by Karen Swan
Willow was shocked. Her mother never swore.
‘I told you your father had said he would sell to that man over his dead body. Is that what you’re intending to do?’
‘Mam, I—’
‘You’re going to sell Lorne over his dead body?’
Willow swallowed, feeling sick. She couldn’t reply.
‘He turned up here acting like he already owned the place,’ her mother sobbed. ‘Wanting to know where you were and when you’d be back. You weren’t answering your phone.’
Willow groaned. Oh God – what were the chances? ‘Ugh, no. I left it upstairs charging. I figured I was only going down to the stables. I’ve only been gone a few hours.’
‘Do you know what he even asked me?’
She shook her head, already dreading hearing it.
‘He asked whether the title came with the estate!’
‘What?’ Willow rubbed her face in her hands. ‘Oh God, Mam, I’m sorry. What an arse. I can’t believe he said that.’
‘– Like we’re some sort of nasty, tacky, buy-a-title arrivistes.’
‘Mam, the only person he embarrassed asking that was himself,’ she said, instinctively moving to put her arms around her and hug her close, before remembering; she pulled back, patting her arm awkwardly instead. ‘And I’m sorry I wasn’t here to deal with him. I can’t believe he just turned up here like that – no bloody warning, no courtesy call.’
Her mother watched her, still wary. ‘He said he was in the area.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Willow snorted, not believing that for a second. He just wanted to pin down his bargain. He’d smelled there was blood in the water and he’d swum over here quickly. ‘How did you get rid of him?’
‘I didn’t!’
‘So where is he now? Is he still here?’ Willow looked in through the open arched door, feeling a spike of rage that he might be brazenly occupying their home, staking his claim prematurely.
‘No. He said he would drive around the area and come back shortly.’
‘And when was this?’
‘An hour ago? I’ve been ringing and ringing you.’
Willow gave another sigh. When did she ever go anywhere without her phone? Ever? ‘Okay, well look, don’t worry about this. I’ll deal with him.’
‘But he’s coming back.’
‘I know and I’ll . . . I’ll get him to apologize to you. He was out of order behaving like that.’
‘No, I mean, he’s coming back. Look!’ And she raised her arm and pointed at a navy E-Type coming down the drive. It was pristine, classic, priceless. The sort of car she supposed that ought to be coming down this drive – not battered old Land Cruisers and yellow-striped Minis. And yet it was too . . . flash. Too self-conscious.
‘Oh jeesht,’ Willow muttered below her breath. What had she done? She remembered his dismissive tone on the phone – ‘my portfolio’s closed right now’ – the way he’d hung up on her, texting her that lo-ball offer without any preamble, no meet, no discussions . . . And now she’d led him to believe they almost had a deal. She was going to sell her family’s heritage to a man who thought titles came with the deeds, like job-lot boxes at a car boot sale?
The sun bounced off the windscreen, only adding to the glamorous allure, as though this was the south of France and not a blustery corner of south-west Ireland; she half expected to see the fluttering silk scarf of a lady companion billowing through the window too.
‘You go in, Mam, I’ll deal with this,’ she said grimly, turning away and trying to push her mother indoors.
‘I don’t want him coming into our home, Willow,’ her mother warned, beginning to walk back to the castle.
‘He won’t, Mam.’
She watched her mother beat a hasty retreat back inside as he pulled up on the opposite side of the drive, the car’s engine guttural and throaty, then she strode towards the inky bullet with some ammunition of her own, hands pulled into fists and fire blazing in her eyes. It was clear she had made a giant mistake. She had to act decisively, and fast.
The car door opened and she raised a hand to stop him. ‘Don’t bother, Mr Shaye. You should have rung f—’ The word dropped from her lips, falling soundlessly to the ground.
There was a stunned silence.
‘Well, I would have, Just Willow,’ he replied finally. ‘Only you left without giving me your number.’
She felt her heart engorge and race, then contract and twist. It couldn’t be. No. No, no, no. Not him. ‘Connor?’
‘Otts?’
Ottie groaned, wanting to ignore the voice, block it out. She was warm, heavy, drifting . . .
‘Oi, Otts,’ the voice came again and this time a hand on her shoulder too, shaking her not-so-gently. ‘You’re supposed to be working. Have you seen the state of the place out there?’
‘Lemme sleep,’ she moaned, refusing to open her eyes. How long had they been closed for – two hours? Three? Twenty minutes?
‘Don’t make me get a jug of water and throw it on you.’
Her eyes flew open. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’ she gasped but Pip just laughed; they both remembered perfectly well when she had. She groaned and flopped an arm over her face again, trying to block out the offensively bright sunlight. Where had that been when she’d needed it all day Saturday? ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Thought I’d exercise Dolly. She gets nippy if she can’t get out.’ Pip lifted Ottie’s legs up and sank onto the sofa herself, laying her feet back in her lap.
‘Dolly?’ Ottie frowned. ‘Not Shalimar?’
‘No, I thought I’d take Dolly out today.’
Something in her sister’s voice made Ottie look over. ‘You okay?’
‘Sure.’ She laced her hands behind her head and stared out of the giant window. Her body was stiff and unrelaxed, but then again that was Pip; she didn’t do languid. Or sitting down. ‘There’s a coffee there for you, by the way.’
Ottie turned her head and saw the steaming mug on the small copper-legged coffee table beside her. Really? She’d slept through the kettle boiling and everything? ‘. . . Thanks.’ She reached over for it with effort and took a long grateful sip, enjoying the feel of the steam on her face. She looked over at Pip again, something occurring to her. ‘Should you be out riding yet? I thought you were supposed to be resting?’
‘Oh, please, hacking a pony across a few fields is hardly overdoing it,’ Pip said with a roll of her eyes. ‘Anyway, why are you so tired? You didn’t run into a freezing lake too, did you?’
‘May as well have done,’ Ottie mumbled. ‘All I’ve done is walk around in the freezing wind and rain all weekend. I think I’m getting a cold.’
But Pip had her inquisitive face on; she was like a bloodhound – always able to pick up the scent of a story. ‘Tell.’
Ottie sighed. ‘After I dropped you last night, Bertie called.’
‘Flanagan?’ Pip asked, clarifying, and Ottie remembered his name didn’t trip off her tongue as easily, or frequently. It was a constant exercise to have to remember not to use his name so familiarly.
‘Yes, exactly. One of the runners went missing during the race. It was only flagged up when the time was officially called and someone saw he hadn’t been checked off the finish line.’
‘Ugh, don’t tell me he got lost,’ Pip said dismissively, yawning. ‘How is that even possible? There are flags and stewards everywhere.’
‘Well, he managed it,’ Ottie said in a small voice. ‘And fell sixty feet onto rocks.’
‘Oh jeesht,’ Pip winced, looking instantly concerned. ‘He’s not dead, is he?’
‘I don’t know how he’s not,’ Ottie said quietly. ‘He was unconscious when we found him. He’s got a broken arm, three fractured ribs, concussion, and he’s snapped the cruciate ligament in his right knee.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Plus, he’s suffering from exposure. He’d been out there for thirty-four hours by the time he was found. No one could see him from th
e track where he fell, and we didn’t know to even look for him till the finishing whistle went.’
‘Surely someone must have heard him, though?’
‘Not over the wind.’
‘Oh Christ, poor sod.’
‘Yeah.’ And it was all her fault. Ottie gave another shiver as she stared into her coffee, warming her hands against it. She had caught a chill but that wasn’t what was making her feel cold: she’d stood at her station for hours on Saturday – bored, frozen, wet, tired – and all that time, a man had been lying broken, slowly dying, a stone’s throw away from where she had stood. ‘What time is it, anyway?’ she asked flatly.
‘Twelve forty-five.’
She blanched. Four and a quarter hours’ sleep then. She’d got home from the hospital – again! The nurses had looked astounded to see her coming through the doors with another casualty – at eight thirty this morning, just as they would have been wheeling Ben Gilmore into theatre. Suddenly she remembered – ‘Oh, shit! Everyone’s checking out.’
She went to scramble off the sofa but Pip merely tightened her grip around her legs. ‘I wouldn’t bother, you’re too late. They’ve all gone. Left a godawful mess, I’m afraid, but there’s not a tent left out there – except that red one in your garden.’ Pip sipped her coffee. ‘What’s that all about? You camping out in sympathy or something?’
‘Hardly. That’s the injured guy’s pitch.’
‘In your garden?’
‘He arrived late,’ she shrugged. ‘I’d already given his site to some walk-ups.’
‘Still, you didn’t need to give up your garden, Otts.’
‘He was a runner,’ she said numbly, remembering her petty revenge. ‘He wasn’t going to find anywhere else to stay at that point.’
‘Tch, you’re too soft, you are.’ Pip gave a little cough and looked out of the window. A sound that approached a sigh of relaxation escaped her. ‘. . . That really is the best view.’
‘Yeah,’ Ottie agreed. The beach – and her little house just off-centre to the back of it – sat nestled in a cosy dip, the shaggy fields hugging the golden crescent tightly, before rising up and away at each end. With the Atlantic storm finally passed over, the colours were blooming again – the pale washed-out greys and misty tints over the weekend restored to their authentic bold, dramatic shades of pine green, granite black, liquid silver and powder blue. After its dramatic toss and hurl in the high winds all weekend, today the sea moved like a lung, breathing in and out, up and down, gulls flocking around the mouth of the cave just by the headland as the fishermen on a small boat pulled up the lobster pots.
She felt her fingers twitch, the urge to capture the moment as physical as a thirst or an itch.
Pip coughed again. ‘I’m starving. Have you got anything for lunch?’
‘There’s some four-day-old pasta we could reheat,’ Ottie offered after a moment’s consideration. Had she even opened her fridge all weekend? ‘Or I might be able to do a sandwich if we toast the bread.’
‘Let’s go with the pasta,’ Pip said, getting up. ‘Then we’d better go and tidy up your campsite. Dad’ll go nuts if he—’
She fell stock still, they both did, before Ottie reached over to squeeze her arm. ‘Hey –’
‘Yeah I know,’ Pip said brusquely, pulling herself up and away. She walked across the old timbered floor and into the bright, open-plan kitchen. ‘So when you say pasta, are we talking twists or shells? How excited should I be?’
‘You can’t come in.’ Willow had folded her arms across her chest, hoping it reinforced her steadfast demeanour. She needed something in her armoury. Him, getting out of that car, looking like that, the memories of Saturday night still warm on her lips . . . ‘I mean it.’
‘Really?’ Connor looked sceptical. ‘Even just to talk?’
Of course just to talk, she thought to herself in alarm. What else did he think was going to happen – that they’d pick up where they’d left off on the garden chairs?
‘You’re not welcome here. You’ve upset my mother. She doesn’t want you in her house.’
His eyes flickered over the castle. ‘I thought she said it was your house?’
‘Only legally. It’s hers in every way that counts.’
He paused for a moment, his sharp blue eyes landing on her like blades, piercing the skin. ‘Look, Willow, I had no idea you were Dec’s daughter—’
‘Ditto.’ And when he frowned, she spluttered: ‘You know what I mean.’
‘And before we go any further, I want to say how sorry I am to hear that he . . . y’know.’
‘Died?’ she said bullishly, using the word like a stick with which to beat him back.
He looked uncomfortable. ‘Yeah. He seemed like a good bloke.’
‘Don’t speak about my father like you knew him. You didn’t. And he certainly didn’t die thinking highly of you.’
He didn’t reply, her words doing a good job of what she needed them to – repel him. He pulled his gaze off her after a moment and stared out over the lawns instead, trying to take stock.
Immediately she wished he didn’t have such a glorious profile. Why him? Why did Shaye have to be him?
‘You told me you were part of the consortium that owns Midnight Feast,’ she said accusingly, hearing the note of despair in her own voice.
He looked back at her again with a frown. ‘And I am. But that’s not my day job. It’s not what I do. I just got lucky enough to be invited to buy in.’
She sighed. If they’d only done a little more talking and a lot less kissing, she might have found this out on Saturday night and saved themselves this. ‘Look, I’m sorry, this is a mess. But my father’s principles meant he wouldn’t sell to you, and as his daughter I won’t either. I should never have called you.’
His eyes narrowed, flashing like sapphires. ‘So, then, why did you?’
What could she say? Revenge? Defiance? Sheer spite? It wasn’t a story she would tell him, or anyone.
‘It was a mistake,’ she said simply. ‘My mother and I had had an argument and I acted rashly in the heat of the moment. I’m sorry you got caught up in it.’
He blinked, his eyes growing colder by the moment. ‘So that’s it? You’re not going to sell to me after all?’
She nodded. ‘I’m sorry for your wasted trip.’ She turned abruptly and began heading back to the castle, his look of disbelief burning her back, her heart burning inside her ribs.
‘. . . How’s your sister?’ he called as she was halfway to the door.
What? She turned back and he gave a small shrug.
‘I tried calling the hospital but they wouldn’t tell me anything. Only relatives. Can you just tell me – is she okay?’
She swallowed, remembering how powerfully he’d rowed across the water, getting to Pip in under ten strokes, the tips of her hair just breaking the surface of the water; she remembered how he’d thrown down the oars and reached over, pulling her up and out in one fluid swoop, as though she weighed nothing, the adrenaline pumping through him as much as her. He’d gone through it too, seen someone almost drown.
‘She’s recovering. Thanks.’
He took a step back, as though relieved. ‘Good. That’s really good to hear.’
Their eyes had locked again, holding her on the spot. It happened every single time. ‘Thank you for what you did,’ she said, feeling the emotion colour her voice again, as it did any time she thought back to that night. He may have betrayed her father but he’d also saved her sister. Which had been the greater – the slight or the rescue?
‘It was nothing.’
‘It wasn’t nothing. You got her out of the water.’
He winced. ‘And left her half bald in the process, I fear.’
Willow couldn’t help a smile. ‘Least of her worries. I doubt she’s even noticed.’
She saw the way his eyes roamed over her face as she smiled and he instinctively took several steps forward. ‘Look, Willow, can we just . . . take a ste
p back for a moment and regroup? There’s been a lot of misunderstandings. I dealt with things badly with your father, I know that. And to say it’s a surprise seeing you here . . .’
She arched an eyebrow, felt her stomach flip at the way he was looking at her. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘If I’d had any idea on Saturday who you were, then obviously I wouldn’t have—’
‘Me neither.’
He stared at her, memories of their instinctive kisses in the garden playing through both their minds. They hadn’t felt the cold once out there; hadn’t even noticed it. She shivered now though. Everything was different in the bright morning light.
‘But, look, you want to sell and I want to buy. We’re already on the same page.’ He took another step towards her. ‘Can’t we just start again? Pretend I never met your father. Pretend we never . . .’ He stopped short, the memory of their kisses – urgent, in the moonlight – running on a virtual loop between them. ‘Met.’
She swallowed. She wasn’t sure pretending was going to cut it; an induced coma, perhaps?
‘If we simplify this and take “us” out of it . . .? Saturday night never happened, okay?’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve already forgotten it. Gone.’
He closed the gap between them, marching up to her with a directness that made her breath fail. ‘Hi, I’m Connor Shaye.’ His hand was outstretched and after a hesitation, she put hers in it to shake; but even that . . . she felt the electricity leap between their palms.
He felt it too. There was another pause before he squeezed her hand and looked her in the eye. ‘I’m Connor Shaye and I’d like to buy your castle, please.’
‘Hello, Connor Shaye, I’m Willow Lorne and that will be four and a half million euros, please.’
He tipped his head fractionally, the smile freezing on his mouth. ‘. . . I thought we’d agreed four was close.’
‘Close but no cigar. Christie’s have advised us to list it at six. Four and a half would be a steal and only on the table if you can move fast.’
‘The roof needs redoing.’
‘It does, yes.’
‘That’s got to be half a million at least.’
‘Which is why I’m not asking for five,’ she countered.
