by Lizzie Lamb
‘Blimey, Fliss, you’ve only been up there one day and look what you’ve got yourself into.’ Becky sighed extravagantly. ‘Look; I’ll throw a sickie - come up and …’
‘And do what, exactly?’ Fliss knew Becky would spend her holiday money on an air ticket without a moment’s hesitation. ‘No. This was my big chance and I’ve screwed up. I’ve got to tough it out; at least put the record straight before I leave.’ It went quiet, and she could almost hear the cogs in Becky’s brain shifting up a gear.
‘Okay. Here’s what I think. You’re being paid silly money for a job you can do blindfold. He sounds like a right bastard. But … and here’s the thing … from what you told me, the business is being bankrolled by whatshisname?’
‘Angus.’
‘Well -’
‘Well?’
‘How can Ruairi - Smart - Arse - Urquhart sack you when he don’t employ you? Plus - if he makes them sack you, you’re owed, babe. Big time.’
‘That’s true …’ Fliss wondered why she couldn’t have figured all this out for herself. Perhaps she was too close to the problem. ‘But, even if he does agree to my staying on, how could I face him - day in, day out - with him thinking me some kind of second-rate Mata Hari who’d used her body to get what she wanted?’
‘Mata Hari? Who the bleedin’ hell is Mata Hari? Some kind of Indian Head Massage therapist?’ Fliss laughed in spite of the seriousness of the situation and started to explain, but Becky didn’t give her the chance. ‘Listen Fliss, the question you should be asking is - how can he face you? He’s made himself look a right plonker in front of his family - that’s what’s really buggin’ him, if you want my opinion. Accusing you of dropping your drawers to keep your job? I mean, as if! In fact, babe, I’d say that he owes you an apology.’
Fliss’s spirits lifted. She knew Becky was only saying what she’d have worked out for herself, if she’d had the time to think clearly. But, the clock was ticking and she had the breakfast meeting to get through before she flew home. After that, she’d steel herself to march up to Angus and Mitzi and demand compensation for her disappointment, time and trouble. Even if it meant that in doing so, she’d confirm Ruairi Urquhart’s impression of her: Good Time Girl on the Make.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said and sighed, knowing that her reputation was well and truly tarnished.
‘There is another way,’ Becky suggested.
‘Come home and admit I’m a failure?’
‘Who says you’re a failure? My cousin’ll soon find you another white van and you can set up your mobile therapy business, like you’d planned. You can doss down on my floor until your flat is available again. I’d be like old times.’
The words doss and old times made Fliss shudder.
Cradling the phone between her chin and her shoulder, she walked over to the turret window and looked out over the loch. Truth was, she didn’t want to go back to her other life. At least - not yet. The thought of leaving the glen gave her a sharp pang of homesickness although she’d been there less than twenty-four hours. It wasn’t the obvious grandeur of the place, or the Urquharts’ lifestyle that made her reluctant to leave. It was something deeper - a feeling of belonging.
The feeling was all the more unexpected because Ruairi Urquhart and probably the rest of his family probably couldn’t wait to see the back of her. But how could she feel so deeply about a place she hadn’t seen before yesterday? Was there some kind of highland magic at work, a magic that had begun to weave its spell the moment she’d set foot in Kinloch Mara.
‘You know what you ought ’a do - get one in first. Kick some Scottish ass. Show them that they can’t mess with the Flisster.’ Becky’s words blew away her fanciful thoughts. ‘Ring and let me know what’s going on. Anyway, why doesn’t he install a mast on his property? It’s a pain not being able to get you on your mobile.’
‘You and Isla have something in common at any rate, she’s been complaining about having no mobile phone signal.’ Becky gave an indignant snort at the thought of having anything in common with Isla Urquhart. ‘I’ll ring you as soon as things have been settled here. One way or another,’ Fliss added, full of gritty determination.
‘OK. Love you Thelma.’
‘Love you Louise.’
Fliss held onto the phone long after the line went dead and thought over what Becky had said. Stand your ground. You’ve got nothing to lose. Fight for what you want. She pictured their twin tattoos and gained strength from the sentiment if not the image.
Carpe Diem - Seize the moment.
That’s exactly what she was going to do: go down to breakfast and kick some Scottish Ass.
Chapter Fifteen
When Fliss finally made her way downstairs, all fired up to say her piece to Ruairi Urquhart and clear up any false impressions he might harbour about her, she did a double take.
Isla was standing at the foot of the staircase, looking more like an extra from Balamory than the Notting Hill wild child she considered herself. She’d scrubbed her face free of heavy Goth makeup, removed all piercings and was wearing kilt, white blouse and sensible shoes. It was a transformation worthy of Extreme Makeover and clearly in honour of her interview with Ruairi pencilled in for after breakfast.
She looked younger, less confident and the family resemblance between her, Cat and Ruairi was more marked this morning - black hair, pale skin and piercing blue eyes. Catching Fliss’s amused look, she fired an opening salvo: ‘If you ever mention to anyone that you’ve seen me dressed like this, I’ll -’
‘You’ll do what? Embarrass me in front of your friends and family? Get me arrested and then sacked? Or have you thought up some new humiliation this morning? No? Then do me a favour, Isla - back off and shutthefuckup.’
Her outburst left Isla gasping for air like a newly landed fish. She couldn’t have looked more stunned if the stag head on the wall had burst into Flower of Scotland. Fliss had barely raised her voice, but her body language coupled with her use of the f word made it plain she wasn’t taking prisoners this morning. She drew some grim satisfaction from Isla’s look of shocked disbelief. Previously, she’d found the Urquhart sisters’ nothing can touch me confidence slightly intimidating. But no longer. Mitzi’s revealing tete-a-tete this morning and Isla’s mischief making last night had changed everything.
This was the day when worms turned and squadrons of Gloucestershire Old Spots flew over Tigh na Locha. Show them that they can’t mess with the Flisster, Becky had advised - and that’s exactly what she intended! Turning smartly on her heel and leaving a gobsmacked Isla in the hall she joined Mitzi and Cat in the dining room. Four places had been laid for breakfast. Did that mean that Ruairi Urquhart wouldn’t be joining them and she’d been given a reprieve? Not that she sought one. She was on a roll and wanted to say her piece to Himself before her anger and her nerve, ran out.
Mitzi raised her head, smiled absentmindedly and then shuddered at the sight of Cat wolfing down great slabs of home-cured bacon and white pudding.
‘Coffee, Morag,’ she instructed a young girl standing by. ‘Black. Gallons of it. Fliss darling, help yourself.’ She gestured towards silver chafing dishes, battered by age and daily use, ranged on a long sideboard.
Now that the first confrontation of the morning was over and her adrenaline levels had returned to normal, Fliss was ravenously hungry. Mindful of the long journey home she’d be undertaking after breakfast, she piled her plate high with the Full Scottish and took her place at the table.
Eventually, Isla joined them - noisily scraping back her chair, banging crockery and announcing her presence with as much fuss as she could. Fliss fully expected to receive one of her death stares but Isla was too occupied glaring at the piper on the terrace playing a medley of reels and laments.
‘Mumma. Make him stop. Please …’ she whined, putting her hands over her ears. ‘He’s killing me.’
I wish! Fliss thought as she shook out her linen napkin with a snap and applied herself
to breakfast. Mitzi opened the French doors, shaded her eyes against the bright sunlight and addressed the piper. ‘Jaimsie. I think you’ve played long enough this morning …’
‘But Himself’s home. The clan pennant’s been hoisted on the battlements. Have ye no seen?’ Visibly scandalised at the traditional welcome being curtailed, he nevertheless let the air wheeze out of the bag and the pipes fall against his shoulder. ‘I’ll away then - but Himself willnae like it.’ He sniffed and left in a great huff to scare the wildlife down by the loch instead.
‘Coffee, Miss?’ Morag broke the blissful silence that followed his departure and poured strong black coffee into Fliss’s cup. Fliss glanced at Cat and saw that she, too, had opted for a brother-appeasing outfit of kilt, plain blouse and no makeup.
‘I’d kill for a tall skinny latte,’ Isla muttered, pushing her empty plate aside and giving Fliss and Cat’s breakfasts a disgusted look. ‘At Joseph’s or Daylesford.’
‘Or a macchiato,’ Cat agreed with a mouth full of sausage. Then she waved her fork in the direction of the French doors and spluttered out a warning: ‘Ruairi.’ Heart hammering against her ribs Fliss watched him advance through the gardens with Jaimsie in attendance.
‘The Monarch of the Glen. In all his glory,’ Isla announced with sour humour as Ruairi pushed open the French doors and the piper struck up the same bloodcurdling tune as before. Isla cast her stepbrother a provocative look and muttered: ‘The condemned woman did not eat a hearty breakfast, despite knowing that she was about to be hung, drawn and quartered.’
Ignoring her sarcastic greeting, Ruairi paused on the threshold and took a deep, calming breath before entering. His ominous expression suggested that before the morning was over he would have asserted his authority over his family, sacked an extraneous therapist and restored order to Kinloch Mara.
However, he didn’t look on top of his game - he was unshaven and his clear blue eyes were red-rimmed. Although the fresh morning air had brought colour to his cheeks, his skin had a pallor that suggested he’d spent most of the night pacing about in his lair. That pleased Fliss - it would do him no harm to suffer; she doubted that anyone had managed a good night’s sleep after last night’s family conference in the library.
But it was obvious his wrath was directed solely at them, because he laid a gentle hand on the old piper’s shoulder and spoke to him quietly in Gaelic. Jaimsie touched his hand to his Glengarry, gathered his bagpipes under his arm like a much loved pet and walked away.
‘Ladies,’ he addressed them. The temperature - which had dropped by several degrees when he opened the French doors, plummeted even lower as he waited for their response. ‘Ladies?’
Isla and Cat eventually managed a mutinous ‘Morning, Ruairi,’ while Mitzi croaked a feeble, Ruairi, darling without raising her head. In one sweeping glance, he registered Fliss’s lack of greeting, Mitzi’s hangover and his sisters’ apathetic welcome. Was it Fliss’s imagination, or did he save his most withering look for her? She’d already guessed that she was at the top of his hit list this morning and that look confirmed it.
‘Coffee, sweetie?’ Mitzi asked in an obvious attempt to placate him and stop the morning from deteriorating further. She gestured for Morag to come forward with the coffee pot. ‘Breakfast?’
‘No thanks, Mitzi. I had breakfast. Hours ago.’ He swept off the Balmoral, complete with eagle feather - and tossed it onto the table. His glance at his battered Fossil wrist watch intimated that they should have been up at dawn and done half a day’s work by now. During the uncomfortable silence, Fliss wondered if she’d imagined the physical connection which had fizzed like a high voltage current between them last night. This morning it had been replaced by something altogether more measured and calculating.
Well, that made it easier to leave Kinloch Mara and her dream of managing Mitzi’s therapy centre. She wouldn’t stay where she wasn’t wanted or give him the satisfaction of knowing he had sent her spinning off into space with just one kiss. Unexpectedly, she was overwhelmed by feelings of disconnection, a loneliness that chilled her to the marrow. She gave a convulsive quiver and Ruairi turned in her direction, as if he’d felt the frisson, too. And - just for a moment, it seemed like they were the only people in the room and she thought she detected something beneath his scornful regard; something close to regret.
But then his scowl was back in place and it was business as usual. His gaze narrowed, became more speculative, cynical even - and it was plain that he’d interpreted her plaintive look as another form of entrapment. A sting to elicit his sympathy and to get what she wanted.
I won’t fall for the same trick, twice, his searing look told her.
Evidently missing the look that had just passed between them and no doubt hoping to distract him, Isla fired the first shot. ‘Couldn’t sleep, Ruairi? Too much on your mind? Overexcited by the fireworks?’ She tipped her chair onto its back legs and swivelled it skilfully on one leg. ‘I hope you two weren’t playing musical bedrooms in the wee small hours of the night. Such a bad example to set the children,’ she nodded towards Cat who corpsed and nearly choked on her sausage.
Ruairi’s expression showed he was in no mood for Cat’s silliness or Isla’s posturing. ‘We’ll discuss the party and your latest escapade in Elgin Crescent, later. For now I’ll settle for knowing who banished Jaimsie down to the loch?’ he raised an eyebrow at Mitzi.
‘Ruairi sweetie, I only asked him play a little further off from the house because Isla had a headache.’ Judging by Ruairi’s expression that was the wrong answer.
‘To be honest, Ruairi, it did sound like he’d been playing the same tune for over an hour,’ Cat leapt to her mother’s defence while she slathered marmalade on thick buttered toast. ‘All bagpipe music sounds the same to me, anyhoo.’ She dismissed her heritage with a casual wave of the butter knife.
‘Jaimsie plays the pipes every morning when the Laird’s in residence,’ Ruairi continued with studied patience, but his fingers beat an irritated tattoo on the back of the chair. ‘The Laird’s Lament was Papa’s favourite, as I am sure we all remember.’
‘Of course we do.’ Mitzi looked positively crushed and drew her peignoir more tightly round her slender frame and sighed. Tangible feelings of sorrow, loss and happier times remembered, hovered in the air between them.
‘Although, I suppose it is perfectly reasonable to dispense with hundreds of years of tradition because Isla has a hangover. Cat can’t distinguish a Strathspey from a reel - despite my having spent a fortune on her dancing lessons, and you have other things on your mind, Mitzi.’
At the mention of dancing lessons, the sisters exchanged one of their spooky, telepathic looks. Cat bowed her head over her plate, hiding a smirk which Fliss suspected had nothing to do with Jaimsie being banished to his own quarters. But she had no time to give it further thought because Isla leapt to her mother’s defence.
‘That’s a bit harsh, Ruairi.’
‘Perhaps we could continue this discussion in the library, Isla.’ He waited for her to get to her feet, his measured breathing the only indication that he was deeply, furiously, angry. ‘I’ll see you other ladies in …’ he glanced at his watch. ‘Five minutes. Suitably dressed,’ he gave Mitzi’s nightdress and negligee combo a despairing look as he and Isla left the room.
‘Yes, of course. The library; in five minutes,’ Mitzi answered, sending Fliss an apologetic smile. ‘I’m afraid that means you, too, sweet pea. Until this business with the therapy centre is sorted out, we can’t make any plans. But do finish your breakfast first.’ She got up and left the room.
Therapy centre! What therapy centre?
A quick tour of the house with Cat yesterday had revealed nothing as obvious as a therapy room. Fliss had hoped to have a surreptitious look round after breakfast to locate it so she could torture herself on her flight home with the thought of what she’d be leaving behind. Her appetite suddenly deserted her and she pushed away her half-eaten breakfast and left
the table. At least she could get a few breaths of fresh air and take a last look over the loch before she was fired for a second time in less than a month.
Entering the hall, she spotted her luggage, handbag and brand new jacket neatly stacked at the foot of the cantilevered staircase and an electrical charge exploded in her brain. Seemingly, she and her luggage were about to be thrown off the estate and put on the first available flight home as soon as Ruairi Urquhart had finished with her. Her meeting with him would be a show trial, with him as judge and jury and with the verdict already decided.
She pictured him dusting off his hands as Murdo’s Land Rover disappeared down the long drive with her in the passenger seat. One problem dealt with; good riddance to bad rubbish. Tension prickled her scalp and her blood pressure raised a couple of clicks as the phrase jarred in her brain. Good riddance to bad rubbish? Well, she’d see about that …
What are my belongings doing here?’ she demanded of Murdo who was tending to the fire.
‘Good morning, Fliss.’ Murdo turned and smiled at her, but she could tell from the tell-tale flush that spread over his fair skin that the madness in the garden and its aftermath were still fresh in his mind. Did he belong to the camp who believed that she was a scheming hussy who’d set her cap at the Laird of Kinloch Mara?
‘Did you bring my cases downstairs?’ she repeated, hoping that the answer was no - she liked Murdo and didn’t want to pick a fight with him.
‘Cases?’ he queried, ‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me there, Fliss.’
‘Excuse me, Miss. I did.’ Turning, Fliss saw a member of female staff carrying a plastic holdall full of cleaning materials looking at her anxiously. ‘I was sent by the Laird to pack your things, bring them down here and put them by the front door. They’ll be moved shortly.’
‘The Laird told you to pack my things, did he?’
It was one thing for her to leave Kinloch Mara in high dudgeon, but quite another to be dismissed like an unworthy servant. Small wonder he could hardly bring himself to look at her this morning!
