Tall, Dark and Kilted

by Lizzie Lamb

  Fliss put the phone back in her pocket - the nerve of the man! He’d completely shattered her chilled out mood and been damned rude into the bargain. She had the feeling he’d be ringing back within the next five minutes to check if she’d done as he’d commanded. But she felt in no hurry to pass on his message. She’d hand the phone over to Cat or Isla as and when she caught up with them and they could field the calls from their obnoxious stepbrother.

  Getting to her feet, she rubbed the small of her back where the tarnished plaque had dug through her flimsy top, touched the inscription and read its poignant message again.

  For Mairi Urquhart who loved this garden.

  Erected in her memory by Hamish and Rhuairidh,

  who loved her.

  Her earlier empathy for the young, bereaved Ruairi Urquhart now seemed misplaced. True, like her he’d lost his parents; but unlike her, he had a ready-made second family to help him over the worst of times. Not to mention property and thousands of acres in Wester Ross to keep him off the bread line.

  What a brute, she fumed! Small wonder the sisters had nicknamed him The Wolf. She was suddenly grateful he had no idea who she was and that Notting Hill and Hong Kong were half a world apart.

  ‘I’m not leaving the party, your Lairdship - is that in plain enough English for you?’ It gave her great satisfaction to shout her defiance at the garden and do the exact opposite of what he’d ordered. She only wished that Urquhart could hear her in his hotel room in Hong Kong.

  There was a great thrashing in the undergrowth as Becky - dragging Cat Urquhart behind her, burst through the bushes and into the garden. She pulled laurel leaves out of her hair extensions and then plonked Cat down on the bench next to her stepbrother’s dedication.

  ‘Hey Fliss! I’ve promised Cat we’d show her our matching tattoos.’ Becky rolled down the waistband of her skirt to where the legend Carpe Diem was tattooed on the creamy curve of her hip. ‘C’mon, Fliss, be a sport.’

  ‘Seize the day,’ Fliss translated automatically, her mind still on her coruscating conversation with Urquhart. Then she snapped out of her introspection and focused on Becky and Cat. ‘Or, in our case - the night. Time to party, ladies. Woo hoo!’

  ‘We’ve watched that movie a hundred times on DVD, ain’t we Fliss?’ Becky put in, returning to their tattoos. ‘It’s dead sad; Robin Williams is dead good in it. All the boys are drop dead gorgeous,’ she prattled on. The result, Fliss guessed, of too much vodka being mixed with too little Red Bull - and God knows what else she’d had access to, courtesy of Cat, Isla and their posh friends.

  ‘All those deads, yeah?’ Cat pronounced with a flash of apparent insight. ‘Guess that’s why they called the film Dead Poets’ Society, huh?’ Apart from looking like an extra from Twilight, she’d made a quick recovery and plainly had more tenacity than Fliss had given her credit for.

  ‘Yeah. R-ight.’ Fliss regarded them with wry humour. One had attended a comprehensive in Walthamstow, the other an expensive boarding school in the Home Counties, yet both seemed to have attained exactly the same level of education. The government would be very pleased with that result.

  ‘God, I’d love a tattoo,’ Cat said with open admiration. ‘You two are so lucky, but Ruairi would kill me.’ Fliss didn’t doubt it for a second. A two-minute conversation had been long enough for her to deduce that he expected his stepsisters to come to heel after one yank of the choke chain.

  And everyone else, too - apparently.

  ‘We got them when we were seventeen and under age,’ Fliss said, returning to the here and now. She undid the fly on her white jeans, pulled down the waistband and showed off her tattoo to Cat. ‘Not that the tattooist minded as long as we paid up front and didn’t faint.’

  ‘My dad still doesn’t know about it.’ Becky said. ‘It’s our little secret. But, then, there are lots of things about me - and Fliss - that my Dad doesn’t know. And doesn’t need to know. Eh, Fliss?’ It took considerable effort, but she managed to tap the side of her nose with her forefinger. Cat looked at Fliss wide-eyed and she guessed that her reputation - practical, hardworking, down to earth Fliss, was being re-written tonight.

  But she was given little time to ponder the fact because the statue of Venus de Milo - which had earlier been draped in Isla’s underwear - toppled over on the patio and lost its head as well as its arms. Glancing across the gardens, Fliss saw Cat’s next-door neighbour - presumably, the one who’d disturbed Urquhart’s beauty sleep - observing them through nautical binoculars mounted on a brass stand. His wife was by his side and it looked like she was writing something in a notebook. They had a perfect view because Isla’s friends were dancing round the garden like demented fairies and setting off the security lights on all the surrounding houses.

  ‘Hey. Get a load of that old perv over there. Seen enough?’ Becky demanded and mooned him.

  ‘OK. Hold it there tiger,’ Fliss hoisted up Becky’s skirt. ‘Isla’s in enough trouble; we don’t want to aggravate her neighbours any further.’

  ‘Oh, come on Fliss. I’ve seen you do a lot worse. Remember last summer in Crete? Don’t be such a party pooper - anyway, it’s done the trick; he’s gone back to his cocoa.’ She rearranged her clothing, pulling down her light summer top where it had ridden up over her tanned midriff. ‘So, whassup? I came looking for you and found Cat staggering round the garden.’

  ‘It’s the neighbours, Old Man Shipstone and his missus,’ Cat butted in, coming back from the dead. ‘He’s a grande fromage in the Home Office and practically has the local police doing his weekly Waitrose shop for him. His wife’s an Hon, some viscount’s daughter, as if we’re ever allowed to forget it. They know the great and the good; whereas, we only know the groooo-vy and the bad.’

  ‘Blimey, girlfriend. That’s quite a speech considering how shit-faced you were half an hour ago.’ Becky gave Cat a long look before continuing. ‘You ain’t a stuck up cow like your sister, are ya?’

  ‘Oh yeah, Isla’s a piece of work. No doubt about it,’ she confirmed with a great lack of sisterly loyalty. ‘She’s always bossing people about and likes everything done her way.’

  ‘Must be a family characteristic,’ Fliss said half to herself as she remembered the phone conversation.

  As Becky and Cat prattled on, she zoned out and tried to shrug off the feeling of unease which had dogged her since leaving the kitchen. Despite the shouts and screams coming from the outer reaches of the garden where the head of Venus de Milo was being passed around like a rugger ball, the party felt over.

  She turned her back on Cat, gave up on her quest to find Isla and dismissed the conversation with Ruairi from her mind. She’d had enough of the Urquharts for one night and wanted to head back to Pimlico, dragging Becky with her by force if necessary. If their luck was in, their friends would still be drinking in the gardens of their favourite pub well into the warm summer night.

  She retrieved the iPhone from her pocket and handed it over to Cat. She was about to leave when Cat grabbed her by the arm, like a younger, hipper version of the Ancient Mariner.

  ‘I’m in deep shit, Fliss. School’s been trying to get in contact with Mumma. She really is in India, you know, at an ashram - cum - spa. How am I going to explain to Ruairi that school doesn’t want me back for the Upper Sixth? He’s gonna go ape-shit; ballistic.’

  Fliss didn’t doubt that for a second!

  ‘Might as well have the tattoo, then; slip it in under the radar while he’s bollocking you for other things. Wot?’ Becky asked, as Fliss sent her a chastising head prefect look. ‘Wot!’

  ‘Becky - shut up. You’re not helping,’ Fliss steeled herself for another flippant remark but it never came.

  Street-wise, and with an instinct born from years of living in Walthamstow, Becky was standing as still and alert as a meerkat, watching the patrol car that had pulled up level with the Ladbroke Grove entrance of the communal garden. It had slid up without sirens or flashing blue lights, giving the two office
rs inside plenty of time to assess the scene.

  ‘Bloody hell, Rozzers,’ Fliss swore softly and then turned on her heel, prepared to take flight. Becky and Cat were momentarily transfixed as the patrol car’s blue light was switched on and the siren gave a long warning yowl before dying away.

  ‘Holy cr-aaap!’ A broad Glaswegian accent shattered the following silence as Isla, obviously making a quick assessment of the situation, realised they were about to be rounded up. ‘It’s the Po-liss. We’re busted, Puss Cat.’

  Two police wagons, their mesh riot shields raised above the windscreens, appeared alongside the fence and Fliss knew the game was up. Thinking only of herself and Becky, Fliss grabbed her best friend by the arm. ‘Don’t just stand there … Run!’

  Chapter Five

  Fliss tried to shake Cat off, but she clung to her arm as though her life depended on it.

  ‘They won’t arrest us, will they?’ she whimpered as two officers unlocked the main gate and entered the garden square. Isla’s half-stoned friends began running in all directions, careering into each other as they headed for freedom in Elgin Crescent.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Fliss turned to Becky. ‘We’ve got to get out of here!’

  Fliss took command, dragging Cat and Becky along with her as she headed for the Rosmead Road entrance, her breath catching in her throat and her heart pumping. She removed her high-heeled shoes and threw them into the street, closely followed by her handbag, grabbed hold of the hooped tops of the fence and tried to pull herself up and over.

  ‘Give us your hand, Fliss,’ Becky encouraged as she effortlessly shinned up the iron palings and over into Rosmead Road. Fliss reached up to grasp Becky’s hand but hers was slippery with perspiration and slid out of Becky’s fingers. She looked for a foothold knowing that lacking Becky’s long legs and athletic build, climbing the fence would be a challenge for her. She attempted to scramble up the railings for a second time but lost her grip and landed on her back in the soft mud.

  ‘Oof.’ She lay on the ground winded, her top ripped where it had caught on the railings. Damp soil seeped through her new white jeans and her eyes stung as sweat sent rivulets of mascara trickling down her cheeks.

  ‘Fliss. Fliss, are you OK?’

  Becky peered through the railings like they were prison bars, her face white and anxious in the dusk. Fliss got to her feet and blinked away the black spots in front of her eyes. Taking a shuddering breath she tried to appear cool and in control. She knew Becky would never willingly leave her in the lurch - looking out for each other was their unwritten rule - but this time she had no choice. While the thought of being carted off to the nearest police station filled Fliss with trepidation, she knew it made sense for Becky to hightail it out of there.

  ‘There’s no way I’m getting over that fence, Bex. You go. There’s little point in both of us getting arrested. Besides,’ she tried a feeble joke to make light of her dilemma, ‘if they arrest you, who’s going to bake me a cake with a file in it. Go on; get out of here.’

  In a moment of Thelma and Louise solidarity they held hands, then Becky passed Fliss’s handbag back to her and melted into the darkness. Fliss looked helplessly towards her new shoes languishing in the middle of Rosmead Road - but she could hardly call Becky back, so she was going to have to do without them. Turning round, she saw Cat biting her worn down nails to the quick and looking very young and frightened - in spite of her Goth makeup and multiple face piercings. The adrenalin rush brought on by the arrival of the police appeared to have had a de-toxing effect on her and the last vestiges of her drink/drugs binge vanished. Fliss guessed that tonight’s events would put being expelled from her posh boarding school into perspective.

  ‘Come on.’ She led an unresisting Cat away from the fence. ‘Don’t worry. We’ve done nothing wrong.’ She crossed her fingers behind her back but phrases like: creating a disturbance and breech of the peace crept into mind. Crazily, the words - Keep Calm and Carry On, she’d seen on mugs and posters danced before her eyes. Maybe, if she kept her nerve - everything would turn out right.

  She skirted past Isla who was giving a young WPC a hard time, asking in a supercilious tone: ‘Aren’t you supposed to say: you’re nicked? To which I reply, it’s a fair cop?’

  ‘I think you’ve been watching too many re-runs of The Sweeney, Miss,’ the officer replied, patently not amused by Isla’s flippant tone. Or the way she held her upturned wrists towards another officer, inviting him to handcuff her.

  Fliss could cheerfully have throttled her, it looked like they were about to be taken into custody and she was treating the whole thing like a huge joke. Evidently, the rule of law and those who enforced it held no terrors for Isla Urquhart. Eight hundred years of unbroken lineage, a castle in Wester Ross, thousands of acres of hill, forest, loch, farmland and the deference of all those who worked on the Urquhart estate - had clearly given her an exaggerated sense of her own importance.

  ‘Well, am I to be arrested or not?’ she demanded.

  ‘Shut up, Isla,’ Fliss hissed.

  Being born and brought up in Walthamstow by parents who had worked in the local B and Q had given her an appreciation of how things worked for girls like her. She considered - briefly, dragging Isla away from the scene but resisted the impulse. There was no saying what she might do if she was denied her fifteen minutes of infamy. It almost seemed as if she wanted to be arrested.

  ‘No one’s been arrested. Yet.’ The WPC was momentarily distracted as someone communicated with her through her earpiece.

  ‘If you’re ordering pizza, I like mine without anchovies,’ Isla said with evident relish before turning to another officer. ‘What’s all the fuss about? I’m entitled to use these gardens and to invite my friends to use them, too.’

  ‘Yes, you are. But this is the third time this week you and your friends have created a disturbance in these gardens. And your neighbours want an end to it.’ Isla lounged insolently against her garden gate, as if she considered being taken into custody a badge of honour, a viable alternative to being imprisoned in the Scottish highlands under the eagle eye of their stepbrother.

  Fliss knew that given the choice, she would settle for the overdose of tartan, shortbread, Gaelic and midges. Anything was preferable to spending a night in the cells. But, in a moment of clarity, she understood that Isla’s posturing was her way of letting Ruairi Urquhart know that while she and Cat were returning home, they weren’t going down without a fight.

  She experienced a sudden flare of anger. Perhaps she should point out to Isla that all her rebelliousness was just window dressing - everyone knew her family connections would get her out of trouble. But for her - a beauty therapist living on her own and with no safety net to cushion her fall to earth, the threat of arrest wasn’t something she took lightly.

  Cautious but determined, she edged towards the shadowy margins of the garden square and tried to blend into the shrubbery. Somehow she couldn’t quite see clients booking treatments with a therapist who’d spent a night in the cells. No job, no money. Without an income, she’d have to give up her flat and move back in with Becky’s family. And there was no way she was going to let that happen.

  ‘My family will be making an official complaint about police harassment,’ Isla drawled. ‘Our stepbrother knows the Chief Commissioner, personally.’

  ‘Good! Then he’ll have no trouble finding his way to the station when he comes to collect you. I’m arresting you because a breach of the peace has been committed and I have reasonable grounds to believe that it will be renewed in the immediate future. Your taxi, ladies,’ she gestured towards the police wagon. ‘This officer will read you your rights. The party’s over, but the night is just beginning.’

  A few minutes later, Fliss followed the others into the police wagon and sat down opposite Isla and Cat. By now, mud had seeped through her jeans, her bare feet looked like she’d been potato picking and her voile top was ripped, revealing a less than pristine lacy br
a. She reached up and removed clods of earth from her hair while the girl beside her muttered: ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, and rocked back and forth.

  ‘Shut it, will you?’ Isla snapped, ‘cool, calm and collected is the way to go. Take more than a little trip to Ladbroke Grove to rattle us. Eh, Fliss?’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ The girl seized Fliss’s arm, clearly hoping for a more sympathetic hearing from her. ‘What if the paps are waiting when the doors open? The publicity … My father’s career.’

  Isla gave an incredulous snort. ‘Look around you darling,’ she indicated the daughters of some of the most prominent families in London. ‘If the paps are photographing anyone, it won’t be you.’

  Sitting among them, like a cuckoo in an upmarket nest, Fliss cheered herself with the thought that there was nothing newsworthy about her. One of the advantages, she guessed, of belonging to one of the least significant families in Britain. Maybe she could just blend into the background and no one would notice her.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort things out at the station, I’m well known to the duty sergeant.’ Somehow that thought didn’t make Fliss feel any better. ‘Any problems and I’m phoning my godfather. He’s a silk - they’ll listen to him!’ Isla said confidently.

  ‘Or,’ another girl commented, ‘what about that gorgeous stepbrother of yours. Maybe he’ll come over the hills like Mel Gibson in Braveheart and rescue us. I Googled him and read all about his wild life conservation scheme. Mind you,’ she giggled and rolled her eyes, ‘I couldn’t decide whether to fancy him or be terrified of him.’ She gave a delicious shiver, as if conjuring up an image of Ruairi Urquhart sorting her out in an entirely different set of circumstances. ‘Impressive. I can see why you call him The Wolf. Tall, dark, verging on ruthless - very sexy. Just my type.’