LITMIR.BIZ

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first time, a watercolour of grey pooling around the edges of moss green valleys, ready to plunge down and destroy everything below. Or the sheep that stood nonchalantly on steep verges dipped in purple heather, unaffected by the tightrope they walked between the drop below and passing cars.

      When Claire arrived at the inn, a white three-storey building that seemed more suited to the plains of America than this windy British valley, she too felt as though she might plummet at any minute. She’d been holding it together so long, but the conversation she’d had with her husband the night before had sent her into freefall, the fragile walls she’d built up around herself the past few years starting to crumble.

      She didn’t check in as soon as she got there as she normally did on trips for the magazine. Instead, she’d headed straight for the signposted path leading towards the cliffs, praying the fresh air would bring her some peace as it always seemed to on her travels. As she entered the cocoon of trees behind the inn and followed the rippling river towards the sea with her Jack Russell, Archie, she didn’t think much, brain muted from the drive there and all that had happened the night before. Instead, she watched as the scenery changed from the lush foliage of the surrounding forest into a valley of grey rocks.

      It had rained overnight and now the air was fresh, the sky overhead a light grey mist. Archie clambered over the small rocks, nudging his wet nose under the stones, nibbling at the weeds that lay drying beneath them. She was pleased the inn’s owner Henry Johnson had insisted she bring her dog to try out the pet-friendly rooms. She wasn’t sure how she’d have coped here completely alone. Sure, she was used to travelling solo with her job, but that was before the floor fell out from beneath her marriage.

      Soon the path rose up and away from the river, a steep bank of grey rock either side. In the distance, the river’s mouth opened, bubbling over pebbles and out into a frothing sea. As she drew closer, metal barriers appeared with notices warning of sheer drops. She stopped at one of the barriers, looking out over the cliff, tummy wrinkling as she imagined tumbling into the furious waves below. Her publishing director wouldn’t be too pleased considering press day was just around the corner.

      She allowed herself a small smile before pulling her camera out of her bag and lifting it to her face, taking the usual obligatory photos for the magazine … and some for herself too. She had a scrapbook of photos from trips such as these just for herself. They weren’t amazing photos; the magazine couldn’t afford to send her on a course. But she’d learned on the job how to take a half-decent picture and now she enjoyed it, capturing moments she might have otherwise struggled to remember later as she wrote articles to crazy deadlines.

      When she’d taken enough photos of the roaring sea and craggy cliffs, she led Archie down the slope towards the lime kiln she’d read about, a hut-shaped structure that merged into its surroundings. Its entranceway gaped open and Archie ran towards it but she yanked him back, noticing the sign at the front warning people not to enter for their own safety. When she was a teenager, she would’ve marched right in, regardless of any signs, just like her dad used to. One of her earliest memories was of when she was five and they were visiting the Wailua Falls in Kauai, Hawaii, a stunning double-tiered waterfall that dropped over a hundred feet, surrounded by tropical green flora. Her dad had heard you could get the best photos by scrambling down the steep cliffs towards the base of the waterfall. So, as Claire watched from the safety of the viewing area with her mum and sister, he’d managed to do just that, taking the iconic photo Claire still saw in travel magazines showing two streams of water silver-white as they gushed into the green lagoon below. Looking at that photo, you could almost feel the splash of water on your face, hear the roar of the waterfall.

      Ten years later, Claire had visited the Big Falls waterfall in California with her friend Jodie. Inspired by her dad, she’d crossed the river and scaled the jagged hillsides around it to reach the waterfall’s base, getting an amazing photo looking directly up the waterfall, the blue sky and bright yellow sun reflected in its sheen.

      Put her in the same situation now and she wouldn’t dare do that. Life had taught her taking the risky path simply wasn’t worth it.

      ‘This way, boy,’ Claire said, pulling Archie away from the cliff edge and towards the cluster of boulders leading down to the ocean. They picked their way over the rocks towards the sea, fizz from the waves speckling Claire’s jeans. It was strange how still things felt at that moment, so calm and beautiful, despite the frenzied nature of the waves nearby. She was completely alone here, just Archie, the roar of the sea and the squawk of birds for company. Is this the way it would be from now on, just her and Archie? It was unlikely anyone else would take her barren, broken body, after all. Even at thirty-one, it seemed a daunting prospect. What about in twenty, thirty, forty years? Would she end up like her dad, ill and alone in some grotty flat, despite all she’d done to try to avoid a destiny like his? At least she’d been with him at the end. There would be no child holding her hand and mopping her brow now.

      She sank down onto a large rock, putting her head on her hands. This was really happening, wasn’t it? Ben was leaving her, taking all the dreams they’d shared with him too. What was she going to do now? She felt a scrabbling at her feet and looked down to see Archie peering up at her with his one good brown eye – the other had been removed after a bout of glaucoma. He put his front paws on her knees and nuzzled his wet snout into her jeans. She leaned down, pressing her cheek against the warm fur of his neck.

      ‘At least I’ve got you, haven’t I, boy?’

      He wagged his tail in response and she sighed, reaching into her bag and pulling out the book her friend Jodie had managed to get an advance copy of – Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden. That was the advantage of having a friend who was an arts and culture events organiser; she could sate her craving for good books before other people got their hands on them. Claire had met Jodie during her travels with her family when they were both thirteen – Jodie with her bohemian mum and crazy sisters, Claire with her ramshackle family. Jodie had been her one true friend, still was in a way, other friends just ships in the night due to the intense hours Claire worked. Both of them still somehow managed to meet whenever they could, despite their hectic schedules. She wondered what Jodie would say about her and Ben splitting up. Maybe she’d be secretly happy. Jodie had never really warmed to him.

      She looked down at the book and let herself get lost in the words. That was all it took sometimes, the feel of flimsy paper between her fingers, the sight of black ink dancing before her eyes and delivering her into another world. Books were often her only companions on lonely nights during press trips. They’d been there for her when she was a kid craving consistency too, curling up in a little nook somewhere, the characters she’d read about becoming her friends when she only had her family for company as they travelled from one place to the next.

      She reached into her pocket for her other companion – chocolate – and luxuriated in this chance to leave all her troubles behind, occasionally stopping to marvel at the scenery around her, her new fortress of solitude.

      But it wasn’t long before her fortress of Solitude became a fortress of German tourists as a whole centipede of people appeared on the horizon, trailing one after another on the path above. Among them was a family, a little boy strapped to the mother’s chest in a baby holdall. She’d once dreamed of holidays like that with Ben.

      She put her book away, reluctantly acknowledging it was time to head back and get on with the job. Her favourite kind of press trip were the ones organised by the tourist offices where she was met at the airport by a media rep then left to get on with it for the rest of the time, with the odd attraction visit and hotel inspection. But on the majority of her trips, most of her time was taken up by her host – usually someone who paid big bucks to advertise in the magazine – escorting Claire here, there and everywhere on a tight schedule, even just a one-nighter turning into a small kind of torture. She had a feeling this might be one of those trips; she’d met the inn’s owner before and he was a handful.

      ‘Ready to head back?’ she asked Archie.

      He wagged his tail as she jumped up. A few minutes later, she was squeezing past the queue of Germans, apologising to them as Archie jumped up at their legs. Once they were behind her, she paused a moment to watch

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