The Christmas Secret

by Karen Swan

  She looked across at Lochlan, his concentration absolute as they skimmed purple clouds, chasing to the horizon before the sun dipped from view.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he asked without turning his head, his voice surprisingly clear in her ear defenders.

  ‘Mmhmm. When did you qualify?’

  He looked bemused. ‘If I told you last month—’

  ‘I wouldn’t believe you, no,’ she chortled.

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t stall it.’ He paused. ‘I hope.’

  Alex smiled and looked back out of the window again. She loved flying by helicopter; apart from the obvious convenience, it was a more intimate, immediate experience than flying by plane, more visceral somehow. She loved looking down and seeing the country laid out like a picnic blanket.

  ‘You ever flown in one of these before?’ he asked.

  ‘An AgustaWestland Grand? Sure,’ she shrugged. It hadn’t been what he’d meant and she knew it, but it was time to start giving him some clues that she wasn’t the walkover he assumed. ‘But I prefer the Bell 430.’

  She could feel his glances coming her way like heat probes. ‘Travel by chopper a lot then, do you?’ he asked.

  ‘Only for short hops.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘Well, I guess that would explain why you were underwhelmed by the Aston.’

  ‘Astons are beautiful. They are never underwhelming.’

  ‘Yes, well, you enjoy the distinction of being the only woman to ever sit in my car and not spend the journey caressing the leather like it’s a dog.’

  Alex shot him a bemused look. ‘Then perhaps you should reconsider the kinds of women you’re driving in your car,’ she quipped, wondering exactly how many he had driven around in it. She remembered the woman in the bed sheet from last weekend. Who was she? Was it serious?

  She added after a moment, ‘Besides, your car should not feel slighted; as we both know, I was not in a position to show appreciation for anything that night.’

  ‘I don’t know. You’d clearly shown a lot of appreciation for the whisky.’

  Alex chuckled again. ‘I guess that’s true.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘Which did you like best? Or can’t you remember?’

  ‘The Macallan thirty,’ she said, no hesitation.

  He nodded. ‘It’s a fine malt. Almost as good as ours.’ Another pause. ‘Even more of a shame you missed the hidden malt last night then. If you like the Macallan thirty, you’d have loved that. And it was probably the only chance you’ll get to ever try it. The oldest matured malt whisky in the world,’ he sighed.

  ‘Unless I buy a bottle.’

  ‘We’re putting them on at forty grand a pop.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, nodding as if in agreement. ‘Then I’d better get two.’

  He smiled and shook his head, his eyes dead ahead. ‘I can’t work you out. I do not get you.’

  ‘No, you’ve made that quite clear,’ Alex drawled. ‘I’m positively Sphinx-like to you, I know. If it’s any consolation, you’re an enigma to me too, so at least we can be in the dark together.’ She frowned as she heard how that sounded; she hadn’t meant it to come out like that. ‘You know what I mean.’

  She looked down at the landscape rumpled by their feet – the long glassy waters of Loch Lomond stretched into the distance, flanked on all sides by steep-sloped mountains, and the blocky silhouette of Glasgow’s industrial skyline smudged the horizon.

  ‘So who’s in the group?’ she asked.

  ‘The usual crowd, ten in all, I think. The hosts are uni friends – Ambrose Arbuthnott and his wife Daisy; his family owns the estate, Borrodale. Two and a half thousand acres, twelve miles from Perth.’

  ‘Are you going to be up to much walking?’ she asked. ‘You were in hospital two days ago.’

  ‘Don’t remind me. Besides, this is exactly what the doctor ordered. Plenty of fresh air and gentle exercise.’

  Alex looked down at the dramatic up-hill-down-glen landscape. It didn’t look terribly gentle to her. ‘So who else? Ambrose and Daisy . . .’

  ‘Max Fischer and his wife Emma. He’s a cardiologist, she’s a nurse.’

  ‘Ooh.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Did you meet them at university too?’

  ‘Him; but pretty much everyone coming is ex-Stannies.’

  ‘Stannies?’ she queried.

  ‘St Andrews.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her stomach tightened. ‘What did you read there?’

  ‘Economics and politics.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘To please my father.’

  ‘What did you want to read?’

  ‘Geography.’

  ‘Really?’ she asked, interested.

  He gave a bemused glance. ‘I’ve always had a strange fascination with fluvial systems.’

  ‘That is strange.’

  He shrugged. ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  There was a shocked pause. ‘You didn’t go to uni?’

  She always hated this question. ‘No. I wanted to get work experience instead and I’m glad I did. As far as I’m concerned, I got a three-year head start.’

  ‘Well, I guess that explains the improbable youth–experience dichotomy,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘Quite,’ she said shortly. ‘Besides, I read the degree syllabus myself. I’m as qualified as the next social psychologist, just without the graduation photo.’

  ‘You read the degree syllabus?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’

  ‘Who does that? Why would you not go to uni and yet you’d do the work?’

  ‘Well, clearly I was a very dull teenager,’ she said, using self-deprecation to deflect from her awkwardness as she looked out of the window, trying to look relaxed; people usually reacted like him – stunned and then embarrassed. The image she presented now of glossy hair and cut-glass vowels suggested a defined pedigree and well-worn life course: private school and a gap ‘yah’, university and then work experience with a friend’s father’s bank. But unlike him, she hadn’t been born to this lifestyle; she had made herself in this image through grit and graft. He had no idea what she’d come from and what it had taken to get here.

  ‘So Ambrose and Daisy,’ she said lightly, rescuing the conversation – and herself. ‘Max and Emma . . .’

  ‘Uh, Sam and Jess. He sold an app and retired at the grand old age of thirty-one. She illustrates children’s books. Um, who else?’ His brow furrowed as he tried to concentrate, fiddling with a few controls at the same time. Dusk had given way to darkness and she became aware of the lights flashing outside, markers to those on firm ground that they were in the sky. ‘Oh, how could I forget: Anna and Elise. They’re . . .’

  Alex watched and waited. ‘Together?’ she prompted.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Wow. Lesbians. How revolutionary,’ she said, her voice dripping in irony.

  ‘What?’ he asked, sounding defensive.

  ‘You can say the word, you know. It’s not exactly a taboo.’

  ‘Yes, well . . .’ he huffed. ‘I was trying to be discreet.’

  Alex rolled her eyes. ‘My best friend at school was gay. It’s not a big deal. Don’t be such a duffer.’

  ‘A what?’ he blustered.

  ‘You heard me. So, if I’ve got this right –’ she began counting off her fingers – ‘there’s Ambrose and Daisy; Max and Emma; Sam and Jess; Anna and Elise . . .’

  ‘And me,’ he shrugged, before adding, ‘and you. Me and you.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, shifting awkwardly. ‘I see.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It’s clearly not nothing. What is it?’

  ‘Well, I wish you’d said; I thought this was a corporate thing. I didn’t realize it was a jolly with your university mates.’

  He gave a sudden disbelieving laugh. ‘You didn’t give me a chance, leaping into the cab like Rambo back there!’

  ‘You had invited me
!’ she retorted.

  ‘Once.’

  ‘Once? How many invitations should I have expected?’

  ‘You know what I mean! A lot’s happened since then, what with the fire . . . Besides, you know I only said it in the heat of the moment.’

  ‘What heat? What moment? I thought it was a friendly offer post-shoot.’ It was a disingenuous comment, her tone too innocent to be credible, but she wanted to make him say it, to own up to the momentary jealousy that had prompted him to make a spontaneous – and unwise – offer; didn’t he see that as a CEO, he couldn’t afford to be so rash and impetuous?

  ‘You know perfectly well that I just—’

  ‘Just . . .’ she echoed, watching him closely. His jaw was pulsing again.

  ‘Forget it,’ he muttered.

  There was a tense silence and she wondered why every conversation with him turned into a battle. Was he this exhausting with everyone, or just her? ‘. . . So are they going to mind, these friends of yours?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ There was another pause. ‘They’ll be surprised, though.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  He shrugged. ‘They’ll probably jump to the wrong conclusions too so . . . I’m just warning you now,’ he muttered.

  ‘You mean they’ll assume we’re . . .’ She could scarcely bring herself to say the words. ‘An item?’

  He shrugged again. She watched him. ‘Probably. I don’t usually bring anyone to this.’

  ‘What about the women who stroke your car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And the one last weekend?’

  There was a short silence as he frowned. ‘How do you know about her?’

  ‘Well, she was hardly discreet, standing at the bottom of your garden in just a bed sheet!’

  He looked annoyed. ‘She’s just a . . . friend.’

  ‘Mm, she did look friendly.’

  He shot a scowl her way. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do. It’s just an agreement, a casual thing whenever she’s over. Her husband plays golf here occasionally.’

  ‘Husband? Oh, nice,’ Alex said sarcastically, looking away with a tut.

  ‘Hey, she tells me the marriage is dead, I believe her. Frankly, I don’t care one way or another – it’s not like either of us want anything more. And I’m the free agent anyway, I don’t pretend to live like a monk. Not that it’s any of your bloody business – unless of course you think I’m going to screw up the future of the company if she doesn’t respond to my texts.’

  Alex’s cheeks burned in the darkness but she didn’t reply, lapsing into a cross silence. He really was contemptible.

  The ground glowed red as they floated back to earth in stony quietude twenty minutes later, bare-headed flower beds bending in the downdraught as the helicopter landed on the lawns of what looked to be a large stone house, complete with a square turreted tower, and a fountain – its water frozen – in the carriage drive. There was no snow here but a hard frost was already glittering the garden, the blades of grass standing rigid in their stiff white coats.

  Whilst Lochlan ran through the wind-down checks, she looked over at the big house. Lights glowed from various rooms on all three floors, the front steps dramatically floodlit, a wreath the size of an ice-truck’s tyre on the front door.

  They were just jumping down from the cab, the blades at a standstill, as the door opened and a man came out, sandy-blond curls springing from his head with more bounce than a cocker spaniel.

  ‘Farquhar!’ he hailed, arms stretched wide as they walked over the lawn, the grass crunching underfoot, their bags – and Lochlan’s guns – slung over their shoulders.

  ‘You’d better call me Lochie,’ Lochlan murmured to her as they approached.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they’ll think it odd if you don’t. Only my mother ever called me Lochlan; I feel like I’m being called to the naughty step whenever you say it.’

  ‘If it made you so uncomfortable, I wish you’d said so earlier.’

  He shrugged. ‘I didn’t think you’d be around long enough for it to matter.’

  ‘Well, sorry about that,’ she said with a sarcastic smile. ‘Hashtag not sorry.’

  He chuckled.

  ‘My man!’ their host – Ambrose, she assumed – said, enveloping him in a bear hug. He was huge, at least six foot three with a chest almost as broad as he was long.

  ‘Butthead,’ Lochie said, slapping him hard on the back, apparently in affection.

  They pulled apart. ‘Well, hello,’ Ambrose said, looking over at Alex with a bemused smile and outright curiosity. ‘Ambrose Arbuthnott.’

  She shook his hand. ‘Alex Hyde. Pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ Ambrose said, looking between the two of them quickly.

  ‘Uh, Alex is doing some management consultancy work with us,’ Lochie said quickly, clearing his throat only to trigger another small coughing fit.

  ‘Trying to whip him into shape, are you?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Alex smiled, trying not to shiver in the below-freezing temperatures.

  Lochie was still coughing.

  ‘Dear God, man, have you taken up a fifty-a-day habit?’

  Lochie tried to smile, his eyes watering. ‘You didn’t hear about our small fire then?’ he rasped.

  ‘A fire? At Kentallen?’ Ambrose asked, his easy smile disappearing.

  Lochie nodded. ‘Christ – you really didn’t hear?’ he asked as Ambrose’s eyes dimmed with alarm.

  ‘Quick, let’s go in and get you out of this cold air; it can’t be helping. Everyone’s waiting,’ Ambrose said, shuffling them in. ‘And to think I thought the disaster story would be you landing that thing.’

  ‘Disaster story?’ Alex asked, ears pricked.

  ‘Aye, Daisy’s been fretting all day he was going to crash the thing and scorch the lawns. He only got his licence last month.’

  Alex’s mouth opened in disbelief as Ambrose led the way, Lochie’s shoulders shaking with laughter as he followed behind him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  They walked through into an impressive panelled entrance hall, a thirty-foot Christmas tree set up in the middle and a red-carpeted winding staircase hugging two walls with thick bushy garlands of eucalyptus wound around the handrails. Portraits of wigged gentlemen and ladies in lace caps bore down with dour expressions, interspersed with a few twelve-pointer stags’ heads and a collection of pewter jugs grouped on a medieval wooden chest. It had probably looked exactly like this for the last three hundred years, Alex mused.

  ‘I love what you’ve done with the place,’ Lochie said drily as they walked over the creaky old oak floor, towards a corridor at the back.

  Ambrose laughed, leading them through a succession of richly coloured, darkly wooded rooms. ‘You sound like my wife. What she wouldn’t do for a magnolia wall.’ He glanced back. ‘Where do you live, Alex?’

  ‘London.’

  He nodded as though he’d expected as much. ‘Of course, pretty hamlet. Which corner?’

  ‘Mayfair.’

  ‘Ooh, you’re in the Manor House,’ Ambrose teased with enlivened eyes. ‘I think you may be punching above your weight there, Lochie, old boy.’

  ‘No, it’s not . . . we’re not . . .’

  But they had walked into a room and the buzz of conversation came to an abrupt halt at the sight of them. Her.

  Alex scanned the group without moving, seeing how the women were grouped together, sitting on one of the turquoise velvet sofas and the pocketed ottoman that doubled as a coffee table, their elbows on their knees as they hunched forward in intimate conversation. The men were largely standing by the fire, whisky in one hand, the other casually stuffed in their trouser pocket. Ordinarily she would have made a beeline for them – in a balance of probabilities, it was more likely they’d be potential clients. But this wasn’t work, she reminded herself. Or at least, it was, but she had
to pretend to them it wasn’t.

  ‘Everyone, the evening is saved,’ Ambrose announced. ‘Farquhar has managed not only to not kill himself in his flying machine, but also to persuade this fantastically rare and gorgeous creature, Alex Hyde, to accompany him.’

  God, there was an introduction to live up to, Alex thought to herself as she gave a smile. ‘Hi.’

  A woman with dark curly hair got up from the ottoman and approached with a smile.

  ‘Hi, Alex, I’m Daisy, this one’s long-suffering better half.’

  ‘Hey.’ She watched as Daisy reached over to hug Lochie too. She saw how he squeezed her affectionately, his features softened from their usual flint-like solidity like melting butter. ‘I’m glad you made it up okay. I was worried.’

  ‘It was fine,’ Lochie reassured her. ‘Although it’s nice to know that someone would care if I went down in a ball of flames.’

  ‘Talking of flames, did you hear they had a fire?’ Ambrose called from across the room, where he was serving out some more drinks.

  ‘No.’ Daisy looked alarmed. ‘What happened? Is everyone okay? Was anyone hurt?’

  The others got up and came over, murmuring their concern as Ambrose came back with the drinks and handed them to her and Lochie.

  ‘It’s fine. The maltings is burned to a crisp but . . . all things considered we got off lightly.’