Pain shone in my eyes as I slicked on some fresh pink lipstick in the tea room toilet. My reflection in the oval mirror was ghost-like, despite the fiery colour of my hair escaping from its curly ponytail. I angrily zipped up my glittery make-up pouch and shoved it into my bag, next to the newspaper photo of Vaughan and Petra. I heard Vaughan’s rumbly voice talking to Travis in the hall. I turned and walked back into the tea room. Time to face the music.
‘Lara!’ His deep voice rumbled across the empty room.
I looked up. He was gorgeous in dark jeans, desert boots and a red V-neck T-shirt.
He might look like Christian Bale but he’s still a dick.
Before I had a moment to compose myself, he was across the floor and his mouth was on mine. Sparks flashed behind my eyelids but I found the strength to push him away, the feel of his skin lingering on the tips of my fingers.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ I said.
Vaughan’s lips stretched into a wide grin. ‘I like the sound of that.’
‘I don’t know that you will,’ I replied coldly, slapping the page from the newspaper on top of the counter.
Vaughan’s smile trickled away. ‘What’s this?’
‘You tell me,’ I ground out, trying to steady the shake in my voice, ‘although it looks pretty obvious from where I’m standing.’
He pushed the dark hair back off his face. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, I think I do. Your supposed business trip has made the news. Congratulations.’
Vaughan studied the photo lying in front of him. ‘You think I’ve been sneaking off with her?’ he said quietly.
I stared at him accusingly.
Vaughan’s eyes hardened. ‘For your information, I’ve been working on a special sculpture. A very special sculpture, in fact.’ He jerked his head dismissively at the photograph. ‘I don’t know where this has come from but it isn’t recent.’
I folded my arms protectively across my chest. ‘Right.’
Vaughan’s face turned to granite. ‘You don’t believe me? You’ve seen that photo and you’ve already made up your mind. What happened to innocent until proven guilty?’ I opened my mouth to speak but was silenced by his raised hand. ‘Do you know what? Forget it. You don’t believe me—or, at least, you don’t want to.’
He snatched up his brown holdall, swung it over his shoulder and was gone.
Forty-two
Keeping busy was my only option.
I baked like I was continuously on caffeine, offered to help with any last-minute problems with the imminent arts festival, and ensured all the tea room admin was in order for Morven. Then there was the gift shop to organise, thank goodness.
Every so often I would glance up at the tea room calendar in the kitchen. Circled in thick black pen were the dates of the twenty-seventh to the twenty-ninth of October, marking the arrival of the Aspirations Arts Festival and the reading of Hugo’s mysterious letter, when I couldn’t avoid Vaughan any longer. The thought of all this sent my stomach into a tailspin.
Morven assured me she was more than capable of dealing with any issues relating to the preparations for the gift shop and I knew that was true. But I also knew that the minute my concentration lapsed, my thoughts would travel to Vaughan. The only way to deal with my shattered emotions was never to have a spare moment to think.
During a mid-morning lull or a relatively quiet lunchtime, Morven and I would sit together over a pot of tea and discuss our progress with the gift shop. Becky’s mum, an enthusiastic bargain hunter, managed to source a comfortable old stool for Claire and Nancy to sit on while working there, and I threw myself into assisting Morven with locating and ordering other essentials, including a cash register. I also helped prepare a roster for Claire and Nancy—anything to keep my mind occupied.
We’d homed in on a small number of items to stock: luxurious stationery customised with the Glenlovatt name; coasters featuring delicate reproductions of Scottish artworks; paints and pencils in a range of different packs; some gorgeous ladies’ handbags, and leather wallets for gents; a selection of silk scarves and an assortment of silk ties; as well as intricately carved letter openers and a range of scented candles.
‘I think we should start with this lot and see how we go,’ said Morven. ‘What do you think? Lara?’
‘Sorry, I was miles away.’
Morven’s eyes narrowed. ‘Lars, are you really alright?’
‘Yes, of course I am. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’
‘Are you sure?’ she pushed. ‘It hasn’t got anything to do with—’
‘Honestly, Morvs, I have so much on right now, I just don’t even want to go there.’
Morven played with the pages of the catalogue lying on the table in front of us. ‘You’ve been working flat out recently. Don’t overdo it, okay?’ She glanced down at her rose gold wristwatch. ‘It’s your turn for lunch now.’
I slipped on my navy leather jacket and headed out to the gardens. The early October air was crisp and a tangle of clouds flurried overhead. Walking steadily along the path, I made my way further down the grounds. I could hear the musical splashes from the Fairview Burn, and intermittent song from birds as they flapped from tree to tree. Branches heavy with orange and red leaves dipped above my head.
I dipped my head, gently pushing a branch out of my way as I crossed down past a bank of high hedgerows. The mausoleum’s silhouette, now boasting Nancy’s red oak to the right of it, made me fight back a sigh. Sinking down underneath a nearby willow, I rammed my back poker straight against its solid, dark trunk. I pushed my beige flats further into the grass, watching as the emerald blades sprang back up again. They were resilient. Lucky them.
I had rehearsed in my mind what I wanted to say to Hugo, plucking words as though I was selecting flowers for a special bouquet, mixing and matching so they complemented one another. Instead, I opened my mouth and a heavy sob crashed out. ‘I’m sorry, Hugo. I’m so, so sorry.’
I half-expected him to answer me, but all I could hear was my own ragged breathing and spurts of birdsong. I dashed tears away with the back of my hand. ‘I didn’t mean to fall in love with Vaughan.’
I slumped down the tree trunk, tears now running freely down my cheeks. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to handle being here at Glenlovatt when Vaughan is with someone else.’ I rubbed my eyes, making them smart. ‘But I promise you, I won’t let you down. Even after this.’
I uncoiled myself and stood up. There were bits of leaves and grass clinging to my jeans. I dusted my clothes down sharply. ‘I’ve learned a lot about myself these past few months and that is because of you.’ My attention locked onto the Carmichael family crest of gold and blue roses and thistles, decorating the mausoleum entrance. ‘All I can do is try to build on the success we’ve had. Oh, and avoid your grandson. It’s for the best.’
Then I put my hand up to my mouth and blew Hugo a kiss.
The October weeks passed, leaving a carpet of read and amber leaves across the Glenlovall grounds. I, meanwhile, continued to avoid Vaughan at all costs. To my irrational irritation, he was doing exactly the same to me. A couple of times I thought I saw a tall, dark shadow hovering by the tea room door, but when I looked closer there was no one.
At other times Gordon would remark in passing that Vaughan was away, working on his ‘secret project’. On those few occasions he questioned me directly, his kind eyes would study me enquiringly: ‘Have you seen much of my son of late?’, I would rearrange my face into a polite smile and assure him that we were both just so busy. I could tell he knew I wasn’t being entirely truthful but chose not to press the point.
At home after another long day, I watched clouds of flour travel up to my kitchen ceiling. Goodness knows how this chocolate mud cake will turn out. Probably a bloody disaster, just like my personal life. I shook my head savagely before chopping dark chocolate into wedges with uncharacteristic force.
The Aspirations Arts Festival was a riotous carni
val of colour. Rows of tents and strings of red and white bunting weaved their way across and around the Glenlovatt grounds, like dozens of butterflies.
Gordon and I had meandered around beforehand, astonished at how efficiently everything was taking shape. Tarpaulins had been erected near the festival entry, to host a variety of artisans—everyone from woodwork craftsmen to Celtic jewellers, glass blowers and leatherworkers. There were a couple of mobile libraries, packed with everything from Scottish poetry to Tartan Noir. There were child-friendly spaces littered with beanbags, books, and art stations where they could paint, paste and draw. A puppeteer was making final adjustments to his cast of woodland animals, their glossy painted expressions and wooden limbs ready to come to life.
A bit further down the sweep of lawns was a collection of writers and painters, there to present and sell their work. Some wore pensive expressions as they hovered over their particular creations, positioning their landscapes of shaggy Highland cattle and craggy, sea-soaked harbours, or stacking their piles of novels to attract the crowd who would hopefully be arriving shortly.
A sound check burbled close by, where a pair of stand-up comedians were perched on a small stage. A theatre troupe waved at them cheerily as they sauntered past dressed in bright tights and feathered plumes.
The festival was due to open in an hour and the basket of butterflies I was carrying around in my stomach now threatened to envelop my whole body. I couldn’t quite believe it was the twenty-seventh of October already.
‘It’s going to be quite a day,’ grinned Gordon, nodding to a couple of jugglers in top hats. ‘And don’t forget that Hugo’s solicitor is arriving at 6pm to read out that letter.’ He raised his eyes to the sky. ‘Goodness knows what revelations it will contain. I suppose we’ll know soon enough.’ He added with a sigh, ‘Even in death that old bugger can manage to cause a stir.’
I forced a laugh, but the mention of the opening of Hugo’s letter triggered those butterflies into action again. Despite my efforts to bury myself in the business of the tea room and all the festival and gift shop preparations, I couldn’t avoid Vaughan Carmichael today. I was dreading it.
Travis appeared. ‘Mr Carmichael? Phone call for you, sir.’
‘Excuse me,’ apologised Gordon, following Travis across the dew-decked grass.
I looked up at the morning sky. The sun was making promising glimpses from behind scudding clouds and the smell of wood smoke lurked in the air. Glenlovatt looked proudly on, like a contented mother admiring her family.
I smiled absently at an elderly gent at a nearby stall who was laying out a selection of carefully crafted and painted snow globes. He adjusted his beige quilted gilet before tipping his cap respectfully at me. Hugo used to do that all the time. It was an old-fashioned mannerism but one that used to make me glow.
Oh no. Not again. The ghost of Hugo shimmered before my eyes, threatening tears.
I spun on my heel and took quick steps back towards the house. One consolation, at least, was that we expected Thistles to be even more busy than usual over the weekend. Hopefully, we’d be swamped with coffee-seeking culture vultures and cake-craving writers and I wouldn’t have time to sit down, let alone think about Vaughan and his impending marriage.
I had recruited two temps from a hospitality agency to help us cover the expected long weekend rush and assist in doing some extra baking for the additional customers. They were Greta, an older lady who had worked in a bakery chain, and Logan, a tall, gangly student. Becky protested otherwise, but Logan most definitely fancied her. When he’d come in last week for a chat, his square, freckled face morphed into a tomato when he’d clocked Becky’s candy-haired cuteness. When Morven or I asked him a question, he was fine. But when Becky did the talking, he transformed into a gibbering wreck.
‘Logan’s cute,’ I had remarked, after he’d almost given himself concussion walking into the door on his way out. ‘He’s got that cheeky look going on, hasn’t he?’
Becky had sucked in her cheeks. ‘You make it sound like he’s an eight-week-old puppy.’
‘Very funny,’ I’d replied, brandishing a cake slice at her. ‘There goes your defence mechanism again.’
‘And you can talk!’ guffawed Becky, piling more cups into the dishwasher.
The atmosphere had assumed a rather tense edge at that point and we’d both dropped the conversation.
A throng of hungry art collectors now spilled into Thistles and Greta’s grey head was bowed in concentration, counting out change, while Logan was describing the ingredients of an Eton Mess to a man wrapped in a woven waistcoat.
Each time a new customer came in, I’d deliver a wide smile and a ‘Good morning’, hoping my cheery smile would keep thoughts of Vaughan at bay.
The morning disappeared in a flurry of customers seeking warm, buttered scones and cups of delicious scented coffee. Once lunchtime arrived, we were subjected to many families with hungry children.
Jess’s lunch choices of the day, cod fishcakes or lasagne with crunchy salad for the children, and blue cheese tartlets or steak and ale pie for the adults, received many orders. Business was so busy, it made our heads spin. Tables were occupied, cleared and then occupied again. Festival goers filtered in and out as though on a conveyor belt, many with pieces of artwork or books under their arms, along with goodies in our trademark white and green Thistles bags.
We’d opted for a relay system, so that all of us in the tea room were able to have a quick browse and snatch a breather and a snack. ‘Go on, Lara,’ urged Greta. ‘Get a break. It’s a little quieter now.’
A huge part of me didn’t want to. Though it was already mid-afternoon, I didn’t feel particularly hungry.
Greta frowned at me. ‘You need to eat something.’ Then she used the tongs to pick up the last of the seeded turkey and cranberry salad rolls. ‘Here,’ she instructed, wrapping it in one of our green napkins, ‘you can nibble on that while you walk.’
I dropped my head. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I won’t be long.’
I brushed past a family of four in baseball caps, and strode out into Glenlovatt’s majestic hall and darted out of the side entrance. My feet crunched the pink gravel and I found that I must have been hungrier than I’d thought. I polished off the last of the roll Greta had given me and deposited the crumbs in my napkin. I lobbed it into a nearby bin as I walked across to the line of tents, canvas and bunting rippling in the afternoon breeze.
Cars were still gliding into the allotted parking areas, guided in by local volunteers, their neon jackets bright dots in the distance. From somewhere close by, a PA system crackled into life, giving details of a talk that was soon to begin. A handful of students decked out in brightly coloured waistcoats delivered friendly smiles to the arrivals, along with a program and map of the grounds. Over by the oak trees, jugglers were hypnotising some preschool children with their flying batons. The performers’ top hats, encrusted in silver mirrors, dazzled as they dipped and weaved in front of their youthful audience.
I stopped at a jewellery stall, for want of something to do. Up ahead I saw Gordon chatting to the man in the beige gilet. When he spotted me, he waved cheerily. I waved back and fingered a pair of rose gold earrings. Vaughan was an open wound that I had to forget about but there would always be reminders of him everywhere I went here. Maybe I should take a short break somewhere, like the Lake District. I could rent a little cottage, wander the shores of Coniston Water, take myself on some long walks, recharge my batteries and try to put all this firmly in my past.
My chest heaved. I couldn’t take a holiday at the moment, especially while Thistles was still being established, let alone the gift shop. And what would I do on a holiday by myself? I’d probably spend the week wandering around myriad beautiful lakes without even seeing them, moping and feeling sorry for myself.
Making a new resolution not to dwell on the past or things I couldn’t control, I drifted away from the jewellery stall—and froze.
Vaughan and
Petra were standing by the corner of a red tent brimming with paintings of heather-dotted Scottish landscapes. They were in animated conversation. Vaughan’s arms were crossed while Petra toyed with strands of her sunflower yellow hair, her white maxi dress flapping about her heels. She looked like she’d just walked out of a shampoo advert.
I wanted to move but the sight of them together was magnetic.
Vaughan’s muscles tensed under his black shirt. His sleeves were rolled up and there were glimpses of his muscular arms. He turned his head sharply in response to something Petra said.
Bugger! I think he saw me.
I turned away and started back towards the tea room, increasing my speed. If I was quick I could lose myself in the crowds. My heart thrashed against my ribcage. The crushing pain at seeing both of them together was speedily replaced by a desperate urgency to get away. I didn’t dare look back.
Staring straight ahead, I muttered ‘Excuse me’ here and there, squeezing through the crush of bodies until I’d almost reached the edge of the lawns, when I felt a tug on my right arm.
I spun around, confused.
Vaughan’s hand was clamped on my arm, with a frozen-faced Petra bringing up the rear.
‘You can really move when you want to,’ he gasped, ‘but I’m not letting you run away on this occasion.’
‘I’m not running away,’ I snapped. ‘I have to get back to work.’
The disbelief in his voice was evident. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes,’ I said, snatching my arm away. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go.’
Petra’s heavily made-up face was hard. Pushing my loose hair back over my shoulder, I turned back towards the tea room before letting out a sharp squeal as I was lifted off my feet, the grass suddenly falling away from me. ‘What the?’
Vaughan had swung me cleanly over his shoulder and was now striding purposefully through the bemused crowds. What the hell was he doing and where was he taking me? My bum was pointing upwards for all to see while my red curls tipped down and over my horrified face. At least that was a blessing.
A Room at the Manor Page 23
