The Christmas Party

by Karen Swan

  ‘You don’t miss it here?’

  ‘Nope,’ she said quickly. ‘Life is good for me in the big smoke. I work five minutes from where I live. Great bars. Good friends. it’s a good set up. Work–life balance, all that stuff.’

  ‘Where d’you work?’

  ‘Pyro Tink.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’ve heard of that place. Got a lot of friends that go there. I hear things get pretty sweaty.’

  ‘They can do.’ She looked straight at him. ‘You should try it some time.’

  ‘Do you teach the classes?’

  ‘God no!’ she laughed. ‘I’m just happy to survive them. The Rebel class saved my life.’ That was no word of a lie. The intense and punishing sessions had been the only thing to help her vent her rage when she’d first turned up in the city – damaged and hell-bent on self-destruction.

  ‘So then do you own it?’

  ‘No. I’m the manager there.’

  ‘Ah.’

  He nodded but she sensed disappointment in the movement. ‘We can’t all be entrepreneurs,’ she said defensively.

  ‘Why not? You’re clearly a fine businesswoman.’

  ‘Hardly!’

  ‘You’ve pinned me down to a deal that’s several hundred thousand more than I wanted to pay. And a lot more than I was going to pay your father.’

  She blinked. ‘Really?’

  He shrugged. ‘You had me on the ropes. I wanted to buy and you caught me at a time when I was in no position to cut a hard bargain. I had to either agree to your terms or lose out altogether.’ His finger tapped against his glass as he watched her.

  ‘That’s down to timing then, not any astute business sense on my part.’

  ‘You’re doing yourself down.’

  She shrugged. ‘I think it’s best to know your limitations and accept them.’

  He leaned in to her slightly. ‘I’m not so good at accepting limits.’ His eyes held her in a lock and she felt the tension between them thicken again. All the time they were sitting here, chatting, and what they weren’t saying seemed to just get louder and louder.

  ‘Hey, Willow.’

  She looked up again to see the O’Finlan lad passing by. His family had managed the landscaping on the estate for three generations now. ‘Hey, Tommy.’

  Connor sat back with a smile, allowing her to breathe again. ‘I’m really not sure that I believe you.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Leaving here without a backwards glance.’

  ‘Mentally and emotionally, I’ve already left. I’m only here to get Dad’s affairs wound up.’

  ‘Don’t you like it here?’

  ‘Of course I do. It was my home.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘And now Dublin is.’ She stared into her drink, wishing he’d stop pushing.

  No such luck. ‘Why did you go?’

  She looked back at him. ‘Why does anyone leave a place like this?’

  ‘Excitement and adventure. Chasing fortune.’ He watched her. ‘Or because they can’t stay.’

  ‘Well, there you go then. Take your pick.’

  ‘You couldn’t stay.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Let me guess. Bad break-up?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘So you don’t have a boyfriend?’

  Her eyes flashed up to his angrily. ‘Do you think I would have kissed you if I did?’

  Their gazes locked again and she felt the floor drop, just like that.

  ‘Willow—’

  She swallowed, cutting him off, knowing just from his tone, his look, what he wanted to say. ‘We’re talking shop, remember?’

  There was a reluctant pause. ‘Sure.’ He took another sip of his drink. ‘So then tell me about your sisters. There’s Pip and . . .?’

  ‘That’s not talking shop.’

  ‘On the contrary, it’s good practice to know who you’re doing business with. First rule of entrepreneurialism.’ He flashed her a smile that made her head spin.

  She couldn’t help but smile back. ‘Well, you’ve met Pip. She’s the middle one of us – two years older than me, pretty wild, as you saw. Does her own thing, doesn’t understand the words “Stop” or “No”. A real tomboy. Nuts about horses.’

  ‘But not leather trousers.’

  ‘No. Definitely not.’ She grinned at the image, just as she noticed how many people were glancing over at them, seeming intrigued by their tête-à-tête. Why? Everyone knew he was hiring her castle.

  ‘And your other sister?’

  ‘Ottie?’ She brought her attention back to him again. ‘She’s three years older than me. She’s the one who should have inherited the estate, not me. She pretty much ran it with Dad.’

  His brow furrowed. ‘So why didn’t she get it then?’

  Willow gave a stiff shrug. They were back on dangerous territory again.

  ‘Do you think your dad was trying to lure you back here, perhaps? Giving someone a castle estate is a hell of a way to tie them down to a place.’

  ‘No. I think he just knew that I’d be able to do what had to be done and sell up. He knew I’m not as attached.’ Her voice had grown hard. Flinty.

  ‘So Ottie’s more sentimental?’

  ‘I guess. She’s a creative type, ruled by her heart, not her head.’

  ‘It sounds like I’ve got the toughest sister then.’ His eyes flashed to hers. ‘To negotiate with, I mean.’ But the subtext crackled like an electric current across the table.

  A man walked past the table. ‘All right, Connor?’ he asked cheerily, but there was a knowing tone in his voice. Innuendo.

  Connor looked up and gave a wary nod.

  ‘I’m afraid people are staring at us,’ she murmured, taking another sip of her drink.

  ‘Why?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Because it’s a small village and everyone talks.’

  ‘Would you rather go somewhere more private?’

  She almost spat out her drink again. ‘No!’

  ‘Why not? My room’s just upstairs. We could eat up there.’

  She looked at him, feeling her heart pound. ‘You know why.’ They wouldn’t eat up there and they both knew it.

  ‘Willow . . . I’m not interested in idle gossip.’

  She supposed not. There was plenty of society coverage of him with different women at different places, and never any sort of public comment as to who they were to him. ‘That’s because you’re not from here but my family is this place. Nothing goes unrecorded.’

  ‘So? Is it really so wrong for us to be sitting here together?’

  ‘No. Not sitting here. Having a business meeting.’

  ‘And what if it wasn’t a business meeting? What if I really was trying to get you upstairs? Would they get a veto on that?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The simplicity of his reply snatched the breath from her as his hand reached out, his fingertips touching hers. ‘It’s no one else’s business what happens between us.’

  She looked at him, shaken. ‘There is no us.’

  ‘You keep saying that.’

  ‘Because we agreed.’

  ‘Saying it doesn’t make it true. We both know it’s a lie. This had already started between us before we knew who each other was, and it’s still there now . . . It’s not going to go away, Willow. Frankly, it would be a lot less distracting if we could just stop fighting it.’

  She stared at him, seeing how his gaze fell to her lips, feeling the heat coming from his hand, his thigh beside hers under the table. Was love at first sight real? Because her heart was telling her to run up the stairs with him. To submit to the inevitable. To surrender. But her head . . . ‘Nothing can happen,’ she said flatly. ‘There’s too much at stake. If things were to go wrong before the sale . . .’

  She couldn’t afford to be stuck here, saddled with a castle she couldn’t sell and a mother she couldn’t love. Her life was in Dublin now and she had to get back there, as soon as she
possibly could. Before it left her behind.

  ‘But why should they go wrong?’

  ‘Because these things always go wrong,’ she said stiffly.

  He smiled with his eyes, so confident and persuasive. ‘Unless they stay right.’

  ‘They never do.’ Her words here like a guillotine, final and sharp.

  He frowned, staring at her quizzically. ‘Wow, I wouldn’t have taken you for such a cynic.’

  ‘I’m just a realist,’ she replied, her chest feeling tight as though ropes were trapped around it.

  He tapped a finger against his glasses thoughtfully, his eyes roaming her face, as though considering her afresh. ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The guy who pulled the number on you.’

  She felt the world tip on its side again, everything sliding, falling out of place. She wouldn’t discuss this. It wasn’t chit-chat. She grabbed her coat and went to shuffle off the bench. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she muttered.

  ‘Willow, wait,’ he said, startled, moving to stop her but she was already out of reach. ‘I didn’t mean to –’ He gave a bewildered laugh but she felt her cheeks burning as she shrugged on her coat. It was no laughing matter to her – the lies, hollow vows, broken promises . . . ‘Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you felt that way. Are you honestly telling me you don’t believe in true love and happy endings?’

  ‘Yes, Connor,’ she said in a low, dark voice, her heart like a fireball, burning her up. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Wednesday, 18 December

  The clapboarded door was open, pinned back against the stone walls, but there was little breeze today and with a thickly wound scarf at her neck, ribbed beanie and fingerless mittens, Ottie was warm enough to work in just her canvas tunic. The easel stood propped at an angle, giving her a view of the beach, the long sable brush held lightly between her fingers. Some days – the good days – painting was like a meditation, not a conscious doing but rather a gentle lapse into being; those were the days when the hours slipped by like melting ice cream, when even Bertie fell from her thoughts and she could access that quiet part of herself that was otherwise crushed by life. Everything else ceased to matter.

  Usually at this time of year, due to the biting cold and often driving rain, she brought her supplies upstairs and into the house, painting by the window instead, but that wasn’t an option with a house guest. It felt good, anyway, to throw open the boat-store door and get some air into the place; it quickly became musty without a proper blow.

  She worked at the easel, feeling her body and mind harmonize; soothe. The canvas was to her what the mat was to Willow, and the saddle to Pip. When her mind was racing and her emotions felt too big to control, it always brought her back into herself – and right now, she needed that. She hadn’t been down here since her father had died precisely because it had felt too dangerous to tap into her raw self; to acknowledge and feel those conflicting emotions of grief and anger that had threatened to overwhelm her since his death. If the past few weeks had taught her anything, it was that life was short, it was hard, and it could be cruel; it had shown her that she had to seize what happiness she had and grasp it with both hands, not hide it behind her back or ball it up into pockets. It had shown her that Bertie needed to leave his wife or Ottie needed to leave him. Either way, the next stage of her life had to begin.

  She stepped back and looked at the canvas, tucking her hair behind her ear thoughtfully. For once, she liked what she saw – the vivid brushstrokes swept across in purposeful strides, thick layers and globules of oils building up on the canvas like Christmas cake icing. Her landscape felt intense, visceral, three-dimensional . . .

  Her eyes grazed the painted curlicue beach again, thick tufts of colour-stripped grass in the foreground, the ancient mass of the distant hills sonorous in the background. Usually her palette was dominated by oxide of chromium, cobalt chromite, Prussian green, raw umber, Davy’s grey, perylene black . . . ‘Moody colours,’ Bertie had said once, when she’d shown them to him. ‘Like a nasty bruise.’

  Today, though, she had reached for Cadmium Red Deep, dabbing a dot of it into the scene. Her eyes rose from the canvas to real life, at the walker crossing the sand wearing a red windcheater. It wasn’t Ben – he was at the physio’s, Seamus having picked him up half an hour ago and giving her a good hour to herself before he would be due back again – but he was so often out there, her eyes saw him anyway. Whenever the tide was out, he would hobble down the track onto the wet sand. It was firmer underfoot than on the dry sand but still not the stable surface he should have been training on and every few steps his crutch would pierce and drop into the sand, like an arrow through ice, making him twist awkwardly. His knee brace would look bulky even from this distance, strapped on above his jogging bottoms, but he was down to using just one crutch already, his superior fitness and strength helping his body heal rapidly, his high pain threshold propelling him to push harder than most other patients in his position.

  Some days, he would stand at the window, waiting for the tide to recede, like a dog sitting by the door, waiting for its walk. Although he was recovering fast, it still wasn’t fast enough for his liking: he was a restless patient, irritated and almost unnerved by his uncharacteristic dependency. He was sleeping completely normal hours now, his body having finally recovered from the dual challenges of surgery and the extreme endurance test he had willingly put himself through. In fact, she suspected he was waking earlier than her now most mornings, but he stayed in the room until he heard her moving about, clearing away the bed sheets, and could be sure she was dressed.

  She’d been surprised by what easy company he was to have around. The taciturn manner she had initially taken to be unfriendly she saw now was simply reserved; he wasn’t given to unwarranted smiles or platitudes and he didn’t go in for fuss or hyperbole. But he was interesting and rather funny, with a wry sense of humour, and they had fallen into something of a habit, spending the evenings chatting as they ate and cleared away the dishes, then playing cards – he was a decent poker player but, much to his respect, she was a fiend: her father had taught her and her sisters, saying no man would ever take money off his daughters. One evening, watching telly, she’d found a baseball game for him and he’d tried to explain its arcane rules, with hilarious results when the ‘innings eater’ came on. They had both got the giggles then and were still sporadically chuntering away over it thirty, forty minutes later.

  The most surprising thing about having him as a house guest, though, hadn’t been how easy he’d been to have around; it was that his company had made her realize how lonely her evenings usually were, and her grief for her father had been somewhat abated by his quiet, constant presence (not least because she didn’t want him to hear her crying through the walls as she lay in the sofa bed). For her part, she had introduced him to the joys of soda bread, colcannon potatoes and Irish stew. It was nice having someone to cook for; there never seemed much point cooking up a big meal for just one and Bertie could never stay long enough for a home-cooked meal when he did come over – nor was it ever the hunger in his stomach that he yearned to satisfy, anyway.

  He hadn’t been over since he’d discovered Ben was recuperating here. ‘It’ll cause too much suspicion if I keep coming over,’ he had said, somewhat resentfully and, for once, she had agreed. If they were to finally, imminently, be together, then for this last stretch, they had to be apart.

  Curiously, the enforced absence didn’t bother her, perhaps because the finish line was now in sight. Every morning she woke up to her heart fluttering like a tiny bird in a cage trying to get free. She had waited for this moment for so long – was her dream really about to come true? Like a child on Christmas Eve, the moment she had been waiting for was almost here and it felt impossible to believe after five years of patience, of silence, of tolerance.

  Her phone rang but she ignored it. She only had it beside her f
or the ‘chill-out’ playlist playing quietly in the background and she let her hand move freely, disconnected from her conscious mind. Everything was coming together at last: she was going to be with Bertie; she had atoned for what she’d done to Ben. Even the raw grief for her father that had hollowed her out in the first shocking weeks was beginning to become . . . familiar. Less hostile.

  The phone rang again, piercing her focus and she glanced at the screen with a tut. Dave Bridges, Butcher.

  Oh! She scrambled to reach it. ‘Bertie?’

  ‘Otts, is he there?’ He sounded out of breath – and on the top of a hill, the wind battering itself against the phone.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gilmore! Who else?’

  She was taken aback by his snappishness. ‘No,’ she frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Has he told you what he’s done?’

  ‘. . . No,’ she said cautiously. He sounded furious. Beside himself.

  ‘He’s bloody suing me!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Says I’m liable for his accident. Reckless endangerment of life, he’s saying! That the course wasn’t clearly marked.’

  She gasped, feeling her mellow buzz pop like a champagne bubble. ‘But . . . that’s not fair.’

  ‘Fair? Of course it’s not fair! He’s just seen a bloody opportunity to screw me over and he’s going for it! If he can’t get the pot for the Triple – which he can’t now because he won’t recover in time to compete at Mont Blanc this year – then this is the next best thing! Except it’s even better than that! He’s after three times what he would have got for winning Mont Blanc.’

  ‘He’s suing you for three million?’ she whispered, blankly watching the beachcomber on the beach. Ben was suing Bertie? She couldn’t believe it. He’d said nothing to indicate it over breakfast – or during any of the time they’d spent together. He hadn’t ranted about his injuries, he hadn’t railed about the race conditions or set-up. He had seemed . . . accepting of what had happened, regarding it as one of those things. An accident, plain and simple.

  ‘Otts, you’ve got to talk to him. Talk him out of this.’