Little Pink Taxi

by Marie Laval

  ‘The least you can do is leave me alone when I ask you to,’ she snapped, as she desperately tried to hold back the tears.

  She walked to the entrance of her flat, trying to pull out her keys from the pocket of her jeans, but her hand shook too much, and her vision was blurred with tears. She heard footsteps behind her, then felt his warmth against her back. His hand touched her shoulder lightly and she tensed.

  ‘Give me your key. I’ll unlock the door for you.’

  It was quicker to give in than to argue so she handed him the key. He opened the door. ‘If you don’t want to talk tonight, then we should talk tomorrow, but it will have to be very early because I have a plane to catch.’ He looked down, holding her captive in his serious grey gaze.

  Her chest tightened. So he was leaving already. He probably would have left tonight if his damned good manners hadn’t nagged at him to make sure she was all right.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said. ‘We have nothing to talk about.’

  ‘We have plenty to talk about, starting with what happened last night.’ This time his voice was sharp and steely.

  She started to go up the stairs but turned round. ‘Actually, you are right. Let’s talk about last night. I’m sorry you got mixed up in my family’s sordid affairs. Sorry you had to deal with my thug of a father. In fact, I am more sorry than you’ll ever know – and more ashamed than you’ll ever know too.’

  ‘What do you have to be ashamed of?’

  She swallowed hard. ‘I would have thought it was obvious. My father is a criminal.’

  ‘I see.’ He sounded infuriatingly calm. ‘And what has it got to do with you?’

  ‘He’s my father. It has everything to do with me.’

  He shook his head. ‘Rosalie, your father has done despicable things, that’s true, but you do not have to feel ashamed or guilty because of him.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ she cried out, her voice choked with emotion. ‘I am his daughter. I have his genes, his blood. He is part of me.’

  ‘He always was. The only difference now is that you know who he is – what he is. You are still the same Rosalie, the kind and loyal Rosalie who cares for the people she loves, who would do anything to help out her friends and family. Please don’t let Tyler define you.’

  He let out a deep sigh. ‘I hope you sleep well. If you want to talk, come over in the morning. If you don’t …’ He shrugged. ‘Then I’ll see you when I come back.’

  There was something final as he spoke the words, as he closed the door behind him, leaving her alone on the dimly lit staircase.

  She was up early the following morning, early enough to watch the sunrise turn the cloudless sky into liquid fire. It had become so cold during the night that thick icicles had formed and now shot down from the eaves like giant ice-lollies.

  She made a cup of tea, nibbled on a piece of toast and got dressed. She was brushing her hair when the sound of an engine made her rush to the window, just in time to see Marc drive away in his rental car and disappear down the snowy lane. Where was he going? London, Paris, or some other city where business meetings awaited him?

  He said he would be back, she wished he wouldn’t. It would be far easier if he stayed away and entrusted Kirsty or another member of his staff with selling up Raventhorn, and she never saw him again. At least then she might forget the sound of his voice, the stormy grey of his eyes, and the feel of his arms around her. This way the raw pain ripping her apart might fade with time.

  She slumped on the sofa, cuddled a cushion to her chest and spent the morning crying and feeling sorry for herself. It was the sound of Marion’s car backfiring as it bumped up the lane that forced her to go out. She draped her woolly cardigan over her shoulders and went over to the castle. It was time she confronted Irlwick’s chief gossip. Perhaps if Marion knew the brutal truth about her mother and Tyler, she would agree to keep certain details to herself and her mother’s reputation would be safe.

  Marion was in the kitchen pulling her boots off and slipping her feet into her slippers, when she walked in. A frown creased her forehead when she saw her. ‘What are you doing up, pet? You should be in bed, resting.’

  ‘I need to talk to you. It’s important.’

  Marion nodded and pulled out a chair. ‘All right, but sit yourself down first. I’ll put the kettle on and make us some tea.’

  It took over half an hour and two cups of tea for Rosalie to tell Marion her mother’s story.

  ‘Poor pet.’ Marion patted Rosalie’s hand. ‘You’re afraid I’ll open my big mouth and blether to everybody about her, aren’t you? Don’t you worry. I can keep a secret when I have to. I’ll never betray your mum.’

  She looked around the kitchen. ‘Now, where’s Petersen? I want to thank him personally for making my Fergus a very happy man yesterday.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Marion shook her bright orange hair and beamed a smile. ‘I suppose I can tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  Marion laughed. ‘Petersen came over yesterday and told us about that minibus company he’s setting up with you. He wants Fergus and Fiona to work in the office. He even asked Fiona to design the logo. He said it will be called the Love Bus in homage to Love Taxis. And it’s going to be pink too! He didn’t want us to tell anyone before he spoke to you last night. It was hard to keep my mouth shut but I did it, so you see, I can keep secrets when I have to.’

  Rosalie felt the blood drain from her face. Was that what Marc wanted to talk about last night when she’d brushed him off? But why then had Kirsty said that he’d changed his mind about the bus company?

  ‘I don’t understand. Are you sure he said it was definitely going ahead?’

  ‘Of course, I’m sure.’ Marion tutted. ‘I’m not likely to get something that important wrong, am I? I must confess that we were a bit cross with you at first, young lady, for not telling us that Petersen owned both this place and Love Taxis in the first place, but he said we shouldn’t be too harsh on you because you had a lot on your plate.’

  ‘Oh. Did he say anything else?’

  ‘Only that it would take a few months to get the paperwork sorted and the company up and running, and Love Taxis will carry on serving the community in the meantime. Of course, you’ll need to hire a couple of drivers, since Duncan is still in Edinburgh looking after his mum and you’re poorly. Petersen said he would be too busy from now on to do any more driving.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rosalie said again.

  ‘There’s something else.’ Marion couldn’t keep another smile off her face. ‘He’s going to help Angus set up his brewery. Isn’t that grand?’

  She got up and tied her apron behind her back. ‘Anyhow, it’s time I started work. This place won’t clean itself, especially after the mess that Tyler and his cronies made.’

  Rosalie nodded absent-mindedly. It was almost too much to take in. Marc was setting up the bus company after all, and he had even decided to help Angus with his microbrewery.

  Marion came back into the kitchen holding a can of dusting spray and a cloth and angled her chin towards the window. ‘It looks like you have visitors.’

  Rosalie glanced out of the window to see a MacKay taxi pull up in the courtyard. Kirsty stepped out, elegant as always in her purple coat, her straight blonde hair smooth and shiny in the pale winter sunlight.

  ‘I’ll tell her to sling her hook, shall I?’ Marion scowled. ‘You’re not well enough to deal with that snooty madam.’

  ‘Thank you, Marion, but you can let her in.’ Rosalie took a deep breath as Kirsty walked in and cast a surprised look in her direction.

  ‘You’re up,’ she said.

  Rosalie forced a smile. ‘I’m not that ill.’

  Kirsty arched her perfect eyebrows. ‘According to Marc, you’re at death’s door and your every whim should be indulged.’

  ‘She does need a rest, so you can’t stay long,’ Marion interrupted, waving her dusting cloth as if to get rid o
f annoying midges. ‘What is it you want?’

  Kirsty unbuttoned her coat and sat down opposite Rosalie. ‘Believe me, I don’t really want to be here but Marc made me.’

  ‘Made you?’ Rosalie asked, a little distracted by Marion’s energetic dusting of the dresser.

  Kirsty’s cheeks coloured. ‘He asked me to come here and apologise for giving you the impression we were romantically involved. It’s not true. We were never lovers, and there were never any plans of us living together, even if we had both moved to the States. I made it all up.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Marion put the dusting can down and curled her fists on her hips. ‘You were jealous of Roz, weren’t you?’

  The colour on Kirsty’s cheeks deepened.

  ‘What about that photo on the cover of Newsweek magazine?’ Rosalie asked. ‘He was holding you ever so tightly.’

  Kirsty sighed. ‘I pretended to trip and clung to him, and he was too polite to make a fuss.’ She shook her hair and sighed. ‘Listen, I’m sorry, all right? I always had a thing for him, always thought we were well matched and should be together. Obviously, I was wrong.’

  She rose to her feet. ‘There are a few other things I have to tell you as well. It’s about Raventhorn. It really doesn’t make any business sense whatsoever, but Marc told me this morning that he meant for you to keep living here. He’s sending his lawyers instructions to gift the place back to McBride.’

  Rosalie’s heart did a little flip. ‘He’s going to give Raventhorn back to Geoff?’

  ‘Yes, and you should hear from his lawyers in the next few days. Now, I’ll leave you to your gloomy castle and terrible weather. The airport has reopened so I can fly back to London, and civilisation.’

  ‘Wait!’ Rosalie stood in front of Kirsty. ‘Where is Marc? He said he was going away for a few days. Did he go back to London too?’

  ‘No. He went to Denmark.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  ‘Denmark? What for?’

  ‘He wants to scatter his father’s ashes on the beach on the family farm.’ Kirsty arched her eyebrows. ‘I never thought Marc was the sentimental type. His father’s death must have shaken him more than I realised.’

  Rosalie bit her lip, and tears welled in her eyes. She’d been so busy trying to avoid a conversation with Marc the night before that she hadn’t even told him she was sorry for his loss, or asked about his father’s funeral in Hong Kong. How heartless of her.

  Kirsty was still talking and Rosalie tried to concentrate on what she was saying. ‘Anyway, he won’t be coming back – not for a while at least. He said he would go straight to Paris from Denmark, and would liaise by phone and email about the brewery and the bus company.’

  A fist crushed Rosalie’s heart, tighter and tighter, as Kirsty’s words rang in her ears, and she leant against the table for support.

  Kirsty looped her handbag around her shoulder. ‘There’s one last thing. It was my fault you couldn’t talk to Marc when you phoned the London offices.’

  ‘What?’

  Kirsty looked sheepish. ‘I had instructed his secretary to screen his calls and discard any coming from you. I told her you were stalking him.’

  ‘I wasn’t!’ Rosalie cried out, indignant.

  ‘Look, I said I was sorry, all right? I had no idea he’d get so mad when he found out. I have never seen him look so angry before – except perhaps when he learnt how his father and I had handled a very unfortunate case a few months ago.’

  ‘Are you talking about Van Bernd by any chance?’

  Kirsty looked surprised. ‘You know about that? Marc was most annoyed to read what a journalist wrote about him. Personally, I can’t understand what all the fuss was about – I mean when you’re in business, you have to learn to take the bad with the good – but Marc changed after that. He had countless arguments with his father, and now he behaves as if he wants to turn the company into some kind of charity.’ She shook her head. ‘He is also trying to save other companies against all business sense.’

  Rosalie’s spirits sank even lower. ‘Fitzpatrick …’

  ‘That’s one of them. Marc has invested vast sums of money to help the man save his company, and it caused a massive rift between him and his father. He is even talking about selling up parts of the company. He’s changed so much, he seems to have lost his drive and become … soft.’ Kirsty pulled a face, as if she couldn’t think of a worse insult.

  Rosalie lifted a shaky hand to her throat. What had she done? Marc was doing everything, and more, she’d ever dreamed of, and she had accused him of being cold and callous. If only she could take her harsh words back. He had called her kind and loyal, but she’d been anything but kind and loyal towards him.

  In fact she’d always been prepared to think the worst about him. It had never crossed her mind that Kirsty could be lying about his plans or their relationship, or that the article in the magazine could misrepresent the truth. How could she have been so stubborn, so obtuse, so prejudiced?

  Outside, the taxi beeped, and Kirsty glanced at the window. ‘I have to go or I’ll miss my plane.’ Kirsty picked up her bag and with a toss of her hair, walked out of the kitchen.

  ‘You have to go to him, lass,’ Marion said.

  Rosalie nodded. Marion was right. She had to apologise for saying all those mean and hurtful things the night before. She had to tell him how wrong she’d been about him being cold and heartless, and how grateful she was that he was helping Geoff, Lorna and all her friends.

  But above all, she couldn’t stand the idea of him being on his own when he was scattering his father’s ashes on his grandfather’s farm at Hantsholm. With tears burning her eyes, she hurried to the library, fired up the computer and searched travel sites.

  Fifteen minutes later, she was forced to accept that her only option was to fly, since direct ferry services between the UK and Denmark had been discontinued, and driving through Holland and Germany would take too long.

  What should she do? She hated the idea of flying, and had vowed as a child never to set foot on a plane. As far as she was concerned, no exotic holiday, no urgent business had ever been worth the risk. Until now.

  Her finger hovered over the keyboard. A warning flashed on the screen that there were only a few seats left on a flight from Edinburgh to Aalborg the following day. She swallowed hard, pushed back the fear, and clicked. After entering her credit card details, she hired a car to travel from Aalborg airport to Hanstholm where the Petersen farm was located, then went back to her flat to pack.

  Packing didn’t take long. She threw a T-shirt, a jumper, a pair of black corduroy jeans and some underwear into a holdall, squeezed in a few toiletries, and retrieved her passport. She then called the hospital to talk to Geoff. She explained briefly about Marc, he gave her directions to the farm from the airport, and told her the exact address was in a file in the library. A quick glance at her watch told her it was time to leave for the station or she’d miss the Edinburgh train.

  Marion gave her a lift to Aviemore.

  ‘Bring him back, lass,’ Marion said, a smile creasing her face. ‘Tell him to come home.’

  The train was packed. Everybody it seemed was going to Edinburgh to do some Christmas shopping. It was several years since she’d been there with Geoff. Her mother was supposed to come with them but she had changed her mind at the last minute, claiming a migraine. Rosalie had been annoyed with her for spoiling their weekend away. Now of course, she understood why her mother rarely left Irlwick and why she shied away from busy places. She must have been terrified of bumping into anyone who might recognise her.

  Zipping her anorak up against the cold, she left Waverley Station and stood on the railway bridge to gaze at the giant Ferris wheel and the Christmas market overlooked by the ominous castle perching on a craggy rock.

  Twinkling lights may have turned Edinburgh into a fairy-tale town, but there was no joy in her heart as she walked past an old-fashioned carousel, listened to the children’s laughter
and shrieks of joy rising above the nostalgic organ music, and watched as their parents smiled and waved, and when it started snowing she wasn’t sure if it was melted flakes or tears that ran down her face.

  She found a chemist shop still open and bought a box of extra strong travel sickness pills then left the festive crowds behind to walk to the B&B she had booked online. Once in her small bedroom, she made a cup of tea, nibbled at the shortbread biscuits from the hospitality tray, and switched the television on. None of the programmes could hold her attention and she soon walked to the bow window, drew the curtain open and stared at Edinburgh’s night sky. All she could see however was Marc – the line of his mouth when he smiled, the shadows dancing in his grey eyes.

  She loved him. She loved him so much it hurt, and she yearned to rest her cheek against his chest and listen to his heartbeat.

  She only hoped it wasn’t too late to tell him.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome on board this Lufthansa flight. We hope you will have a pleasant flight and ask that you now switch off all electronic devices for take-off.’

  Rosalie’s sweaty fingers gripped the armrests more tightly and she closed her eyes. Please let it be fast, and let everything be okay, she repeated over and over again. She had dutifully swallowed the travel sickness pill as soon as she’d got up and now hoped for a miracle. If only she could fall asleep now and wake up in Aalborg – having missed the whole ordeal.

  She may not have fallen asleep but the flight was mercifully short, and after a moment of heart-stopping panic when the plane took off, she spent most of the time with her eyes tightly shut, taking deep breaths and trying to not to think about being stuck in what was little more than a metal tin high up in the sky. She even managed to drink a cup of tea and munch on a couple of biscuits.

  It was early afternoon when she landed at Aalborg. The staff at the car hire counter gave her a road map and directions for the address Geoff had given her. Negotiating the traffic and finding her way whilst driving on the wrong side of the road demanded all her attention, but she soon left the town towards the coast. And towards Marc.