by Holly Ford
‘How is it?’ she asked.
He swallowed. ‘Good.’
Cally picked up her own fork. Oh my God. The mince was so tough it was like chewing a mouthful of gravel. Gravel and slime. And the taste — it was rank. Like, like … what? Old socks? She could hardly begin to describe it. She glanced around the table. Ash and Carr didn’t seem to have noticed. Was it just her?
Trying to rid herself of the taste, she took a mouthful of spinach and nearly choked. What the hell?
‘Okay?’ Carr looked at her in concern.
‘Mm-huh.’ With an effort, she swallowed. ‘Sorry. I’m not sure what I’ve done to the spinach.’
Carr managed to keep the amusement she could see in his eyes from his voice. ‘It’s kale.’
It was what? ‘Is it,’ she asked tentatively, ‘supposed to be like this?’
He hesitated. ‘It can be a bit tricky to cook.’
‘What do you do with it?’
‘No one knows,’ Ash grinned, exchanging a look with his father. ‘Except Lizzie.’
Good grief — he’d actually cleared his plate. Kale and all. Cally was in awe. ‘Would you like some more lasagne?’ She picked up the spoon.
‘No! … No, I’m all good. Couldn’t eat another bite.’ He nodded. ‘It was really … great … though. Very filling.’
She bit her lip. ‘It’s awful. Isn’t it?’
‘No,’ Carr said. ‘Not awful.’
An uncomfortable silence followed.
‘The mince you used,’ he asked carefully. ‘Was there a tag on the bag?’
Cally nodded anxiously. ‘A red one.’ She watched his face. ‘Was that not right?’
‘No, no, it’s fine.’ He hesitated. ‘That’s a feral goat I shot a while back, that’s all. That’ll be why it tastes a bit gamey.’
Gross. But okay, they obviously ate goat mince somehow. She supposed she’d better learn what to do with it. ‘So, how do you usually cook it?’
Ash and Carr exchanged another look.
‘I can’t say I ever have,’ Carr told her.
Cally’s eyes widened in horror. ‘You mean you eat it raw?’
‘No. No, I …’ He coughed. ‘I was feeding it to the cat.’
Oh God, oh God. ‘But,’ she said faintly, ‘you didn’t have a cat until tonight.’
‘No.’ Carr took a long swallow of wine. ‘The last one died a couple of years back.’
Euw, euw, euw!
‘It’s not your fault,’ he said. ‘I should have cleared out the freezer.’
Cally stared at the remains of the lasagne in the dish.
‘Ash,’ Carr ordered, ‘get Cally another glass of wine.’ He patted her arm briefly. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
She looked up as he started to gather the plates. ‘I’ll do that.’
‘You stay there. We’ll get the dishes.’
Meekly sipping her wine, Cally watched Ash and Carr clear away the remains of the world’s most offensive dinner. Ash paused, the lasagne dish in his hand.
‘Shall I give some of this to—’ He looked around. ‘Where’s the cat gone?’
Cally pretended not to notice as Carr shook his head quickly and nodded at the bin.
‘We’d better shut that cat away somewhere tonight,’ Carr said, perhaps hoping to disguise the thump of the lasagne hitting the bin.
‘I can keep him in my room,’ Cally volunteered. She’d quite like some company.
Carr frowned. ‘I was thinking more of the laundry.’ Closing the dishwasher door, he glanced around the kitchen.
‘Go on,’ Ash offered. ‘I’ll finish up here.’
Carr nodded. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Where’s he going?’ Cally asked, emboldened by her third glass of wine, as the kitchen door closed behind Carr.
‘To ground,’ Ash smiled. ‘When Lizzie’s not here, he pretty much lurks in his den.’
‘His den?’ she echoed. Which room was that? She’d better make sure she kept it clean.
‘You know,’ — Ash’s grin broadened — ‘the room with your mate on the wall.’
‘The library?’
He shrugged. ‘Sure. If you want.’
‘What does he do in there?’
Ash looked at her strangely. ‘He reads.’
Oh — of course.
‘Well.’ He hung up the tea towel. ‘I might head off upstairs for a while.’ He looked around again. ‘I’d better just find that cat. Can you see him anywhere?’
Shaking her head, Cally looked around, too.
‘Well, I guess he’ll be fine,’ Ash decided, twenty minutes later, when they’d finished combing the ground floor. ‘Are you heading up?’ he asked, as she hesitated at the foot of the stairs.
‘I think I will.’ She might as well. She cast a glance back at the firelight flickering under the library door. It was that or sit downstairs by herself. And besides — Cally smothered a yawn — she was exhausted.
Ash nodded. ‘I’ll get the lights in the kitchen.’
Upstairs, Cally shut her bedroom door and pulled the curtains. She had forgotten to switch the heater on, and the room was freezing. She turned her electric blanket to high. Outside, she heard Ash’s footsteps come up the stairs, his door open and close, and a few seconds later, the garish chord of a computer powering on. Should she do the same herself? She could watch a movie, or maybe stream some TV, if Glencairn’s broadband was up to that. But all she really felt like doing was climbing under the duvet and curling up in a ball. She rubbed her forehead. God, what a disaster tonight had been. Was poisoning your employer a firing offence? It ought to be, surely.
Cally listened at the door. She could hear what sounded like The Sopranos coming from Ash’s room. She headed across the hall and locked herself securely into the bathroom.
Sliding into bed at last, a fleece on over her grey T-shirt, she almost screamed as her feet hit something warm and furry.
‘There you are.’ Folding back the duvet, she looked down at the cat. ‘At least somebody’s settling in well around here.’
The cat — well, she couldn’t go on calling him that. He needed a name. And not Tom. Or Puss, or Kitty.
‘Doug?’ she suggested. ‘You look like a Doug.’ As if to demonstrate his approval of his new name, the cat rolled onto his side, shot out his front paws, and dug his claws into the sheet.
‘Uh-uh.’ Cally picked him up. ‘Out you get.’ She carried him over to the armchair. ‘And no scratching.’
Getting back into bed, she turned out the light, pulled the duvet up under her chin, and closed her eyes. Doug landed on her stomach. After a couple of rotations, he settled down and started to purr. Giving up, Cally closed her eyes again. Oh well. At least he was warm.
She woke up with a raging thirst. A combination of two-year-old cat food and pinot noir, she supposed. God knew what time it was. Not late, presumably, since the light in the hall was still on. Dislodging Doug, she groped for last night’s water glass and tiptoed out to the bathroom.
She came out just in time to see Doug’s tail disappear around the edge of Ash’s bedroom door, which was standing ajar.
‘Doug!’ Cally hissed. Ash’s light was off and his room was silent.
‘Doug!’ she whispered. Was that the sound of breathing inside the room? Imagining Doug about to hit the sleeping Ash like a furry cannonball, she crept closer to the door.
‘Doug?’ Cally pushed the door open a little further. She peered into the darkness. ‘Doug, come on, get out here.’
‘Cally.’ There was a cough behind her. ‘Hello.’
Cally withdrew her head from Ash’s bedroom to see Carr standing there watching her, a paperback in his hand. She closed her eyes briefly. Well. This had to be a good look.
‘Do we have a guest,’ Carr asked, his dark eyes full of amusement, ‘I don’t know about?’
There was a miaow from the floor. She looked down as Doug exited the bedroom, winding casually between her ankles before crossing the landing to flop at
Carr’s feet.
Carr scooped the cat up. Doug settled into the crook of Carr’s arm, arched his back, and began to purr. Well, who wouldn’t? Cally thought.
‘Doug?’ Carr looked at her.
She nodded. ‘He — he seemed like a Doug.’
He handed Doug back. ‘Here you go.’
Cally frowned, listening. Where was that beeping coming from? Somewhere downstairs? ‘What’s that?’
A guilty expression flitted across Carr’s face. ‘Ash is down in the kitchen.’
It was the microwave. Of course — they must be starving.
‘I’m really sorry,’ she managed, holding Doug tightly, ‘about the food tonight.’
‘It’s fine.’ Carr’s voice was firm. ‘It was …’ Cally watched him struggle to think of something positive he could say. He smiled at her gently. ‘Tomorrow’s another day.’
Cally drew the curtains the next morning to find a light, needling rain had set in over Glencairn, misting the tops of the hills and damping down the garden. For once, the house wasn’t empty by the time she got downstairs. She could hear the radio going behind Carr’s office door, and in the kitchen Ash was still drinking his coffee, his work-socked feet up on a chair, yesterday’s paper propped on his knees.
‘Morning,’ he smiled, glancing up. ‘There’s coffee in the pot if you want some.’
‘Thanks.’ Cally poured herself one and looked around the kitchen, planning her day. Spotting the cap from last night’s wine bottle still on the dresser, she scooped it up and opened the rubbish bin. A mound of microwaveable pie wrappers confronted her. She sighed. Okay. What was she going to cook tonight, then?
Out in the cool room, she rummaged through the enormous chest freezer. Best stick to the top baskets this time. Chops, sausages, more chops. Unidentifiable things. Mince … Cally felt a wave of nausea. In fact, even sausages were a bit close to mince. She tried the next basket. Chops, chops, chops … Chops it was, then. With mashed potatoes, carrots and frozen peas. What could possibly go wrong?
Ash looked up again as she returned to the kitchen.
‘These are for human consumption, right?’ Cally held the freezer bag up to the light. ‘They’re not — dog tucker, or something?’
‘Nope, you should be all good.’ He grinned. ‘There’s a separate freezer for that.’
Good to know.
Cally put the chops on the draining board, then, remembering Doug, who had vanished the moment she opened her bedroom door, decided their dinner might be safer shut in the microwave.
Now what should she do? Heading out to the laundry, she emptied the dryer and started to put on another load of washing.
She poked her head back around the door. ‘Anything you’d like washed?’
‘Yeah.’ Putting the paper down, Ash scrambled up. ‘Hang on, I’ll bring it down.’
Cally carried the basket of clean laundry through and set it on the table. Gosh. Men’s underpants were quite tricky to fold. All those seams and curvy bits. Who knew? She looked up to see Ash watching her, a pair of muddy jeans in his hand and a horrified expression on his face.
‘You don’t—’ He cleared his throat. ‘You can just leave those. I’ll do them.’
‘It’s okay, I don’t mind.’ Smoothing her folds, she hid a smile. For heaven’s sake, they were just underpants. It wasn’t as if he were in them. What was there to be embarrassed about? Reaching into the basket, Cally pulled out a pair of her own knickers, and rapidly changed her mind. It wouldn’t be so bad, she thought, furtively stuffing them back in, if they didn’t look like a junior version of his. What was she, a ten-year-old boy? What was wrong with lace and ribbons, for God’s sake?
There, a T-shirt, that ought to be safe. Cally smoothed it out on the table. Ash, she noticed, was still standing in the doorway.
‘Here.’ She held out her hand for his jeans. ‘I’ll throw those in the washing machine.’
With a little shake of his head, he moved at last. ‘I’ll do it.’
She finished folding the T-shirt. ‘Would you like these ironed?’ she called, shaking out a checked shirt.
‘No.’ Ash — back in the kitchen and closer behind her than she’d thought — seemed amused by the question. ‘Don’t worry about those.’
Carefully, she aligned the sleeves.
‘It’s supposed to clear up this afternoon,’ Ash said.
She nodded.
‘I was wondering,’ he added, ‘if you had time to give me a hand with Windy today. Later on, I mean.’
Surprised, Cally glanced at him.
Ash looked slightly embarrassed. ‘He likes it when you’re there.’
By Friday, Cally had finally worked her way around to tackling the homestead’s upper floor. Luckily, she’d done the master bedroom first, because Lizzie had turned up just after lunch, and she and Carr had promptly disappeared inside it.
Having made up a guest room for — what were their names again? Lizzie’s daughter and her boyfriend. Ella and Luke? — Cally arrived at Ash’s door. You’re supposed to be here, she reminded herself, pushing it open. It’s your job. He doesn’t mind. He’s not allowed to.
Oh! She was in the turret. How lovely — she hadn’t realised that was this room. The room Ash had grown up in, presumably, although there was little sign of that now. Staring at the beautiful stone windows, Cally smiled to herself. The perfect castle for a little prince. Until the wicked fairy stole him away …
Gosh, he was neat, though. The room looked like it had been readied for a military-style inspection. Which she felt sure it would pass. There was a South American-looking blanket tucked with great precision around the bed, and a couple of old oil paintings of horses on the wall, but otherwise Ash’s bedroom seemed about as personal to him as hers was to her; as if it had been cleared out once and never properly reinhabited. Reaching the bed, she bent to admire Ash’s hospital corners.
Fuck! Cally let out a yelp as something seized her ankle. Heart pounding, she looked down to see a set of furry paws. Bloody Doug! She took a step backwards, dragging the cat out from under the bed. Looking very pleased with himself, Doug rolled over and rubbed his face against her trainers.
‘Out of here,’ she told him sternly, picking him up and depositing him in the hall.
Having closed the door, Cally ran her duster over the room’s few pieces of dark oak furniture: a couple of nightstands, a blanket box, a desk on top of which a battered laptop sat charging. Was that all Ash had? A computer and a blanket?
Beneath the window seat she found, at last, some evidence that a child had lived in this room — two shelves of books that, judging by the state of their spines, had passed through more than one generation of Fergusson hands. She studied the titles. Were they all about horses? No. There was also a tatty hardback copy of White Fang.
God, what was that rumble? Did they have earthquakes here, too? Cally hurried to her feet as the mullioned glass of the turret window started to rattle.
Abruptly, the rumble stopped. Kneeling on the window seat, she peered out. A very expensive-looking sports car was parked in the drive below, its low-slung body still managing to gleam despite the dust of the access road. As she watched, a tall man in a suit got out and looked up at the house, pushing his aviator shades up into his short dark hair. An elegant blonde climbed out of the passenger seat, wearing black jodhpurs and riding boots below a rather Victorian-looking high-necked blouse. Cally sighed in envy. Now there was a couple who belonged on the same billboard. Possibly one selling that car.
Were Carr and Lizzie out yet? With a quick swipe of the window sill, Cally hurried down to intercept their guests.
By the time she got there, the blonde was already in the kitchen.
‘You must be Cally,’ she beamed, putting an enormous camera bag down on a chair. ‘I’m Ella. Ella Harrington.’
Taking in the sleek gold hair, the flawless skin, the blue eyes, Cally tried not to stare; she imagined Ella got sick of people doing that. The gi
rl practically glowed. So this was Lizzie’s daughter, huh? Well, of course it was. Why was she surprised?
‘Oh! What a pretty cat. Is he yours?’ Picking the cat up, Ella smiled into his eyes.
Cally gave an inward sigh. Even Doug looked dazzled.
‘Hi.’ Ella’s boyfriend walked in with the rest of the bags. Dropping them, he held out his hand. ‘Luke Halliday.’
Close up, he was much younger than she’d thought. No more than a few years older than Ash, probably. Although comparing the two seemed a bit like comparing two different species.
Cally took his hand. Luke’s eyes — a rather stunning shade of green, thickly lashed — swept over her, taking more time about it than guys who looked like him usually bothered to spend. She felt her cheeks starting to glow. He was hard to look away from.
‘This is Cally,’ Ella supplied, in a gentle tone that suggested girls forgot their own names around Luke quite often. ‘She’s just started looking after the house for Carr.’
‘Pleasure to meet you.’ Luke gave her a devastating smile.
Cally strove to pick her jaw up.
‘Is Lizzie around?’ Ella asked.
‘She’s, um …’ Cally glanced involuntarily out the window, where Carr’s ute and Lizzie’s Land Rover stood side by side. ‘She might be upstairs. I think.’
Ella and Luke exchanged a look. Luke grinned. Ella rolled her eyes.
‘Come on,’ said Ella, sounding amused. ‘Let’s take our bags up.’
‘Can I help?’ Cally offered.
‘No, don’t worry about it. I know the way.’ Ella was already in the doorway. ‘Second room on the right at the top of the stairs, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Thanks.’ She smiled over her shoulder.
Cally watched Ella’s tall, leggy figure sashay away, Luke following at her heels in a manner both meek and predatory, like a leopard on a leash. Cally sighed again.
A few minutes later, she heard Ash’s ute pull up in the drive. She saw him get out and make a slow, appraising circuit of Luke’s car before he headed for the door. There was the thump of Ash taking off his boots in the porch, then he padded in, today’s work-socks sporting a large hole in the toe, and sprawled across a chair. Doug leapt into his lap.
