by Karen Swan
‘Sure it does. He wants to keep you here, waiting for him. He doesn’t want you out in the world, being free, doing what you’re supposed to be doing, following your talent. He’ll lose you that way and he knows it.’
She blinked, staring at him on and on. This was a bluff. He couldn’t know about them. How could he know? They’d been so careful. Discreet. ‘Lose me? Look, I don’t know what you think is—’
‘Just stop, Ottie.’ His voice was quiet but firm and she saw in the stillness of his eyes that he did know. That he’d always known. ‘I knew it the first time I saw you together – when he came over to discuss the race details. And the other day on the beach – you opened the curtains, remember?’
She stared at him, hardly able to believe he had guessed, that he had seen what no one else could. Hot, angry tears stung her eyes, knowing she was cornered. ‘. . . And what business is it of yours?’
‘None,’ he shrugged. ‘But I know that affairs destroy lives. And I know he’s not good enough for you. That what he’s doing is wrong. Surely you can see that? He’s old enough to be your father, for Chrissakes.’
‘So? Age is just a number.’ It was a pithy, Hallmark-card thing to say and she saw it spark his anger.
‘Is it? How old were you when it started?’
‘Nineteen,’ she snapped back. ‘Old enough to make my own decisions.’
‘And how did it start?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Tell me.’
‘No.’
‘Tell me.’
‘No.’
‘Tell me.’ His eyes searched hers, not letting go. He collected data for a living; he knew which questions to ask to alter the courses of entire countries. He knew how to get to the truth.
She felt something in her slacken. Give up. They’d all know in a few days anyway, and as for Ben – he’d be gone, anyway, far from here. ‘He was helping me move in here, all right?’ she said finally, more quietly, her eyes casting around the room, unable to meet his. ‘I was about to go to art school but I wanted my own space for when I came back in the holidays. Dad knew I loved painting down here so he said I could do up this place and have it for my own, as a studio.’
‘And?’
‘And so that was what I was doing. Bertie happened to be out riding on the beach one day and he looked in and offered to help.’
‘And what – one thing led to another? Just like that?’ Anger flashed in his eyes again, a rare peak of emotion breaking through his controlled veneer.
‘No, not just like that. It happened over time.
‘How much time?’
She swallowed. ‘. . . About a week.’
‘Oh, well,’ he scoffed. ‘It must have been incredibly romantic.’
‘It happened by accident, okay? I hadn’t – I hadn’t thought –’ she stammered, feeling her cheeks burn. ‘But he was funny. And clever. He knew about stuff.’
Ben stared at her, his mouth set in a grim line. For every one comment he did make, she could see there were ten he didn’t. ‘So that’s why you jacked in art school. For him.’
‘No.’ She was vehement. ‘He asked me to stay, but I said no.’
‘Until your dad asked you?’
‘That was different. He was my father. He needed help. I had responsibilities here.’
‘And you don’t think it was a coincidence that your father should do that, when he’d been helping set you up for art school – giving you the studio here? It wasn’t odd to you, that he’d suddenly ask you to stay instead? Give up on your dreams just as you were packing your bags?’
‘No . . .’ But her voice wavered. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to imply. Bertie couldn’t have had anything to do with that.’
‘Couldn’t he? He was your father’s best friend – a casual suggestion on the golf course to him, a few snide, crushing comments about your talent to you . . . Suddenly you’re not motivated to leave and your father wants you to stay. And Bertie gets to keep you as his pretty little secret on the private beach – right here, whenever he wants you.’
She stared at him, hardly able to believe the cruelty in his words. ‘You bastard,’ she whispered. ‘He wouldn’t do that.’
‘Ottie, you need to hear the truth – he’s manipulated you and he’s using you.’
‘He’s leaving his wife for me!’
‘No. He won’t. They never do.’
‘We’re in love.’
‘That isn’t love. It’s obvious why you’re with him.’
‘Oh really?’ Sarcasm spiked every word. ‘Could you enlighten me then? Tell me what I’m doing with my own life and why?’
He stared at her, looking almost sad. ‘You’ve never felt good enough for your father.’
‘Bullshit!’ The word tore from her like a bullet.
‘Is it? You’re the first child and eldest daughter of the last knight of Ireland. I saw it on your face when you first told me about him – just by virtue of being born female you felt you had already failed him. It’s why you were so prepared to drop your own dreams the moment he asked. You thought it would compensate at last for not being a boy. His heir.’
‘Take that back,’ she said in a quiet, shaky voice, her eyes burning.
Instead he stepped closer to her and, for the first time, she noticed he was walking without a crutch. ‘In your heart, you’ve always feared he didn’t really want you, so you attached yourself to the closest thing to him: his best friend. And now you think that getting Bertie to give up everything for you will finally prove you’re enough, that you’re worthy. But you deserve better than this, Ottie,’ he said, waving his hand around the small, bare cottage. ‘You should be out in the world, not kept a virtual prisoner in a field on your parents’ estate.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked, her voice cracking tears shining in her eyes, his words like hot pokers.
He stared at her for a long moment, seeing her tears. He stepped closer and swept them away with his thumb. ‘Because you are throwing your life away with him.’
His voice was low. Sad. She looked up at him, seeing the care he took over her, like she was delicate. Precious. ‘And what? You think I could have a better one with someone else?’
‘Yes.’ His eyes locked onto her and she felt it again, that change between them. The sob caught in her throat like silk on a thorn as they stood there, inches apart.
‘Why do you care who makes me happy?’ she asked in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.
‘I just do.’
‘You care about me?’
He didn’t respond for a moment, but then nodded. ‘Yes.’
Their faces were so close, she could have kissed him with a single pout of her lips. ‘You think you could make me happy?’
He swallowed. Suddenly it was his turn to be quiet, on the back foot. ‘. . . Yes.’
There was a long silence. She raised a hand and traced it lightly over his newly shaven cheek, feeling his hand hover, and then settle, onto her hip, his head begin to dip towards her –
‘Then drop the lawsuit.’
There was a moment of stillness as her words settled. Neither one of them moved but the air between them became solid. Dense. ‘What?’
‘If you care about my happiness, as you say you do, then drop the lawsuit.’
He jerked his hand away, backing off from her. ‘Are you serious?’ Anger inflected in his voice again.
‘Bertie was with me when he was supposed to be putting the signs out; he only came over here instead because he was worried about me: my father had just died and I was distraught. Lonely. But if you carry on with this action, it’ll all come out about me and Bertie and the people who’ll be hurt most will be Shula and my mother.’
He had gone pale.
‘Why d’you think I brought you here in the first place, Ben?’ she cried. ‘It wasn’t out of the goodness of my heart. It wasn’t because I’m a good person. It was guilt because it was my
fault you were injured in the first place. All of this is on me. If you sue Bertie . . . then you hurt me.’ She stared at him with bright, desperate, beautifully green eyes. ‘Is that really what you want?’
It was her favourite day of the year. Not Christmas Day itself, with the presents and the turkey and the television specials, but this one, when anticipation beat revelation. Just the spectacle of it made Pip’s skin prickle: two hundred faces lit up by flickering tea lights held in home-decorated jam jars, carols sung with white breath that hung in the night air, the church choir warm in heavy cassocks, children running between adults’ legs, everyone clustered around the Christmas tree like some ancient village elder, the welcoming lights of the Hare shining in the background . . . None of the villagers ever missed this and Pip knew she wasn’t alone in treasuring this annual tradition.
Ottie came back with their glasses of mulled wine, seemingly on a mission to get them all drunk – this was their third in twenty minutes. Pip hated the stuff but was drinking it nonetheless; it was the only fitting drink for tonight.
‘Thanks,’ Willow murmured, taking hers obediently, even though she was far from being in the party spirit. In fact, she’d barely said a word since getting here, falling back into her signature silence again.
‘Thanks, Otts,’ Pip said, taking hers too. ‘And you can have that back.’
‘What is it?’ Ottie frowned, peering closer at the photograph.
‘Fell out of your pocket when you took your card out to get the drinks.’
‘Oh.’ Ottie stared at it intently.
‘Who is she?’ Pip asked. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ Willow murmured again, casting her gaze almost nervously around the green.
‘Oh, uh . . . just a camper,’ Ottie replied distractedly. She had been in an odd mood all evening too, surprising Pip by turning up to hers early for a ‘quick snifter’ as she’d put it and making no reference at all to her red bleary eyes. Pip didn’t need to ask – the bad days over Dad came and went without warning and there was never any telling when the tears would hit. ‘I found it in one of the pitches when I was cleaning up the other day.’
‘She does not look like a camper,’ Pip guffawed, checking out the corporate-looking image again as she sipped on the wine. Despite both her sisters’ low moods, she was in better spirits than she’d felt in weeks. Winning back Shalimar had felt karmic somehow, the universe giving her something back after the thorough kicking it had inflicted on her lately. Ottie slipped the photo back in her coat pocket. She seemed distracted too, looking around the crowd constantly, as though searching for someone in particular.
Pip coughed into her fist and pulled her collar up as high as it would go. She had put on her heaviest jacket as promised but the cold night air wasn’t helping her chest and she felt wheezy. It was trying to snow again, occasional flake flurries dancing above their heads in dervishes, and she’d got chilled back at the stables after the race, trying to rug-up the horses for the night without having a moment to shower and warm herself up first.
‘Brrr,’ she said, stamping her feet and bringing the glass to her face to allow the steam from the wine to provide a little warmth. She wasn’t sure if she was freezing cold or burning up. ‘Why don’t they start already? It’s freezing. God, I hope Joe can hold my stool at the bar for me. I feel like a block of ice.’
‘Really?’ Willow said, looking at her closely for a moment, before pulling off a mitten and pressing the back of her hand to her forehead.
‘You spend far too much time in that pub,’ Ottie murmured.
‘You don’t spend enough time in it, if you ask me,’ Pip quipped.
‘Jeesht, you’re burning up, Pip!’ Willow said, removing her hand as though it was scorched.
‘Or your hands are freezing and I just feel hot in comparison?’
‘No. You are very definitely hot. Feel her, Otts.’
‘Oh jeesht,’ Pip groaned, trying to lean away and duck as Ottie leaned in too, giving a similar scowl.
‘Yeah. You are. How are you feeling?’
‘Same as you. Frozen. It’s trying to snow out here, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘I don’t think you’re shivering because of the weather, Pip. You’ve got a nasty cough and a temperature.’
‘Fine. Big deal. I’ll take a paracetamol when I get in then. But please, please can we get on and sing “Away in a Manger”?’ she asked pleadingly, her hands pressed together in prayer. ‘—Ooh.’
‘Sausages, girls?’ Betty, Joe’s mother, asked. She was going around with a deep oven dish full of hot honey-glazed sausages.
‘Your timing couldn’t be more perfect,’ Pip beamed, taking two, coughing again.
‘Pip—’ Willow frowned, just as Fred Malone, the choirmaster at St Agnes’ church, picked up his conducting stick – or ‘wand’, as they’d insisted on calling it as kids – and a hush fell over the buzzy crowd. A small boy with side-combed dark hair that was trying to remain neat stepped forward, a hymn sheet in his hand.
‘Once in royal David’s city . . .’
His voice, as pure and crystalline as a raindrop, soared into the air so that even the babies were stilled and Pip felt a moment of peace descend. Suddenly the world felt beautiful again. Innocent and hopeful as though perhaps love really could save them all.
Her gaze fell across the faces of the gathered village residents – most of them she had known her whole life – a quiet happiness shining from them; none of them had much but her father had always said ‘enough is as good as a feast’ and they had what they needed. What struck her most was how contented they seemed and tonight, with her equine family reunited in their stables, she felt like one of their number too. She had enough.
The sound of a car door softly clunking shut made her look up and through the halo of a street light she saw her mother stepping down from the Flanagans’ black Range Rover, wearing the old fox fur hat that she had bought in Moscow with their father twenty-five years ago and which still looked chic.
‘Mam’s here,’ she whispered to the others, nudging Ottie’s arm to get her attention and sipping on her wine as she felt yet another bracket of coughs begin to tickle her throat. It was getting beyond tedious.
Ottie looked over and saw them too, her eyes fastening intently on the party of three as they tiptoed over the snow into the Hare, all eager for a warming aperitif first, before joining in.
‘So at last, our hearts shall see him . . .’ The village’s collective voice swooped around the green as one: young and old, deep and high, tuneful and tone deaf. Pip felt herself lifted up. She smiled as she sang, her gaze swinging over the crowd gratefully and eyes met hers in silent communion, feeling it too.
But one face . . . She couldn’t quite place it, her mind reaching back through the day, the week, the . . .
‘Oh my God,’ she whispered urgently to Willow, grabbing her sister’s coat sleeve and shaking it excitedly as she remembered those movie star looks beneath a crystal chandelier. ‘There’s that fella from the party, the one you liked. He’s here! What’s he doing here?’
But as the question left her lips, she remembered the other things Willow had told her about him too: how he was the one who’d pulled her from the water, her hero (to be honest, he looked like a hero). But not only that – he was the one who’d wanted to buy the castle from her father, who’d undercut him in the deal. Anti-hero too then.
She fell still. Why was he here? The Lorne carol concert was of no interest to anyone but locals. It was just a small village event, not flashy enough for the likes of him. Unless . . .
Unless he planned on becoming a local too.
She looked across at her little sister with alarm, but Willow’s eyes had already found him, and his her, the two of them locked in a sort of silent tussle. They were communicating without words across the crowd, their faces lit by candlelight, but what were they saying? Pip felt locked out of their conversation.
She felt a swell of coughs
begin to roll through her lungs again. It always came in waves and she knew the night air was making it so much worse tonight. She pressed a fist to her mouth and tried to cough quietly, discreetly into it, but it only triggered the attack further and it took off, leaving her struggling for breath as she hacked and spluttered.
Several people took a step away from her, Ottie slapping her firmly on the back. ‘You okay?’
Unable to speak, Pip nodded and gestured with her thumb that she was going to the back of the crowd, to cough away from everyone. Ottie nodded in understanding, watching with concerned eyes as she turned and dipped through the carol-singing throng, staggering over the green towards the bright lights of the pub.
Her lungs felt like they were on fire, the pain in her chest which she’d pointedly ignored on the beach and at the stables, insisting on her full attention now. Her breathing felt laboured and shallow, as though it was difficult to pull oxygen from this vaulted black star-studded sky. She looked upwards, trying to breathe and calm down, but instead she felt dizzier, like the world was tipping onto its side.
And then suddenly it did – tilting over, bringing the ground out from under her feet and pressing her cheek against the snow.
‘– Pip.’ The voice was urgent in her ear.
She opened her eyes, feeling the cold. She saw the Hare, perpendicular in her field of sight.
She scrabbled her feet in and tried to stand.
‘Whoa!’
A hand pressed on her shoulder, trying to keep her still and she looked to see Taigh O’Mahoney crouched beside her. ‘You passed out, Pip. What happened?’
‘N-nothing, I slipped.’ She tried to get to her feet again but she felt shaky and weak.
His eyes roamed her face. ‘Your lips are blue.’ The back of his hand pressed against her forehead. ‘And you’ve got a fever. Have you had any pains in your chest?’
She pushed him away. ‘No. Go away.’ She stood up but her balance felt precarious, her legs like a new-born foal’s, about to give way.
‘Pip, you’re sick. You’ve got pneumonia.’
