by Alam, Donna
‘Or your friend’s only brother.’
‘Aye. Ho’s before bro’s. Did I say that right?’
Nineteen
Fin
I’d started work the following Monday, peddling Nat’s old pushbike over the causeway after collecting the keys to Tremaine House from the local real estate agent. I’d received an email package of my duties and responsibilities the week before, the codes to the alarm system, along with the cell number of someone called Anna. She’s my one contact with my employer in a job that’s a very solitary one. Not that I’m complaining. Not at all. In fact, over the last few weeks I’ve come to relish the peace, spending less and less time at the salon, though I still manage to man the reception desk on Saturdays. It’s the least I can do, even if it feels like some sort of penance having to face everyone.
But I’ve enjoyed my solitude, even going as far as to move into one of the little cottages, sort of. It’s an unofficial move, though I had mentioned in an email to Anna that it may be prudent for me to stay on the property from time to time. As it happened, one Friday afternoon three weeks ago I’d become engrossed in inventorying a delivery of glassware when I’d missed a brewing storm. Faced with the prospect of crossing the causeway in high waves and torrential rain, I’d decided to hole up in one of the cottages. It wasn’t so bad, especially as it seems someone had the idea to convert the old stable block into holiday cottages at one time. I’d found linen in a cupboard to make up a surprisingly new bed. The small kitchen housed a tiny fridge and a hotplate, though I’d brought nothing to eat beyond my small packed lunch. More useful still, I’d found an electric heater to plug in. As the wind howled and the rain pounded, I’d eaten what I had left of my lunch and slept as soundly as I ever do these days. The following week, after telling Ivy that I was needed longer hours on the property, I sort of moved in.
The main house looked as though the builders had left in a hurry, and I’d spent some time trying to make sense of what jobs were complete and prioritizing those next in line. As I understand it, the builders have pulled out due to some kind of legal dispute. I have no idea when work will begin again, but after speaking to Mac, he’d recommended some local construction companies and I’ve begun contacting them for quotes as a sort of Plan B. While I’ve previously experienced the management of large projects, construction isn’t where my experience lies, though I suppose one project is as much as another, at the end of the day.
Peace. Solitude. Productivity.
These are my healing words right now. That, and sort of furious bout of masturbation, which is what, apparently, occurs after your sexuality is switched back on.
Honestly, that shit’s like a fused faucet, fixed by the Rory experience.
They say you never forget your first, though Lord knows I’d tried hard to over the intervening years, succeeding mostly. And I could stick with that line—say I don’t think of him often these days, but it seems a little pointless lying to myself. Especially as I think of him regularly. And mostly when I crawl into bed at night.
But there’s no harm in imagining.
Except in the occurrence of a repetitive strain injury, I suppose.
Twenty
Rory
‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
My head says, Christ, not her again, even as my heart drops into the pit of my gut. Dissolving in my stomach acid, if the resulting sensation is anything to judge. It’s a reflex reaction caused by the mere sound of her voice; the teasing inflection that immediately has me on the back foot.
Get a grip, man. This is only step forty-seven in her master plan to screw Rory to her hip.
‘Whose phone are you on, Beth?’ I keep my tone neutral without mentioning I’d blocked her number well before the construction problems began, bone tired of her brand of crazy-fucked-up. The late night phone calls, the begging and crying. The promises of we-could-be-so-good. The showing up at places I happened to be. I even tired of the naked selfies, eventually.
‘That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?’ Her tone is flat; she sounds slightly confused, before her childish simper returns. ‘You play hard to get so well, wo-wee, but I think you’re just dying to hear what I have to say.’
‘Nope. I’m not.’ I keep my answer short and disinterested, letting it sink in for beat. ‘I’m unlikely to be interested in anything you have to say, hen.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ she spits suddenly, her mask slipping, and I’m doubly pleased this is a conversation we’re not having face to face. Apart from having to peel her fingers from my shirt, I’d probably have copped a face full of saliva along with those words.
‘I always thought hen suited you.’ Up until I found out who she really was—the real Beth. The one rude to wait-staff and mean to the point of miserly. The one who isn’t twenty-nine as she’d originally claimed, but ten years older. If she’d told me the truth I wouldn’t have minded. There’s nothing wrong with being thirty-nine, even less so when you’re as flexible as her.
‘Well, I don’t like it, so just don’t call me that, okay?’
‘Got it. No hen,’ I say, not bothering to suppress the burgeoning chuckle. If only she knew. Originally, she was hen because she’s small and dark and the kind of girl who looked good with a few ruffled feathers. Now, she’s more the kind of hen whose talons dig in to my chest—the kind that pecks my fucking head. ‘Not that you complained before.’ Sliding my feet from the hotel desk, I lean forward and grab my beer bottle.
‘Well, that was before, Rory. BR: Before Rory,’ she adds, in a childish tone. It’s not cute. It never was. ‘And things will never be the same, especially now that—’
‘Look, Beth. Let’s not rehash this. I can’t give you what you want and you knew that from the start. It’s been four weeks. We agreed.’
‘Yes,’ she answers quietly. ‘We did, but the heart wants what the heart wants.’ More like the spoilt bitch wants what she can’t have. Must be a new experience for her. ‘Besides,’ she says, her tone hardening. ‘I have something to say and you’re going to listen—’
‘Okay.’ I capitulate with a sigh.
‘You’re going to listen to—what?’
‘I said okay. Fine. But not over the phone.’ I tilt the bottle, peering at the production date. I feel sort of sick, but I don’t think it’s the beer. As I put the bottle down, I think it might be instinct, and I don’t mean the name of the brew, but this sick feeling I have.
Step forty-seven, whatever it is, I know intuitively I need not to learn of it over the phone. I’m gonna have to see her again. Put an end to her delusions, once and for all.
‘So you’ll come see me?’ Like the flip of a switch, she’s back to simpering. The woman needs fucking therapy. ‘How wonderful! We’ll have dinner at that place—you know the one. We went on your birthday and you followed me to and fucked me in the—’
‘Arse?’ I finish for her.
‘Rory, you are bad. I was going to say powder room.’ And I dunno about bad, but maybe mental is catching. ‘Let’s do it again,’ she purrs. ‘All of it. Every dirty little thing. I want you to break me, baby. I want your big cock in my—’ I look down at my crotch and shake my head. Not a thing; in fact, he seems to be retreating inwards. ‘I want you to rub your cum all over—’ Dirty talk? More like the musings of a lunatic.
‘A trip down memory lane?’ I ask, cutting her off. A lane full of Rory road kill. My words are light, amused almost. But I’m not amused. Not anymore. What I am is sick and tired of this bullshit, but I know losing my temper will get me nowhere fast. And playing her games? That’ll just get me screwed, and not in a fun way. Looks like my dirty laundry’s about to get aired within the company, because fuck hanging on and hoping Kit can smooth things over. It looks like we’ll be going down the legal route.
‘I’ll be back in town in a day or two.’
‘Baby, that’s all I want. To see you again. And trust me, you’ll be so happy to hear my news.’
�
��You think?’
‘I know, wo-wee. You just leave the thinking to me. Analysis isn’t your strong suit.’
Just fucking charming.
Jesus wept. Grabbing my phone from the desk, I take another swig from my beer, grimacing at the sour taste.
I’m coming home, I type out. As soon as I’ve seen this last property. I’m done. Get Anna to book me a flight from Aberdeen.
What’s up, comes Kit’s immediate reply. He’s probably still in the office, the workaholic bastard. What’s the rush? Scotland had a sizable female population last time I was there.
I’m done with women.
Leave the poor sheep alone. It’s against the laws of nature and land.
Ha. Looks like I caught Kit on a good day. I thought his sense of humour had gone on holiday. Got any pointers for becoming gay?
Desire the same sex? He replies, but I’m not feeling that. Stop calling your favourite brother an arse bandit?
I burst into a guffaw. Favourite and only. Nearly swallowed my beer bottle, fuckwit.
Deep throating beer bottles? It’s a little desperate.
Funny. And too much, comedian. Am coming home because it’s too hard to hire a hitman from the Outer Hebrides.
Beth, I take it?
Bastarding Beth, I answer, though I won’t tell him about plan forty-seven, whatever it might entail. Not, at least, until I find out myself.
I thought you were going to leave her to me.
Not gonna work. I need to sort this one myself.
If you’re sure, but the flight will be from Edinburgh. I need you to check the house out. Check on the new hire. Maybe look at the gardens?
He’s taking the piss. I close my eyes, leaning my phone against the bridge of my nose. Being in the house stirs up bad memories. Sure, I’m currently wiping them away with this reconstruction. Room by room, no thanks to Beth. But by the time I’m through, that place will bear no resemblance to our father’s ancestral home. I’ll have wiped every trace of him and his family away.
But the gardens? I can’t bear to look. I can see my mother in every frozen rose.
Please, he asks. Just look. She’d be so happy.
I’ll look, but no plans. It stays as is. I couldn’t bear to change it; our mother loved that garden, though it was never really hers. She delighted in it during our holidays and would be saddened to know he never intended it to be ours, either. We’ll get a landscape company in.
I know a man, he replies.
I’ve heard that about you.
Funny. But thank you. For looking. Fuck me. He must be on his period. I’ll get Anna to book a flight. We’ll talk about Beth when you get back.
There’s nothing to say. See you Monday.
Twenty-One
Rory
‘Which part of this don’t you understand, Rory? There’s no room at the inn—no vacancies at any of the local bed and breakfast establishments and no space at the village’s sole hotel.’
Friday afternoon and having failed to book ahead, it seems I’m now just plain fucked. In ordinary circumstances I’d be relieved there are no rooms at the non-existent choices Anna’s just reeled off, but right now I’m bone tired; I just need to find somewhere to bed down for the night and I’d even consider a B&B. The nearest decent hotel is miles away and I really can’t be arsed with the trek. All I’ve done this week is drive. I feel like my arse has been glued to the seat of Kit’s monster pick-up truck for bloody months. I can’t wait to get back to my Vanquish.
‘Is there nothing else?’ Why the hell did I let Kit talk me into this?
The line crackles before she says, ‘I can suggest a camping shop.’
‘Come on, Annie, help me out.’ I pull the phone away from my ear, checking the barely-there signal but don’t miss her theatrical sigh. She was once such an obliging girl. Once upon a time, before either of us knew she was to become a permanent hire. ‘You’re the one responsible for booking travel arrangements,’ I remind her. It’s part of her job, for crying out loud.
‘I’m Kit’s executive assistant, not yours. Mostly, I don’t know where you are and nor do I care. Not these days.’
Her last few words are barely muttered and I’m pleased she can’t see my unhappy grimace. Yeah, so I might’ve gone there. And in the literal sense. But she wasn’t so prickly at the time, at least, not in the flesh. No, she was more than warm. And definitely inviting; dark come to bed eyes that had been tempting me for weeks, and a rack that a man could suffocate in without one complaint.
It had begun in the office on her last Friday with the company, and ended on Sunday after a stellar weekend of hotel fucking . . . and a call from Kit to offer her a permanent gig. That Friday, as brazen as anything, she’d told me Kit had slipped her two hundred quid as a severance bonus before asking me if I’d like to slip her something else instead. We weren’t supposed to see each other again, never mind be based out of the same building. But guess who she blames?
‘Then you’ll have to travel further out.’ Anna’s voice breaks through the miasma of memories and, yes, regret. ‘Into one of the larger towns. There’s bound to be a motel or travel lodge somewhere. Perhaps a hostel?’ A whole twelve months now with the company and she still fails to hide the undertone of malicious delight.
‘Ah, Annie, you know how I like it when you use dirty words.’ She begins to splutter as I chuckle, striking while the iron’s hot. ‘Ring the agent from the cottage, would you, hen? Tell them I’ll double their fee.’
‘My name is Anna, Rory. I’d like you to remember that.’
‘Annie,’ I practically purr down the line. ‘So many great memories.’ I might be stretching it a bit, but she makes it pretty easy for me. ‘I’m not likely to forget anything about you, am I?’ Also not strictly true, because I rarely dwell; I’m a more in the moment guy. Fuck and fuck off is more my style. And I’ll not be going in for a repeat—I wouldn’t have gone there in the first place if I’d known I’d be seeing her face regularly. And when Kit found out—well, let’s just say he nags like an auld woman.
He didn’t care that it was her idea; that she came on to me. He wasn’t even impressed at how I’d covered off any potential sexual harassment case.
I hereby solemnly declare that, of my own volition, I am about to bend myself over Rory Tremaine’s desk, the note in Anna’s handwriting read. I am currently of sane mind but duly note that if he doesn’t fuck me soon I may not remain so. In short, he has my permission to roger me soundly. I write this un-coerced, semi-nude and as randy as all hell.
Post Scriptum, Rory has the most amazing bellend. It’s bloody huge!
He didn’t speak to me for three days after reading it, almost as though I’d dictated the thing.
I realise the line is quiet, so pull the phone away from my ear to check the signal again. Bloody countryside.
‘Y—your sweet-talking isn’t going to work,’ she splutters, her words rising in tone and volume with each word. ‘You see some people are loyal, though I’m sure it’s a strange and unusual concept to you, but some people can’t be bought off with a few vague promises—’ Her tirade halts abruptly. ‘Yes, well,’ she adds, her delivery turning brusque, her professional façade slipping back into place.
I can almost imagine her standing there in the office, straightening her blouse as she makes her point. Not a difficult thing to do given I’d seen her do that exact thing not so very long ago. My mind slips to the image of her palms smoothing the pale sheerness against her skin. Of how she’d tucked that blouse into her waistband before shimmying the dark material of her skirt downwards, stealing the sight of her bare pussy, then her toned and tanned thighs.
I shake my head to dislodge the memory. Office sex is great, but sex in your own office is not without its disadvantages.
‘Besides, I tried the agent earlier this afternoon but they’re not inclined to kick out the family who’ve rented the place two days into their stay—strange that.’
‘But it’s my
house.’ Okay, it belongs to the company now. ‘How is it possible that I can’t stay in my own property for the night?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something to do with contracts and legalities. Maybe you should have made the call to the agent yourself. You seem to think you can talk a girl into anything.’
‘As I recall, it was entirely the other way around.’
As usual, she refuses to acknowledge her part. ‘And now it’s late. I’m not even supposed to be here in the office and . . . and I have a date, so go f—find someone else to sleep with.’ And with that, the line goes definitively dead.
‘Bastarding arsehole fuck!’
I bring my fist down on the steering wheel with a thump, chucking the offending phone into the passenger seat. At least I’d managed to take a screenshot of the causeway crossing times earlier before the signal went to hell, especially as I’m supposed to be seeing the site manager today. And the gardens, maybe. Frustrated, I run both hands through my hair at the same moment my phone chimes with a text from Anna.
I’m told the cottages adjoining the main house are habitable, former servant quarters, I believe.
I’d forgotten about those. God knows what state they’re in, but it looks like that’s where I’ll be bedding down for the night. Better than some crummy motel or travel lodge, and better than driving the length of the country overnight.
That there is a lack of local accommodation has to be good for business, I suppose. Not that Tremaine House will be offering stays for anything other than an elite clientele. One thing’s for sure, the sooner the helipad is installed the better it’ll be for everyone concerned.
The tide looks fairly low as I pull the truck onto the greying road, and my phone is still in hand as it chimes with another text from the same comedienne.
Enjoy slumming it.
I consider texting back, offering to send her a picture of me slumming it while stroking it, just to piss her off, but accelerate instead.
