by Donna Alam
‘Now, Ted,’ says June. ‘Your eleven o’clock will be in any time soon. But can I ask you to try not to cover the place in hair. I know we’re a salon, but it takes naught but a couple o’ seconds to clean up with the broom.’ She shoots him a tight smile before grabbing my arm. ‘Give them an inch,’ she whispers delightedly. ‘Now he’s a braw looking one.’ She squeezes, her papery hands deceptively strong.
‘Everything’s good?’ My question’s a formality; I know with June at the helm everything will run ship shape. Or else.
‘Oh, yes, dear. Busy as ever and so pleased to hear herself will be back for the weekend.’
‘She’s really coming back? Ivy’s coming home?’
‘Contract’s all sorted, so she said.’
‘Horseshit,’ I whisper. ‘I want to know what’s going on.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ June replies. ‘But there’ll be time enough to press her when she gets here. Why don’t you go put the kettle on? I’ve brought scones.’
I don’t even have the time to come up with a polite excuse before Rory’s voice carries from the waiting area, where I notice he’s made himself fully at home.
‘Homemade ones, I hope.’
‘Cheeky monkey!’ June exclaims. ‘Do I look the type to settle for shop bought?’
As I enter the kitchen, a slight thrill runs down my spine at the sound of Rory’s footsteps. I might’ve guessed he wouldn’t be content to wait.
‘I still think we should hit up the hotel bar before the room. After scones, of course.’
‘Why?’ I ask over my shoulder. ‘So you can get me drunk and wheedle out all my secrets?’
‘I was thinking more along the lines of getting you drunk enough to wheedle you out of your knickers. Drunk enough to take advantage of.’ In the tiny white kitchen, he steps closer, pulling the back of my hips into him. ‘But sober enough to enjoy it.’
‘Or we could just go to work. You know, seeing as it’s a work day and all.’ I scoot a little ways away, the sensation of him pressed up against me scrambling my brain. ‘Besides, I don’t do day drunk well.’
This is a complete lie; I do day drunk like a champ. Who the hell doesn’t?
Rory leans back against the opposite counter top and, as I glance over my shoulder while pulling out cups and tea, something snags my gaze. It’s not so much the motion of him sliding his hands into his pockets that has me clutching a mug to my chest; it’s more what the action highlights. My heart beats loudly, just once—ba-dunk —because I can see the outline of things I shouldn’t and find it hard—very? Semi?—to drag my gaze away.
‘D—do you always wear jeans to work?’ He definitely should; he looks so good in them, but it’s a pathetic excuse of a diversion. ‘Seeing as how you’re really a mogul and all.’ A thoroughly pathetic excuse, exposed by the tone of his response.
‘Titch, you might want to stop looking at me like that.’ Holy rumbling sexy tones.
I reach out, flipping the switch on the kettle before turning and mirroring his stance against the opposite countertop, though I do none of this before schooling my expression.
‘Look at you like what?’
‘Like you’re starving and you’ve just got your eye on a juicy steak.’
‘Snake—st—steak?’ Freudian fucking slip much? ‘I—I didn’t realise I was looking at you like anything. Y—you must be imagining things.’
‘Oh, I am,’ he says, inclining his head, leaving me under no illusion exactly what he’s imagining. ‘And so are you. Do you think I don’t know what you’re thinking when you look at me like that?’
The silence stretches out as my cheeks begin to heat; it’s no fun being called out, and it’s not like I can help my reaction when I look at him—especially catching sight of his trouser snake. Eurgh, did I really just think that? I’m going to need to wear dark glasses indoors at this rate.
‘I don’t see how you could,’ I answer, feeling my gaze slide down his chest. Again.
Rory’s shoulders begin to shake, his eyes drifting closed as he tilts back his head, laughing softly.
‘Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not thinking about you.’ Nope, totally not thinking about what would happen if I reached out. With my tongue. While sliding my hand down . . .
‘So, you’re not looking at my junk right now.’ Not fair, universe. Play nice!
‘Stop!’ The words sound strangled, and I clap my hands over my eyes. I’m not sure if this is for his benefit or mine. My hands are moved suddenly as Rory appears in front of me, lifting them away and placing both palms flat against his pecs. His silver-grey gaze dares me as he slides our hands downwards, skimming his rock hard abs. Skimming further before coming to rest flush with his crotch.
‘Thirty minutes,’ he rasps, flexing into me.
That’s not going to be long enough. ‘What?’ I tilt my head and I swear I’m not doing the fluttery lash thing on purpose.
‘Thirty minutes. A scone. Then we’re finding a bed and I’m fucking you senseless all afternoon.’
I open my mouth to speak—probably to say yes please—when a shrill voice pierces the tiny space.
‘What in the name of all that’s holy is going on in here?’
Shocked, my initial reaction is one of guilt as I try to pull back my hands. Try being the operative word, as they are clamped tight by Rory’s.
‘Can I help you, hen?’ He turns his head, quirking a brow in the direction of Melody, his tone one of casual inconsequence. ‘Only, we’re having a moment.’
‘Having a mo—having a moment! Have you no decency?’
‘Well, I’d say that depends entirely on your definition. See, I’m no’ the one screechin’ like a fish wife.’
‘Finola .’ My name sounds like an admonishment. I feel myself physically cringe, though it’s worth mentioning the sound of my name usually makes me cringe. ‘Finola, love,’ she repeats, this time my name more a plea. ‘You’ll not be wanting people to get the wrong idea. You’re in the wrong emotional space to be ‘hooring yourself to the likes of him.’
‘What?’ My head whips around, because if anyone is in the wrong here, it would be me.
‘I have your card marked,’ she says folding her arms and shooting Rory an icy glare. ‘I recognise you now. Your ma was a homewrecker, tempting that poor man away from his sick wife, but you’ll not be messing with my friend!’
‘Malady, I mean, Melody—’
‘It’s true!’ she yells. ‘My granny said so. She was the poor woman’s nurse ‘till she died!’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Rory replies, lifting our hands to his chest, curling his larger ones around mine. ‘So why don’t you just piss off.’
‘And let you take advantage of a poor, defenceless widow? No chance.’
He stares down at me, his gaze watchful and confused—demanding an explanation. An explanation I can’t offer, because I literally cannot speak; shock, anxiety and fear weighting my tongue.
‘Give it a rest, Mel,’ Natasha says, pushing her way into the room. ‘She might be poor right now, but she’s no’ defenceless.’ She shoots me a supportive smile. ‘The kettle’s boiled, by the way.’
‘No, but she’s grieving!’ Malady screeches.
‘Not divorced?’ I doubt anyone but me hears him ask.
I still can’t reply as Nat interjects in her best Godfather voice, ‘Marcus Pettyfer sleeps with the fishes, capisce ?’
‘Is that you’re married name?’ interjects Malady. ‘Why does it seem familiar?’
‘Put a cork in it,’ scolds Nat as Malady brings a hand to her mouth.
‘Oh my God,’ Malady spits through splayed fingers, and instinctually, I know what she’s about to say next. ‘Pettyfer, the Sheikh’s petty thief! That’s what they called your husband, didn’t they?’ They. She means the press. ‘He stole millions—you had wardrobes full of designer shoes and handbags! And you drove around in a Rolls Royce while your cleaning ladies hadn’t been
paid in six months!’
‘I didn’t know,’ I protest. ‘They didn’t say. Not until afterwards, not until he was dead. I didn’t kill him!’ I actually squeak when I realise what I’ve said, my expression crumpling as Rory’s silver gaze turns to steel. ‘I—I didn’t, despite what the newspapers said. I told you, you wouldn’t want to know,’ I almost wail.
‘Oh, fuck.’ Nat’s whole body seems to sag. ‘You haven’t told him?’
‘Had you any plans to?’ Rory asks quietly, my hands still in his.
‘I didn’t know how. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.’ He looks almost physically hurt and my heart sinks. ‘But it does. Oh, Rory, it really does. Rory, please. You’re hurting my hands.’
His fingers relax. Not so welcome is his action of loosening them. Or of his taking a step back.
‘Now see what you’ve done,’ Nat fumes, turning on Malady. ‘If you’d kept your neb out, this wouldn’t be happening.’
‘Me? She’s the one whose affairs with rich sheikhs caused her husband to top himself.’
‘Where the hell are you spouting this shit from?’
‘It was in the newspaper,’ she replies, affronted.
‘From the reliable source of news whose yesterday front page read An Oompa Loompa Let Me Suck On His Willy Wonka? You know Jack shit, you stupid cow. You’re a joke, and so’s your fucking marriage.’
‘I’ll not let you talk to me like that!’ Malady puffs out her chest like an indignant hen.
‘Why not? Everyone else does. D’you think the whole village doesn’t know my Lloyd only works so many hours because he can’nae stand his wife?’
‘And I’ll thank you to keep my husband out if this.’
‘Sure, why not,’ Nat says, throwing up her hands, her voice becoming louder. ‘And yet, I still wonder if he knows his wife has had more fingers inside her than a ten-year-old bowling ball!’
Apoplexy is a good word. It’s also a perfect description of how Melody looks right now. She looks strangled and yet fit to burst—veins popping out on her head—right before she charges for Nat. Which is a mistake, in my opinion, because Nat has at least eight inches on her.
‘I’ll have ye!’ she yells. Like a berserker. A total berserker.
‘Go for it,’ Nat responds laughing and throwing out her hands. ‘Come on—cut a bitch!’ In the split second it takes her to throw back her head, Malady’s gaze shifts, eyes alighting on the knife next to June’s scones.
‘No!’ I yell, as Malady’s arm stretches out. Suddenly, cups, teabags, bottles of tint and tubes of hair colouring scatter to the floor as Rory reaches for the mad woman, hauling her from her feet.
‘Enough. That’s enough!’ he yells, dangling her a little higher and out of reach of the knife.
‘I’ll have her!’ she yells again, struggling against him. ‘She’ll no’ speak about me like that!’
‘Why not? It’s true,’ Nat taunts.
‘You.’ Rory points a finger at Nat. ‘Not helping. And you,’ he says, his gaze flashing to mine. ‘I can’t do—not here. I’ll sort this,’ he says giving mental Melody a small shake. ‘And you come and find me. You know where. And, Fin? Be prepared to stay a while, because it seems to me you’ve a lot to tell.’
And with that, he manoeuvres his manic cargo through the open door.
‘Hey, Malady. TripAdvisor called!’ yells Nat and her parting shot. ‘They want you to know your vag won first place as the most visited place in Scotland award!’
‘I’ll fuck you up!’ she yells, her voice moving away down the hall.
‘And I’m gonna tell everyone you’ve got ginger pubes!’
‘Not helpful,’ I say, the distant protests of Melody still calling out.
‘It’s making me feel better,’ Nat retorts. ‘She gets on my tits. She’s a real cock pocket—a fucking cunt canoe.’
‘A what?’
‘And what did tall, dark and fuck me mean by find him ?’
‘He’s not dark.’ Not terribly.
‘His fucking mood was,’ she says, carrying on. ‘So does he mean find him now, or when he’s sorted his head out?’
Oh, hell. ‘He means find him—over at the house.’
Thirty-Seven
Fin
‘The world is a-fucking-gainst me.’
‘What? What’s gone on? Who do I need to open a can of I’ll-fuck-you-up on?’
‘No one.’ At least not yet. In Ivy’s tiny Fiat, I sit at the entrance to the rapidly flooding causeway, the rain pounding against the windscreen so hard the wipers can barely cope with the downpour. I’d be risking it crossing in a SUV. In this tiny Italian tin can I’d be afloat in no time.
I’d followed Rory out of the salon; he’d had maybe a half hour head-start at best. I should have followed him straight away but I’d panicked and second guessed. Would he still want me? Was I going to him only to be spurned? But there was only one course of action; I needed to find him. To explain. To tell him how much he means to me.
Time and tide wait for no one? Fuck Nature. The only thing stopping me from bawling my eyes out is Nat on the other end of the line.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yeah. Yes, I am. But I’m not where I want to be, because the fucking tide has fucking well come in.’ I’m not going to cry or sob, but I didn’t say I wasn’t going to wail.
‘Ah, no way. What’s to do?’
‘I’m just going to sit here and stare at the ocean until it goes the other way.’ Sit here and stare over the small stretch while thinking about what a fuck up I am.
‘Don’t be an arse. It’ll be hours before it’s safe to cross. Come back and we’ll make some sort of a plan.’
‘There’s no planning my way out of this one. And what if Malady turns up again?’
‘That’s not likely. She’ll no’ show her face again for a while, not after showing her real one today.’
‘I’m such a dumb—’
‘If you say fuck again June says to tell you she’ll wash out your mouth.’
‘I’m on speaker phone?’ My question is more groan than actual words.
‘That you are, dearie,’ comes June’s cheery tone. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were so keen on the young man?’
‘I don’t think I realised myself until today. I told myself it was just, well, sex.’
‘There’s no such thing, hen.’
‘Unless your name is Natasha,’ the woman herself scoffs.
‘You keep tellin’ yourself that,’ says June dryly. ‘You might not have mentioned him, but I could tell the minute you walked in he meant a lot to you.’
‘I didn’t tell anyone. I guess I just wanted to keep him—it all—to myself.’
‘Apart from that first time.’ Nat chuckles. ‘You know, when Ivy got shit-faced drunk? You shared plenty then.’
‘Oh, did she kiss and tell?’ asks June, a kind of starry-eyed thrilled.
‘There wasnae much talk about kissing, but her skirt was full of tells.’
I brace my free arm on the steering wheel. Then bang my head on it repeatedly.
‘What was that?’ June sounds startled, so I stop.
‘She’s probably head-butting the steering wheel.’
‘Young lady,’ June chastises. ‘You come home.’
So I do.
Crossing, take two, is much later. It’s dark and still wet. Actually, the weather is wet enough to put anyone off travelling over an already ocean swept road. Not that I’m completely alone, it seems, as a silver van follows me. The winding roads aren’t the easiest to navigate in the dry or daytime; wet and at night they’re almost frightening, my hands grasping the wheel so tight that I have to keep flexing my fingers to ease the strain. The trailing van doesn’t help, sitting on my tail, its lights bright enough to make me anxious.
I finally slow as my headlights sweep the weather-worn sandstone lions; the gatekeepers of Tremaine House. Rubbing my temples, I make the tight turn almost one handed, the begi
nnings of a stellar headache kicking in.
‘Asshole,’ I mumble as the van passes the end of driveway slowly. For a moment, I thought it might follow me.
At the back of the house, I park near the stables, right next to Rory’s truck. The cottage is empty, I can tell. It looks kind of abandoned, though that could be my anxieties speaking here. I don’t get out of the car, not right away. The prospect of seeing him, of explaining my idiocy, is all too terrifying. But I’ve come this far, and some might see it as some sort of kismet that we’ve met a second time. Hit it off a second time.
I’ve been broken and damaged, but I feel none of those things when I’m with him.
Get out of the car. You can only try. I don’t bother locking it, wary that I might be making a journey back again.
The scullery door is unlocked, the kitchen door beyond also. As my boots echo on the flagstone floor, I suddenly realise I haven’t changed since this morning; leggings and, what were once, a high shine pair of riding boots. Gucci, of course. A teal fine knit sweater and a parka swiped from Ivy. I run my hand through my hair in an attempt to tidy it and realise I don’t have any makeup on, and haven’t all day.
I’m not going to win any award for most pulled together today.
The winding narrow service hallways feel excruciatingly long. It’s almost like they’ve grown and lengthened since yesterday, but as I begin to climb the stairs to the first floor, I hear his voice and think he must be on the phone . . . until I hear another voice, this one with a much higher pitch.
‘Rory, darling,’ the voice purrs seductively. ‘Look at the picture. Does it look like a lie?’
I stop in my tracks, my heart taking up residence in my throat. Though it’s hard to make out Rory’s words, hers I hear just fine. I don’t like her tone. No, her tone frightens me. Makes me want to run away, because I don’t want to be involved with another man of this ilk. A philanderer. A cheat . Instead of listening to my fear, I edge my way closer, my feet taking me to the entrance of the room earmarked for the cocktail bar, where my body practically hugs the wall.
‘Looks authentic, sure.’ He sounds almost casual, but for the touch of something more tense in his tone. ‘I’ll give you that and my congratulations, but I’ve no idea what you’re doing here, Beth.’
