Little Pink Taxi

by Marie Laval

  His grey eyes were hard, his face stony and his voice sharp as he lifted the phone to his ear and took the call.

  ‘Fitzpatrick, what can I do for you?’

  There was a pause as Marc listened and frowned. ‘This isn’t how things work, Fitzpatrick, and you know it. You should have followed my instructions through. Now it’s too late and we’re doing things my way.’

  Rosalie’s throat tightened. How cold and inflexible he sounded. And she, who’d foolishly believed he had mellowed over the past few days, become more approachable, more friendly, was far too naive. Marc Petersen was a businessman. The only thing he cared about was his bank balance, and the only reason he was driving her taxi was to protect his investment. It wasn’t Braveheart he should have chosen as a ringtone, but Cold, Cold Heart!

  She looked at him and swallowed hard. The winter daylight pouring into the café made his eyes a lighter grey, and his hair a burnished blond, and emphasised his strong profile and broad shoulders. She remembered what it had felt like to rest her cheek against his chest and feel his arms around her waist, and experienced the usual yearning that made her heart ache for him. How she despised herself for the silly crush she seemed to have developed and that had spiralled out of control.

  She rose to her feet, snatched her anorak from the back of her chair and marched to the counter where Alice was busy rearranging her cake display.

  ‘What’s up? Didn’t you like the brownie? It’s a new recipe but I’ve only had positive comments so far.’

  ‘The brownie was great,’ Rosalie grumbled.

  ‘Is it your shoulder?’

  ‘No, I can hardly feel it any longer.’ The time had come to take her friend into her confidence and tell her the truth about Marc. ‘It’s Petersen,’ she started in a whisper.

  Alice’s eyes widened. ‘I knew it! You’re madly in love with him, aren’t you? I can see the way you blush every time he looks at you. So tell me, have you slept with him yet or are you still thinking about it?’

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’ Rosalie hissed, feeling her cheeks burn. She hated that her friend could see through her. ‘All I want is to get rid of him, pretend he was never here and for things to go back to the way they were before he arrived.’ That, at least, was only a partial lie.

  ‘I don’t understand why you dislike him so much. You must admit he’s done a good job standing in for you since last week. People are raving about him. They like him.’ Alice winked. ‘Especially the ladies.’

  ‘I wonder why. He’s a cold fish. A snob. Never makes small talk. Rarely smiles or laughs at people’s jokes. Doesn’t even like my Happy Baby Radio. The man claims only classical music or modern jazz are civilised enough for him. If I didn’t do all the chatting, the cab would be as gloomy as a morgue.’

  That wasn’t completely true. Marc had changed over the past week, enough to smile or join in a conversation with a customer, even share the odd joke. She had even seen him tap the beat of a few pop songs when he was driving.

  Her friend smiled. ‘He may be the silent and brooding type but that only makes him more attractive. At least you must admit he’s rather handsome with his soulful grey eyes … and his French accent is so very sexy.’

  ‘Handsome? I never noticed,’ Rosalie lied, turning to look at Petersen who was still talking on the phone. ‘As for his French accent, he only turns it on when he’s annoyed with me, and that would be most of the time since he finds me stupid and irritating. Listen, I said I owed you the truth. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before but the thing is, Petersen is a businessman, a property developer. Geoff sold Raventhorn to him and the only reason he’s here is to complete an inventory and sell the estate’s assets – and that includes Love Taxis.’

  Her voice quivered, unwanted tears filled her eyes, and blurred her vision. Alice stared at her open-mouthed. She put down the plate piled high with her homemade scones and leaned over the counter.

  ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘Raventhorn now belongs to Petersen.’

  Alice shook her head in dismay. ‘Geoff sold Raventhorn? But why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t been able to talk to him, with the accident and his heart operation … I suppose he needed money.’

  ‘What was he thinking of? You grew up there, it’s your home. And what about Lorna who has spent years looking after the place, and after him?’

  ‘Yep.’ Rosalie’s voice broke and Alice gave her hand a squeeze.

  ‘You know you can always stay at my place and work here if you need a job. Although I’d rather you kept out of the kitchen.’

  Rosalie’s breath hitched in her throat. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You must tell Niall,’ Alice added. ‘He’ll want to help. Although he’ll no doubt propose again when he finds out you’re jobless and homeless.’

  ‘No,’ Rosalie said. ‘Nobody is to know just yet, and I won’t be marrying anyone, let alone Niall. It’s about time he accepted it.’

  ‘You know what he’s like. He’ll never let you go.’

  Rosalie closed the gap between them and gave her a tight hug. She was well aware of her friend’s feelings for Niall – Alice had never made any secret of them – and it made her sad and angry that Niall carried on chasing after the memory of their brief romance instead of opening his eyes to see the beautiful, warm and caring young woman who had loved him for years.

  ‘You should tell him how you feel,’ she said.

  Alice shrugged. ‘It’s you he wants, you he’s always wanted.’ She stepped back. ‘So what will happen now?’

  ‘I’m trying to convince Petersen to keep Love Taxis running, but I don’t think he’s interested. As for Raventhorn, he said he might turn it into a hotel.’

  ‘It’ll be a blow to Rupert and his darling mother.’

  ‘I suppose I should tell them. It’s only fair they know.’

  ‘You don’t owe them anything, Roz. They’re both greedy and mean and were always horrible to you and your mum.’ She glanced away and whispered, ‘Petersen is heading our way. I take it I’m not to breathe a word of what you just told me.’

  Rosalie nodded. ‘That’s right. Pretend you don’t know anything.’ Swinging round, she found herself almost against Marc Petersen’s chest.

  ‘Ready for the doctor surgery run?’ she asked in a tight voice.

  ‘Can’t wait.’ His face sombre, he nodded and pulled the cab keys out of his pocket as well as a handful of banknotes that he left on the counter.

  He walked out into the frigid cold afternoon without even waiting for her. Outside the sky was filled with low, pale grey clouds and Rosalie squinted against the glaring white light that reflected onto the snow-covered pavements, the roofs of houses and the distant hills.

  ‘It looks like the ice storm is heading our way,’ she remarked.

  Marc walked to the front of the cab and pulled out the piece of paper that stuck out from under the wipers. He frowned as he read it, then slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing important. Don’t worry about it.’

  But for some reason she felt that she had every reason to worry.

  Chapter Fifteen

  By the time they drove the last of the pensioners home, the temperature had dropped to below freezing. A sheet of ice covered the road, forcing Marc to drive at crawling speed, and an arctic wind blew through the pine trees, which groaned and moved like living beings.

  ‘They’re gritting the road,’ Marc said after they passed a truck with orange lights flickering in the night. ‘At least the weather will keep your friend Rupert away from Raventhorn tonight.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it. Rupert is nothing if not determined. I’m sure he is desperate to assert his claim on Raventhorn and make sure you know he is Geoff’s heir. In fact, I’m surprised he has stayed away for so long.’

  She leaned back against the headrest, closed her eyes and let out a weary sigh. A confrontation with Rupert would ruin the
rest of the day. Against all expectations, it had turned out to be an enjoyable afternoon, and the mood inside the doctor’s surgery had been buoyant as Marc led a disputed game of cards. He may think talking to people was a waste of his precious time, but once again got on surprisingly well with everybody there, especially Angus McLean, who in a rare accolade had given him four bottles of his homebrewed pine needle beer after they drove him home – and it was well known that Angus didn’t part willingly with his precious ale.

  ‘He said it was just what I needed to keep me going,’ Marc had said as he put the plastic bag with the bottles on the back seat. ‘He also suggested you drank some. He found you a little pale. He seems to think his beer has medicinal properties.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Hmm. Well, one could say it does.’

  He cast her a doubtful glance. ‘Really?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s full of … ahem … vitamins.’ She had no intention of enlightening Marc about the beer’s alleged aphrodisiac properties. It had been embarrassing enough to see Angus wink and give him a clap on the back as he handed him the bottles.

  ‘Angus used to work at The Glen, a brewery that shut down about six years ago,’ she carried on quickly before Marc could probe any further. ‘He has dreamt ever since of setting up his own microbrewery with his son and some of the staff who were made redundant when The Glen closed. He organised a beer festival last year, and even got Fiona to design labels for the bottles, but nothing came out of it. I guess he doesn’t have enough business experience to go ahead with his plans.’

  ‘It’s a shame. Microbreweries and real ale are rather trendy these days,’ Marc said as he slowed down to negotiate a bend in the slippery conditions.

  She turned to him. ‘I know! Why don’t you talk to him about it?’

  ‘I’m not here to offer business advice,’ he answered coolly.

  ‘Of course you’re not.’ She couldn’t help but feel disappointed. ‘How silly of me to suggest you might want to help Angus. After all, you said it yourself – your job is to shut down businesses, and once you’ve destroyed someone’s dream, you move on to your next victim.’

  His fingers tightened on the steering wheel and he glanced at her, shadows darkening his grey eyes. ‘Victim? That’s a bit strong.’

  He sounded hurt. Already regretting her outburst, she swallowed hard and crossed her arms across her chest.

  ‘What was all that about with the receptionist at the surgery?’ he asked after a few minutes.

  ‘Kian’s girlfriend? I’m not sure. I was only trying to be friendly. Niall said Kian had an accident with his father’s car when driving home after the ceilidh. I don’t know why Stacey got so flustered when I asked how she was and how badly Kian had damaged the car. It was as if she was embarrassed and didn’t want anyone to know about it.’

  Suddenly, Marc slammed on the brakes, and the cab swerved and came to an abrupt halt. ‘There she is again,’ he muttered under his breath.

  Rosalie peered into the night and the dark forest at the side of the road. ‘Who? What?’

  ‘That Raven woman. Whoever she is.’

  ‘Isobel? Are you sure?’

  But Marc had already jumped out and run into the woods and Rosalie’s words echoed in the empty cab. What did he think he was playing at, running into the night to chase after Lady Fitheach? It was dark, the snow was deep, an arctic gale was blowing and he didn’t know Corby Woods. She would have to go after him. Sighing, she zipped her anorak up, pulled her hat down and ventured outside.

  ‘Petersen, come back!’ The wind howling through the woods and the sound of pine tree branches swishing around her drowned her voice. Her feet sank into deep, frozen snow at every step, but she carried on in the direction he’d disappeared into. Within seconds her face and hands tingled with cold, and before long she couldn’t feel them any more.

  At last she glimpsed his silhouette between the trees, and headed his way. ‘Did you see anything?’ she asked when she was close enough.

  He shook his head. ‘She vanished before I could get to her.’

  ‘I could have told you as much and saved us both getting cold and wet. Since when do ghosts let themselves get caught?’

  He looked at her as if she’d just said the most stupid thing he’d ever heard. ‘There is no ghost. Ghosts don’t exist. Anyway why did you come out? You should have stayed in the cab.’

  ‘And leave you on your own? You might have got lost. You could have tripped and got hurt.’

  His jaw tightened. ‘What do you take me for?’

  He strode back to the road, his face so grim she thought it better not to argue even if she struggled to keep up. Once they were both back inside the cab, he slammed his door and turned to her.

  ‘Let’s get one thing straight.’ His French accent sounded a lot stronger.

  Rosalie’s throat tightened. He was annoyed. Very annoyed.

  ‘Contrary to what you and your pal Niall seem to believe, I am neither some fancy city boy nor a helpless fool of a tourist, and I certainly don’t need to be rescued from the woods by a girl in pink. Got that?’

  He leaned towards her. The glow of the taxi’s overhead light cast threatening shadows on his face and turned his eyes almost black.

  She nodded.

  ‘Good.’ He pulled away and started the engine and drove off.

  ‘So you think you saw Isobel again,’ she said to break the tense silence after a few minutes. ‘That’s twice you’ve seen her.’

  ‘Three times, actually,’ he replied. ‘I saw her on top of the tower at Loch Armathiel.’

  ‘You never said.’

  ‘It didn’t seem important at the time.’

  Rosalie coughed to clear her throat. ‘Three times, that’s not good. I don’t want to worry you but—’

  ‘I know, you told me what happened to men who see her several times. The thing is, I don’t believe in ghosts. This is no spectre of doom, Rosalie, but someone playing tricks on us.’

  She tutted. ‘This is completely ridiculous.’

  He turned to her and arched his eyebrows. ‘Any more ridiculous than a vengeful ghost and her faithful crow?’

  ‘It’s a raven, actually. Anyway, who would play tricks on us?’

  ‘Someone involved in the hoax calls and the attacks on yourself and your cab.’ Marc turned off the main road, drove over the bridge and into the courtyard at Raventhorn where a black sports car waited with its engine on. Even though the security lights were on, the car’s dark windows prevented them from seeing who was inside.

  Not that it mattered. Rosalie knew exactly who was waiting for them. She sighed. ‘I told you it would take more than a freezing gale to keep Rupert away.’

  ‘Nice car,’ Marc remarked as Rupert climbed out of it.

  ‘I wonder how he can afford it,’ Rosalie muttered under her breath.

  Marc grabbed hold of the carrier bag on the back seat. The beer bottles clanked as he walked towards Rupert, who stood head tilted back, spine stiff and legs slightly apart as if bracing himself for a confrontation.

  Marc extended his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Marc Petersen.’

  Rupert made no move to shake Marc’s hand but stared at him, his lip curled in a sneer. ‘Ah, yes. The infamous Marc Petersen. Rosalie’s new driver, and the talk of the town.’ He turned to Rosalie. ‘Can we go in? I’ve been waiting for ages.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have bothered,’ she said as she made her way to the kitchen door, clenching her key in her hand so hard the dents bit into her flesh. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Didn’t my mother tell you I was after some papers?’

  ‘You’ll be lucky if you find anything. The library is a mess, as usual.’ Rosalie unlocked the door, walked into the kitchen and started punching the alarm code in.

  Rupert whistled between his teeth. ‘That’s a swanky security system you have here. It must have cost Geoff a packet to have it fitted, and yet he claimed he was broke when I visited him in ho
spital before his operation. Give me the code, so I won’t have to bother you next time I come back.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it inside.’ Marc pushed the door shut behind him. He put the carrier bag on the kitchen table and pulled the four beer bottles out. They all had a distinctive blue and green tartan label with a sprig of pine at the centre and ‘Angus’s Ale’ printed in fancy gold lettering.

  Rupert pointed at the bottles. ‘Don’t tell me that old devil Angus McLean sold you some of his homebrew! I bet he said it would make you as randy as a stag during rutting season and was better than Viagra.’

  ‘Viagra?’ Marc stared at Rosalie who immediately looked down and busied herself with the zip of her anorak.

  Rupert McBride laughed. ‘It looks like you’re in for a treat tonight, Rosalie.’

  She let out a shocked gasp and her face turned bright red.

  Marc set the last bottle on the table and looked at McBride. ‘What exactly is your point?’

  Rupert must have heard the cold warning in his voice. He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down a few times. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I was only making conversation.’

  ‘Well, I wish you didn’t. You’re talking rubbish as usual.’ Rosalie gestured towards the stairs. ‘Come on, then. If you want to find your papers, we’d better make a start.’

  ‘You don’t need to come with me,’ Rupert protested. ‘I’ll be fine on my own.’

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ Marc said. He couldn’t explain why but he was uneasy about leaving McBride’s cousin alone in the library.

  The place was indeed a mess, but he had grown to like it that way. It was odd that he, who favoured minimalist interiors both for his London and Paris apartments, and who knew exactly where every single item he possessed was to be found, didn’t mind towering stacks of books and a desk littered with papers, maps and folders here at Raventhorn.

  Rupert whistled between his teeth and turned to Rosalie. ‘What a shambles. You know what you need, don’t you?’

  ‘What?’