and forgotten by everyone except those cursed to live there. Sanity may then be asking why Matt was cruising a responsible 75mph directly towards.

Sure, he had the same faint memories of childhood camping in Wales that everyone else had. He'd locked them away upon a dusty shelf with his other perfect family holidays. Best left untouched, he thought, you never knew what else lurked in there with the rest of the 90s.

A disturbingly deep sense of familiarity stirred as he drove down the M4. Something about the bleak-but-beautiful fields that stretched for miles. It seemed almost...homely. Of course, the tarmac road of the M4, which had been lovingly shat across this beautiful vista with all the elegance of a bankrupt, 1950s British government, had been excluded from his memory. He chalked that down to childhood artistic licence.

There's always a strange feeling when you re-encounter places unvisited since childhood. The fine details have long since faded but the coarser brushstrokes remain. They're just enough to rekindle the emotional imprint you once felt. Awe. Majesty. Adventure. Delusions of a young mind that still believes there's magic in the world. It had once been so exciting. Now he saw those times for what they really were: budget holidays to hide the monotony of his parents' broken marriage. Thank god they finally divorced last year. Moral of the story: thinking the waitress is hot and following your cock does not constitute sufficient grounds for marriage or child-raising.

Perhaps Matt was cynical, but he didn't buy 'romance'. Sex was a trap that made men forget what was important in life. Matt couldn't afford that. He swore he wouldn't touch another woman until he was on 100k a year... minimum.

He turned onto the A477. You wouldn't find any M-roads this far west. This was forgotten country, underinvested and barely changed since the 60s. Strange, given how much Matt had changed. Twenty years on he was no longer the scrawny dork picked on at school. He'd set goals for himself and succeeded. COO at a flourishing start-up, new Oxford office, Forbes listed - and he wasn't even thirty until next month. All very impressive for a working-class boy from Stratford.

Matt passed through Manorbier, the last town before his destination. From here on out he would be alone, far removed from all human contact. His first 'holiday' in ten years. At least he'd called it a holiday to his mother on the phone. In truth, it was an optimal work retreat with no distractions where incompetent interns couldn't spill coffee on his laptop. He almost felt bad about deceiving his co-workers. They had all been so excited for him. Zara had feigned shock that he was finally leaving the office. Jason had arranged to cover his meetings and Logan had asked in his thick American accent whether there were any 'fit birds' in Wales. No, Logan. Not unless you're into sheep... In any case, Matt couldn't ruin their fun by mentioning he'd secretly organised back-to-back conference calls with the Germans. All from the comfort of his luxury Airbnb.

His phone lock screen lit up with a text from the Airbnb owner. Here we go, he thought, it was probably going to be a last-minute cancellation or other issue. Holidays were never without complications:

Hi Matt, we hope you're ready for your cottage getaway! We have just a few information points to ease your stay. 1) The key for your cottage can be found in the letterbox. There is only one key - so look after it! Please return it to the letterbox at the end of your stay. 2) If at any point the power cuts off, please use the generator in the outhouse around the back of the cottage. 3) At the bottom of the garden you'll find a footpath down the cliffside to a lovely cove. Please be extremely cautious using this path after dark or in bad weather and avoid the caves. 4) What happens in the cottage stays in the cottage! Enjoy yourself and have fun!

M.M.

He sighed in relief. Mentioning a generator sounded troublesome but at least it secured the internet if the power lines failed. The sky had been getting progressively darker as he had driven and a storm this near the coast would be certain to bring down branches. Luckily he wasn't here for the weather - as long as he had wifi he would be fine. As to the other points, he likely wouldn't have time to visit the cove and being a lone male he doubted there would be much going on in the cottage at all.

It was curious that the owner still went by the enigmatic 'M.M.'. The Airbnb listing lacked any contact details and or even a profile picture. Matt wasn't sure if M.M. was a man, woman or some sort of company. That, coupled with the listing only accepting applicants between 18 and 40, was enough to generate a mild sense of unease. If it wasn't for the outstanding reviews such as '10/10. Quite literally CHANGED my life! Defo recommend!!' by Mia from Kent and 'After this weekend I'm going to have to move to Whales' by Jeremy from California, then Matt probably would have skipped past it entirely. Any cottage that can convince a Californian to move to Wales is worth at least seeing once. As for Mia, she should probably just calm the fuck down.

Matt arrived at the cottage at noon. The final leg of the drive had been a winding narrow lane that screamed proper country - just in case you'd forgotten the hours of driving to get there. There had been several hairy moments when he'd misjudged blind corners and his heart had momentarily stopped beating due to a near collision with a blue minivan. Yet he had made it.

The cottage was situated on a flat acre of land with the rear of the property dropping down to the sea. It was single-story, built from rough stone plastered white and topped with neat black shingling. 'Quaint' as Matt's mother might say. The lawn was trimmed short, except for underneath a cluster of apple trees that shielded the front window. Matt made sure to park far from the trees. Falling apples and new Volvos did not mix.

The key had indeed been left in the letterbox. Who knew, this could become a regular routine if it boosted his productivity. This was the perfect getaway Matt needed to work. No one was going to disturb him here.

He strode towards the front door, key in hand before stopping dead in his tracks. He gulped. This couldn't be, it was so remote, so utterly untouched. He had chosen it for that specific reason.

So why the hell was there a woman climbing through the window of his cottage?

~ Grace ~

Grace looked anxiously at the clock on the wall. She was running late, as usual, and was still yet to locate the matches. Cursing in frustration, she decided to stop the search and head on out, any later and she would miss the second, later train. Pulling on her brown suede boots she glanced out the window to check the weather outside. It was a beautiful, bluebird sky. A smile pulled at her lips as she decided to leave her raincoat in the cupboard. I hope I don't regret that later, she thought, before stepping out of her front door into the busy Bristol street. Temple Meads Station was a short, 10 minute walk from her studio in Redcliffe, close enough for her to feel the gentle thrumming of the train as it purred through the city when she lay in bed at night. At least she hoped it was the train because the other option was Catherine, her fifty year old neighbour, having a ride on her vibrator...Grace grimaced and shaking her head she dislodged the unpleasant image from her mind, before crossing the footbridge into the station.

The platform was buzzing with bodies weaving in and out of one another as passengers dashed to catch their train. Grace was unfazed by the chaos, having grown up in Whitechapel she was used to the unyielding hum of city life. One might go as far to call it a 'home comfort', which made her evening ahead all the more daunting...

Boarding the train Grace settled in the nearest free seat, hastily throwing her olive duffle bag down in the chair next to her, blocking it from other passengers. Finally sat, she turned her mind to the oncoming trip. A Friday night getaway to a reclusive cottage on the rural Pembroke coast. Grace had never set foot in the wilderness before, well, unless you counted a camping trip on her ex-boyfriends' twenty-five acre estate, but that was hardly 'wild'... familiar sinking feeling she experienced whenever her thoughts wandered to Charlie washed over her. Their love affair began a little over four years ago, when Grace had entered her third year at university. She had opted for a history unit, to flesh out her 'History of Arts' degree, and met Charlie during her first lecture. She had loved him from the moment she saw him: warm honey locks, softening his sharp features. She smiled, remembering the way his sage eyes widened when she walked in. How his gaze had lingered over the angles of her shoulders, the curves of her breasts, before coming to rest on her face. Drawn to his objective beauty, she had sat herself down next to him. A bold move, but Grace was feeling brave that day and besides, he was clearly interested.

I haven't seen you before.

His voice had been that of warm velvet, matching his appearance perfectly. Grace shook her head, remembering the way her cheeks had flushed and her heart had skipped. He had her on the first day and he knew it.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Grace fought back the wave of tears that threatened to overflow. He isn't worth it, she thought bitterly, and looking up she turned her thoughts to the outside world. After spending years in a world of grey, she was left breathless by the view before her. Rolling hills of green and fawn, interwoven like patchwork, stretched as far as the eye could see. A cobalt river snaked through the centre, holding the quilt together like thread, and the once balmy sky, now dappled with silver puffs, could be seen reflected in the water below. The stark beauty of the landscape reminded Grace of why she was there, her retreat from the city, from the life she once shared with Charlie.

She hadn't intended to spend the night away, just that morning she was certain the evening would be another unremarkable, lonely Friday night with a bottle of wine and a warm bath for company. But on her bus ride up to the centre she had come across an ad on instagram whilst absently scrolling: '**REDUCED TONIGHT ONLY** Escape the city and rediscover yourself at our Pembroke cottage, situated on the slate cliffs of Manorbier with views over the cove'.

Grace couldn't remember the last time she had seen the sea or felt sand beneath her feet. Swiping through the images she had come across the secluded cove, sheltered by the ashen cliffs behind, it was sort of place one might light a bbq, or bonfire. At that moment, a possibility had struck her. A chance for closure, a great send off. A few days after the breakup, Grace had collected all of her physical reminders of Charlie into a cardboard box and it had sat by her settee like a dark hole ever since, triggering dread whenever she happened upon it. She knew she had to get rid of it, it wasn't healthy, but the thought of throwing it out with her food waste and recycling on a Wednesday night didn't quite feel right. However burning it on a beach on the west coast, letting the wind carry away the ashes of their memories, seemed far more fitting. So she had selected the 'book now' option, and hence, three hours later, here she was, drawing into Manorbier station.

Manobier could not be any more different from Temple Meads, completely bare of human life and silent, aside from the humm of the tracks. Pulling a denim jacket from her bag, Grace noted the crisp edge in the air, and jogged over to the taxi bay. There was just one taxi waiting, a battered blue minivan with 'Jones Cabs' plastered on the side. She knocked delicately on the driver's window. An older man of perhaps fifty-five startled, awoken by her tapping, and rolled down his widow.

'Su'mae!' he smiled. Grace stared back blakely and the driver chuckled, 'Hello dear, not from round 'ere are ya.'

Grace laughed nervously.

'No, I'm on a little break, headed for Manorbier Cliff Cottage'

The driver nodded.

'Sure thing, it's a twenty minute drive so tha's bout twenty pound on the ol' meter'.

After what felt like an eternity of tall hedges and narrow country roads, Grace finally arrived at her destination. Stepping out the taxi she paid the driver, and turned to see her home for the night. A sweet little cottage stood before her, looking as though it had been pasted straight out of a fairy tail, even down to the row of apple trees concealing the windows from the road. Inhaling the cool, salty sea air she walked upto the front door and gave it a little nudge. It didn't budge, of course, but she had rather hoped it would because she was not sure how she would get in otherwise. There had been no mention of a key in the advert, she had assumed the elusive host would meet her there, but there was no sign of life at the little cottage. She knocked, hopelessly, at the door. Gradually the realisation began to dawn on her that she would not make it inside and the familiar anxiety she was running from, started to build as she noted the darkening sky above, threatening rain. It was time to drop conventionality and get creative. Scouting the exterior of the house, she happened upon a window, on the far right hand side, left slightly ajar. Perfect. Reaching inside she lifted the latch and hoisted herself up onto the ledge, but her excitement was cut short when she heard the crunch of gravel behind her.

~ Matt ~

The woman's head turned and her eyes widened like a spooked deer. She was in her early twenties and was blessed with that effortlessly slender figure that woman Matt's age dreamt of. Deep auburn locks hung against her heart-shaped face, framing prominent cheekbones and an youthful innocence. She was objectively attractive.

Her waist rested upon the lower-window pane's oak frame. The upper pane had been pried open and she had wormed her torso through the narrow gap. Her legs remained outside, balancing on the stone ledge whilst her rear thrust upwards, stretching dark skinny-jeans around her form.

She swore softly through the glass.

"Can I help you?" Matt asked.

The woman arched her stomach and slid from the window, perching like a cat upon the high ledge. She appeared both daunting and daunted, able to look down upon Matt yet regretting her ambitious climb. "Um. Shit. Hi." she said. Her cheeks flushed as she brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and tucked it sheepishly behind her ear.

He should have been angry. He should have been contacting the police. Yet all his brain offered was excuses. She must have been a previous guest, returning for forgotten luggage. Or the owner's daughter, checking in on an elderly parent unable to answer the door. In spite of her youth, could she have been the owner? The enigmatic M.M.?

"Why are you climbing through my window?" he asked. His heart recoiled at the accusation almost as much as the woman recoiled at being accused. Matt's inner-child hated the slightest flicker of conflict. In his corporate life, he had adopted a mask of detachment, but it drained him. It felt wrong to use it here, so far from the city. He had hoped to escape these interactions.

"I'm so sorry. I was... the thing is..." she said. The woman cut herself off. She drew in a breath, straightened her back and picked her eyes from off the gravel. A fiery gaze pierced him. How dare you. It screamed. How dare you accuse me. The whimper of the girl changed to the roar of the woman. "Well to be honest Mr M, I arrived and found no sign of a key and you didn't provide any contact information so I had very little choice."

She glared triumphantly, ignoring that she had raced her final words. He buried a smile. She had a deep flame inside that matched her hair and gave her confidence beyond her years. He knew that spark, having been surrounded by entrepreneurs drunk on Dale Carnegie. Ironic that he'd driven four hours to escape those exact people, only to find a young woman filled with that same seductive addictive fire. Zara would howl with laughter if she had been here. So be it, if this woman was going to give him fire, he would give her the storm.

"No. I think you may have made a mistake." he said, "This cottage has been booked out for the entire weekend. To me - and no one else. You must have the wrong address. This is Manobier Cliff Cottage."

The woman bit her lip, gnawing upon his words. Then with a misplaced shift of weight, a brown suede boot slipped from the ledge. She should have fallen, saved only by a last minute grasp of the frame. The girl flickered through. That was still her truest self. She should cherish that - before it faded.

"Look." She said, "I don't know what the hell's going on here. But I'm stuck up here and unless you help me down it's going to take us all evening to sort this out."

Matt hesitated, then felt shame. Most would accept her innocent request without much thought. Yet Matt feared where it would lead. He didn't want to feed the animal he'd caged inside for so long. He had starved it for years and would starve it for years more. That meant keeping distance from women like her, where their fire couldn't touch him.

Despite his better instinct, he strode over. His arms slipped around her waist and pulled her tight towards him. She propped herself up upon his shoulders, clasping her legs tightly together. Whilst no bodybuilder, Matt took good care of himself and lifted her as if she weighed nothing. Her stomach came inches from his face, separated only by the thin, white t-shirt underneath her denim jacket. As he hastily set her down, her body dragged against his and the subtle smell of her rose perfume hit him. Up close, all her posturing melted away. Timid, hazel eyes searched him. She was just a girl. A girl in the middle of nowhere with a strange man. He stepped back. He wished she knew there was nothing to fear. He wasn't that type of man.

"Thank you." she murmured, pinching a phone out her rear pocket.

The tip of her tongue poked out as her brow furrowed. It was cute in that girl-next-door kind of way.

"Ah-ha!" she suddenly declared, holding up a booking reference. "Grace Clover. Manobier Cliff Cottage. Friday the fourteenth for one night! See for yourself."

She thrust the phone into his hand. Matt stared. It couldn't be...and yet it was. She was booked here for tonight. Matt double-checked his own booking. He hadn't made a mistake either. His stomach churned. He had driven four hours for solitude, only to have it double-booked by an incompetent half-wit. Matt grimaced at his plan being shattered in a thousand pieces.

Plans were good. When Matt woke in the morning he would always know where the day would lead. He would always know who he would talk to and what he would achieve. This rigid planning kept the chaos of the world from crashing in. Take today for example: Matt had awoken at 6 a.m. sharp and packed a light suitcase. He'd swiftly exercised, showered and eaten, giving him plenty of time to set off before rush hour. Having fixed the plan for days he'd been prepared. He had ensured there would be no meetings while he was travelling. He had filled the car the evening prior. He had neatly arranged a selection of clothing on his dresser top. These small foresights had maintained order. Now, however, the plan was crumbling.