by Jenny Colgan
Flora had absolutely no wish to hear what Daddy had to say. She tugged down her ridiculous kilt for the last bloody time, her own face bright red, conscious that people would be wondering where she was and what she was up to, then backed away. She was going to find the Land Rover and get out of there; she wanted nothing more to do with Charlie, Jan, Joel, Inge-Britt, Murians, Londoners, Americans, or basically anyone else on earth.
She caught sight of the ongoing party as she left. Colton was still grandstanding in the middle of it, but the music now sounded grating to her ears, the happy sounds of people having a good time were like the silly twitterings of birds in a zoo, and the beautiful warm, happy rooms were ruined, as if someone had turned on a nasty fluorescent light and shown every line on people’s faces, every mark on their clothes; and soon everything would turn dark and dingy and fade away.
Chapter Thirty-six
Flora had sobered up enough to give Lorna a lift home from the Rock. On the way she’d told her what had happened with Charlie and Jan.
“And what’s her bloody dad got to do with it?” she had finished, furious. “She’s a grown woman. She should act like one.”
“Yeah, about that,” Lorna had said, genuinely hating to be the bearer of bad news. “He’s Fraser Mathieson. That’s Jan Mathieson.”
“Fraser Mathieson, member of the town council?” said Flora quietly.
“Um, yup,” said Lorna.
“Fraser Mathieson, the island’s richest man? Apart from Colton? Oh crap,” said Flora. “God, men are nobbers.”
“I liked Charlie.”
“I wasn’t even talking about him,” said Flora glumly, and went on to tell Lorna about Joel and Inge-Britt. “Everything sucks ass.”
They carried on online when they reached their respective homes. Kai and Lorna had never met, but they were getting acquainted on WhatsApp and were absolutely united, and it was helping, it really was. Flora sat by the light of the dying fire, drinking tea to try and make herself feel better, though it wasn’t working. Thank God for Bramble, who had his big head in her lap, occasionally gently licking her hand, as if bestowing tiny kisses.
Nobber, typed Lorna.
Awful, awful man, said Kai. Would you like us to have him killed for you?
That would be nice.
I’ll get some poison from Saif’s medicine cabinet! added Lorna.
I’ll put fish in his desk drawer.
Flora smiled and sighed and tucked into some cookies she’d left behind in the kitchen, thinking they’d probably need sustenance later. That was the thing about dancing and heartache: it made you hungrier than you’d think. She had heard there were girls who just faded away when they were sad. Flora was not one of those girls.
She was almost smiling when she heard a car pull up at the door. She frowned. Her father had returned with Innes and Hamish a while ago and they were now all tucked up in bed; she could make out her father’s snoring from here. Agot had had to be dragged away from the party, loudly protesting; she had danced every dance, often simply appearing in front of the first available man and demanding he partner her. Heaven knows what she was going to be like at fourteen.
So who was this then?
For a tiny second, a bit of her thought it might be Joel, come to beg or say sorry, that he’d much prefer a mousy legal aide to some six-foot blond Icelandic Amazon. But of course he didn’t have a car here. She’d been driving him about. She shook her head, furious with herself again for being such an idiot. Oh God! It suddenly struck her: when he had seen her dancing, had he been laughing? Was that what she’d seen on his face? Amusement? Ridicule at her funny little rural ways? She felt her face burn red. This evening had started so well, had gone so amazingly; she couldn’t have counted up the compliments about the food. And now here she was back in the stupid old kitchen, staring at her tea. Again.
Or could it be Charlie? His kiss had been strong and heartfelt and had awakened something in her, something she hadn’t felt for so long . . . she didn’t even want to think how long. All this time, with work and confusion and grief and a silly unobtainable crush that kept her from looking around, she’d been ignoring herself, what she needed, what she wanted. She touched her mouth experimentally. It felt puffy. Just to feel wanted again, to feel desired . . . to know it was still there . . .
Whoever was outside didn’t seem to be coming in. She crept to the kitchen window, but the lights were off. She could just make out two heads moving in the windshield—it was a large Range Rover—then suddenly realized that she could be seen with the light from the fire behind her and scuttled away.
Seconds later, Fintan pushed through the kitchen door and the car drove away, bumping down the rocky path.
Flora looked up and went to pour another cup of tea.
“What time do you call this?” she said in a teasing tone, trying to cover up her own heartache.
Fintan looked at her and smiled a slow smile, then blinked, equally slowly. He looked a little dazed.
“Sorry. Sorry, I . . . Yeah. Colton offered me a lift home.”
“Colton offered you a lift home?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Are you sure he hadn’t drunk too much whisky?”
“Oh yeah,” said Fintan, taking the tea gratefully. “He totally had. I thought it was bumpy coming home.”
“FINN!”
“No, it’s okay, Officer Clark was passed out under the cake table when I left. It was stripped clean, by the way. People were licking plates. You really aren’t half bad.”
Flora frowned and ignored the compliment as she poured some milk into his cup.
“So . . .”
Fintan bit his lip and tried to hide his smirk.
“Mm?”
“Well . . .”
“Flora, if you want to ask, just ask.”
“I do want to ask. Does Dad know?”
“Why? Do you think the shock would kill him?”
Flora shook her head.
“I don’t know why it never occurred to me,” she said.
“Because you never gave us a second thought.”
“That’s not true.”
“You know it is, Flora. You know it. You left and you never thought of us again, up here, shoveling cowshit.”
“Stop it,” said Flora. “Please. I’m exhausted. Please can we not fight anymore? Tonight should have been good. It was good.”
“Oh no, it’s fine, we don’t have to fight. Fintan’s gay now, wow, isn’t that amazing, your family’s almost cool enough for a mainland girl.”
“Fintan!” Flora was properly crying now, furious that she could barely get the words out.
“Yeah, now you’ve got something acceptable for your smart metropolitan friends, eh?”
She took a deep breath, stood up, and looked him straight in the eye.
“What, so you had a boyfriend before I came back? Before you met Colton?”
Fintan didn’t answer.
“So you were already breaking out of your old life and trying to make a go of catering and setting things up and making your own way . . . before I came back?”
There was a long pause. Fintan shrugged.
“I was all right.”
“Or you could say, thank you, sis, for introducing me to Colton.”
He looked at her, and they were both up to the brim with pain. Eventually Fintan shrugged.
“I’m sorry.”
Flora swallowed.
“I’m sorry too.”
They sat down together at the old table, Fintan fiddling with his spoon.
“The funeral . . .”
“I said some stuff I didn’t mean.”
Fintan nodded.
“So you never came back at all.”
“I was ashamed.”
“And did staying away make you happy?”
Flora shook her head.
“I’m not sure I even know what happy is. It made me busy. Isn’t that enough?”
“I don’t think
so.”
He reached his hand over to her.
“Sorry I yelled. It’s been brewing a long time.”
“I know,” said Flora. “I realized that.”
“And I have . . . It has been good since you got back, Flora. I mean it. You’ve just . . . I shouldn’t have gotten stuck in that stupid rut. I was so bitter.”
“Thanks,” said Flora.
“Still, don’t tell Dad just yet,” said Fintan.
“I won’t. He’s barely talking to me anyway.”
He smiled.
“He’s pretty awesome, though, don’t you think?”
“Colton?”
Fintan nodded.
“Yes. Did he keep the hat on?”
“None of your business.”
“His great big gigantic feathery headdress.”
“Shut up, you!”
Flora smiled.
“So, you’re not seeing your boss tonight?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You do like him, don’t you? I’m not imagining things?”
Flora shook her head.
“You can forget about that. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He met Inge-Britt.”
“Oh, the Spicelander.”
Flora nodded.
“So. It’s okay. I’m fine.”
She debated whether to tell him about Charlie and decided against it. Presumably it would be round the island by the morning anyway.
“He didn’t seem like your type.”
“I wish everyone would stop saying that.”
“I mean . . . well, I don’t know. I think I just saw you with somebody nice. Like Charlie MacArthur.”
“Joel is nice!” flared Flora.
“Is he?”
“Oh God, I don’t know. You know what it’s like when you’re just so mad for someone and they’re all you think about and you can’t get them out of your head and you just want to—”
She stopped herself.
“Oh yes,” said Fintan. “God, the crush I had on Officer Clark.”
“Really?” said Flora, remembering a certain Viking festival a long time ago.
“Oh yes. Years.”
“But I . . . I got off with him!”
“Yeah, I remember. Thanks for that.”
“Christ, no wonder we used to fight so much.”
Fintan smiled.
“Don’t worry. I got my revenge at the Christmas party.”
“Who with?”
Fintan named Flora’s boyfriend from when she was fifteen; he had worked down at the garage and she had thought he was terribly risqué because he rode a motorcycle. Her mother had been incensed.
“NO WAY!”
“Och aye the noo, up here on Mure there’s nothing much going on, you know.”
Flora narrowed her eyes at him.
“I’m going to bed before you tell me anything else utterly horrifying.”
“Oh yes, nothing to see here, just us and the pixies and the selkies and the—”
“Shut up!”
“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I’m off to bed. It’s the bloody yearlings’ transportation tomorrow. Off to the mainland with a bunch of coos. What could be more fun?”
They embraced, warmly, and Flora switched off her phone and felt better. Just about.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Joel stood staring at the white waves outside his window. Behind him on the bed, Inge-Britt lay fast asleep, magnificently long and tousled, looking to Joel like so many other girls. She’d already told him she had to get up first thing to make breakfast.
He turned back to the streaked window. It was broad daylight again, even though it was only 5 A.M. How could anyone stand it? When did anyone here ever sleep? How could they? Did you just get used to living your entire life in the light? He supposed you did. It wasn’t dawn; it was morning.
But a rough, squally, frenzied morning it looked to be. The waves were pounding, and although there weren’t any trees to gauge the wind speed, he could see the heather bowed low in the gusts. A heron took off down by the edge of the surf, and he saw it struggle for a moment, stretching out its wings and heading determinedly into what looked like a proper storm.
He looked up. There was just so much sky here. The clouds were moving across it so fast it looked like they’d been sped up, as if he was watching a film in fast motion. He found himself slightly hypnotized by them.
Even though he was tired, so tired—he never slept these days, even by his standards—there was the dim and distant fact that work would be piling up on his desk; things he shouldn’t be missing or losing out on; that the world was rushing on without him; that he should probably sit down and get a few hours in right now if he wasn’t going back to bed.
But he didn’t. Instead he grabbed a glass of water, pulled on a large navy sweater from the pile Margo had packed for him, and sat in a chair next to the window, his feet up on the ledge.
He found himself just watching the clouds, losing himself slightly drowsily in the whirling patterns and shapes they made fleeing across the sky, and he realized that in some strange way, despite everything, he hadn’t felt so calm for months, for a long time. He thought about Flora. He had dodged a bullet; he had seen her face. That should make him feel better. But somehow it didn’t.
On the other hand, he would see her that day. And that made him feel oddly comforted.
He watched the clouds tumble here and there, and as he did so, he felt his heartbeat gradually slow, and before he knew it, it was eight o’clock, and although he hadn’t realized he’d dozed off, there was no sign of Inge-Britt, and the storm was still blowing, and it was time to go to work.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Can I have it to go?” Flora was saying to Iona and Isla, who were both nursing the truly gigantic hangovers only achievable by students who haven’t met a free bar before. Also Isla had pulled in young Ruaridh, which was not pleasing Iona. Unless it was vice versa.
“You shouldn’t have a paper cup. You should bring a thermos,” said a bossy voice.
Flora turned around. There was Jan, wearing a bright pink fleece that would have looked unflattering on Mila Kunis. Her heart skipped.
“Jan!” she said. “Look. You have to believe me. I had absolutely no idea . . . Charlie told me you’d split up. I would never have—”
Jan passed over her thermos without acknowledging her.
“Hello, Isla.”
“Morning,” said Isla. “Did you have a good time at the party?”
“No. Apart from everything else, such terrible showing off,” said Jan. “I can’t stand that kind of over-the-top display, can you?”
Flora thought about how much food she’d seen Jan stuff down her gullet last night at Colton’s expense, and clenched her fists.
“Och, I thought it was nice,” said Isla. “You looked bonnie, Flora.”
“Thanks,” said Flora. “I thought I looked a bit daft.”
“Yes, there’s a time for squeezing yourself into a dancing kilt, isn’t there?” said Jan, as if she weren’t, Flora thought crossly, wearing a bright pink fleece. “And a time when you’re just a bit past it.”
She swept out, leaving Flora staring behind her.
“Can I bar her?” she wondered aloud.
“You’re going to start barring locals?” said Iona in surprise.
“You’re right,” said Flora. “It’s not wise, is it?”
“What did you do?” said Iona.
“Ooh!” began Isla, a cheeky look on her face.
“All right, all right, you can gossip when I’ve gone,” said Flora. “But you should know, I thought they’d broken up.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s almost like Friends has finally made it to Mure, only twenty years after everywhere else.”
She glanced around.
“Right. I’m taking all the bannocks.”
Joel might not fancy me, she thought, and I don’t know if I can face mentioning the potential bad news about Fraser Mathieson. But they can’t not welcome a warm, crusty bann
ock on a chilly morning.
Colton had sent the boat for her, as the boys had taken the Land Rover to tow the protesting yearlings to the airport. It was a nasty, messy business and none of them ever enjoyed it, especially on such a horrible morning.
In the dining room at the Rock, though, everything was spotlessly cleared away, the fire was lit, and all was warm and cozy. It looked lovely.
Colton glanced up as Flora entered, bearing a tray.
“I’ve forgotten,” he said. “Are we mounting a legal challenge or launching the MacKenzie Catering Company?”
“Legal challenge,” said Flora, just as Joel said, “Can’t it be both?”
But she didn’t look at him, didn’t raise her head, and he felt a little tawdry and embarrassed.
Flora concentrated on spreading local honey on the bannock from the Café by the Sea. It was delicious, and with coffee from Colton’s expensive machine, utterly perfect. Outside, it was now blowing an absolute hooley. The sea was almost completely white and gray, the sky still filled with infinite clouds. Flora frowned. It had been bumpy getting round the northern point of the island; she didn’t want to think about getting back.
Joel was on the other side of the table. They’d barely glanced at each other. He looked different; Flora couldn’t quite work out what it was. Then she realized: he wasn’t wearing a tie, just a simple blue shirt, with a sweater, of all things. Probably lost it tying up Inge-Britt during lots of athletic and hearty Icelandic sex, Flora thought bitterly. The image flashed across her mind and she shook her head to clear it.
“Well,” said Colton. “I think last night went rather well.”
He looked delighted, like a tall cheeky gnome, and was obviously expecting an enthusiastic response. Both Joel and Flora were extremely muted, however, and Colton’s face fell.
“No, it was great,” said Flora, trying to rally. “Everyone came, everyone had a great time. They were all grateful, you know. Did you really dance with everyone?”
“Everyone,” said Colton, “who wanted to. I think some of the church elders were a little stuffy.”
Flora smiled.
“That’s okay. They’re allowed to be stuffy, it’s their job.”
“Well, jobs I get.”
