by Lizzie Lamb
‘Then they are fools and you deserve better. The fact you have ambition is one of the things I most admire about you. My sisters could learn a lot from you.’ He drew her to her feet and regarded her seriously. ‘You’re plucky and determined - any man who can’t see that is an idiot.’ She gave him an old-fashioned look, hadn’t he behaved like an idiot towards her until last night? Catching her look, he had the grace to laugh. ‘Guilty as charged M’lud,’ then his smile faded. ‘But it would be a lot to presume, though, wouldn’t it?’
‘What would?’
‘To expect any woman to bury herself in Wester Ross?
‘That,’ she said slowly, ‘would rather depend on the woman.’
For several moments, they were lost in thought and neither of them spoke, although it was clear each had more to say. His life was constrained by his obligations to clear his debts and hand the estate on to his eldest son. Her life was a constant struggle to make ends meet and she was driven by a longing to feel a sense of security - of simply belonging, that had been missing from her life since her parents’ deaths.
Thanks to Cat and Isla, she was more aware than ever that she and Ruairi came from different worlds. Once she left Kinloch Mara their relationship would be over, how could it be otherwise? Perhaps these snatched moments were all she could hope for, and if that was the case, she had a simple choice: take it or leave it.
As though sensing her conflict, Ruairi gave her a swift kiss.
‘Can I come back later? Finish this conversation? The estate calls - and you’ve got the Open Day in a few two days’ time.’
‘Of course.’ She didn’t say that she’d been ready for about a week. Clearly, she worked at a different speed to everyone round here.
‘In the meantime -’
‘Yes?’
He leaned across the table and put the lid back on the biscuit tin. ‘Let’s not share the Hobnobs with anyone else.’ She saw the wisdom in his words. In a few days, he would be off to the Far East to continue his fundraising tour and when he returned, her six month contract would be up for review.
It would take Nurse McLeish with her gift of second sight to predict what would happen after that.
Chapter Twenty Nine
‘And … smile. Fliss, hold the baby just a wee bit higher so that we can get a shot of the four of you together. Do you think you could manage a smile, Sir Ruairi? Please?’
‘Is it really necessary for me to be photographed? People won’t want to see my face above your article. It’s Fliss, Shona and the baby who are the stars.’
‘Och, that’s where you’re wrong, Sir Ruairi. Our readers will lap it up: Laird Delivers Premature Baby During Storm of the Century.’ The reporter from the local newspaper sketched the strapline in the air. ‘And free publicity for the therapy centre is not to be sniffed at,’ he pointed out, earning one of Ruairi’s dark looks.
‘Hardly the storm of the century, though, was it? And it was Fliss who delivered the baby. Not me.’ As if distracted by the image of Fliss rocking Iona, he appeared lost in his own thoughts. He squared his shoulders, settled the Glengarry more securely on his dark hair and collected himself. ‘And - to be strictly accurate, it’s Lady Urquhart’s business venture.’ He indicated Mitzi who, resplendent in a silk cocktail dress and feather fascinator, was standing outside the therapy centre talking to Angus and Murdo. ‘But I bow to your superior knowledge in these matters.’ The reporter, obviously missing his ironic inflection, concentrated on getting copy for his story.
‘And Shona. Maybe you could give us a bell when the wee one’s about a couple of months old and we’ll come back and take some follow-up snaps.’
‘Will do. And thanks for mentioning our hotel. It’ll give us a real boost.’ She’d recovered quickly after Iona’s birth less than a week ago, and was an advert for blooming motherhood. Her husband, Archie, had stayed at home with their four children but had promised to come and visit as soon as things were a bit quieter at the hotel.
‘No problemo.’ The reporter gave Ruairi an oblique look as if to say: at least someone round here appreciates us.
‘All done here?’ Fliss asked, handing the baby to Ruairi and getting out of the chair. ‘I’ve got rather a busy day ahead.’
‘Yeah, that’s great. Stand down ladies - and you, too, Sir Ruairi. Jimmy, get a photo of the laird and the therapist with the bairn before we go, will ye. That’ll look great with the article. Great idea of yours, Lady Urquhart - to combine the story of the baby’s delivery with the opening of your therapy centre,’ he schmoozed as Mitzi joined them.
‘Oh, it was all Mr Gordon’s idea really,’ Mitzi said.
Fliss bit her lip to stop herself laughing at the hapless reporter. Despite his earnest schmoozing, no one appeared to want to claim credit for anything that happened the night Iona was born, or subsequently.
Cat and Isla bustled into the conservatory.
‘Mumma … Make Ruairi change his mind!’ They turned woebegone faces towards Ruairi who was holding Iona like she was a ticking time bomb. Using their entrance as his cue, he handed the baby back to Shona who gave him a look that implied he was wimping out.
Mitzi, self-appointed counsel for the defence opened with: ‘Darling Ruairi. Let them attend the Open Day. For me?’
‘Not even for you,’ Ruairi replied, his expression stony. He glanced towards Fliss as if half expecting her to plead the sisters’ case.
To signify that she considered this a family matter, she made a great show of counting the RSVPs and checking them off against the guest list. Her hands were shaking as she laid the cards out on the therapy bed. If he was this obdurate over their missing the Open Day because of their behaviour in Elgin Crescent, she feared what his reaction would be when he found out about the viral.
‘This all looks very impressive.’ He changed subject smoothly, indicating the caterers, party planners and the treatment room with a nod of his head. He checked out her Zen-inspired uniform of jet black tunic, three quarter trousers and Birkenstocks. ‘You look the part, Fliss; very professional. Wouldn’t you say so girls?’ he prompted his stepsisters who muttered something indistinct.
‘Thank you, Ruairi,’ she replied uncertain of his mood. Judging by his deadpan expression, he appeared to have reverted to default mode. So different from the passionate man who’d carried her across the waters of the loch to The Heart of the Highlands, she thought - her heart heavy.
‘It must make you very proud to see all your hopes for Mitzi’s therapy centre come to fruition, especially after your tireless search to find a therapist, Isla. You are to be congratulated on finding such an excellent one. Fliss has turned out better than any of us could have hoped.’ Recalling what he’d said about believing that Isla had set a honeytrap, Fliss wondered if Isla detected the inference behind his words.
‘Yeah. ri -ight.’ Isla dismissed Ruairi’s barbed comments with a whatever shrug. However, Fliss thought that she’d seen a flash of apprehension cross her face.
‘In fact,’ Ruairi went on, ‘I’ve been half expecting you to surprise us with a happy dance to celebrate.’
Isla’s head whipped round. ‘What do you mean happy dance?’
‘Isn’t that how youngsters celebrate success these days?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Isla said. But it was clear, from the way her gaze swung between Ruairi, Mitzi and Murdo that she was thinking on her feet.
Ruairi was only too happy to elucidate. ‘A highland fling, for example, wouldn’t be out of place, would it Cat? And I’m sure - if only we had the time, Isla could perform a sword dance that would impress all of us.’
Cat went very pale under her thick foundation and took a step away closer to her mother. Mitzi and Angus looked at Ruairi uncomprehendingly. But Murdo looked as though his heart had been shish-kebabbed by a claymore, or perhaps more accurately, the sight of the woman he loved cavorting on YouTube in her underwear. It was obvious that Ruairi and Murdo knew all about the v
iral and Ruairi was playing cat and mouse with Isla.
‘Well, maybe the girls can perform a set piece at the Highland Ball Ruairi, darling.’ Mitzi as usual supported her wayward cubs. But it was clear from her puzzled expression, that she was unsure what misdemeanour they were being held to account for. ‘So, they can stay and enjoy the Open Day - can’t they?’
‘No, they can’t, Mitzi. Nothing has changed. These two pussycats are coming out on the hills with Murdo and me to check the shooting buts.’
‘Pussycats?’ Mitzi looked at him as if he’d gone mad.
‘Pussycat Dolls to be precise. Isn’t that right girls?’ Ruairi grinned, openly enjoying their discomfiture.
Instead of raising Cain as they’d seemingly expected, he appeared to find the whole episode ironic and entertaining. Isla, plainly put out that her complicated plan to wind Ruairi up had come to nothing, glared at Fliss - as if suspecting she was responsible for this sea change in their brother and even of grassing them up. In a flash, Fliss realised that it was Isla’s reaction to the viral she should have been worrying about - not Ruairi’s.
‘Ruairi, you are a complete pig!’ Isla spat, as he mimicked her insouciant whatever shrug. ‘Haven’t we been punished enough?’
‘Let’s take stock … You’ve danced semi-nude on the London Underground in some ill-thought-out scheme to exact revenge for being grounded. As a result, you’ve made yourselves look ridiculous. I’m assuming that wasn’t part of your original plan?’
‘Semi-nude? London Underground? Will someone please explain?’ Mitzi begged.
‘I think - given the circumstances, your punishment is very lenient. So … to the hills!’ He rubbed his hands together as though yomping over the heather and bracken was the most exciting thing in the world. Then he added with black humour, ‘I hope you’ve slapped on as much midge cream as you have make-up; otherwise you’re going to be eaten alive until we get away from the loch.’
He turned his back on his stepsisters and winked at Fliss. Then he and Murdo headed for the fleet of Land Rovers full of gillies and equipment waiting on the beach
‘Buck up girls.’ Mitzi dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I don’t know what you’ve been up to but it can’t be that bad. Do as Ruairi says and we’ll have the cousins over while you’re at Angus’s. We can have barbeques and tennis parties. All kinds of fun. But, hush - not a word to Himself.’
‘Mitzi, they are supposed to be grounded,’ Angus protested and he and Fliss exchanged a look of fellow feeling. ‘Honey, you’ve gotta get a handle on those girls, back Ruairi up - not undermine him. Who knows what they’ve been up to in London?’ He gave Fliss a searching look as if he suspected she knew more than she was prepared to say. ‘And Mitzi, I’m not so sure I want those damned cousins in my house, drinking my booze, smoking dope and getting out of hand.’
‘But Angus, darling, I was so much worse at their age.’ She smoothed down her silk cocktail dress, obviously remembering past indiscretions. ‘There was an Italian Count once, in his palazzo on Lake Como. I had to escape out of a window wearing only a silk chemise when his wife turned up.’ Angus looked like he wanted to say more but was choosing his battles.
Shona took Iona off for her mid-morning nap and Fliss gathered up the RSVPs spread over the therapy bed. Leaving Angus and Mitzi arguing over how to discipline her daughters, she went into the sitting room to ponder over Ruairi’s unexpected reaction to the viral.
A couple of hours later, the Open Day was in full swing. There had been a steady flow of guests all afternoon but after a polite look round, they’d shown more interest in drinking Mitzi’s champagne than listening to Fliss extolling the virtues of the range of therapies on offer. The whole enterprise resembled an upmarket garden party with guests in their summer finery and bunting festooning the path down from Tigh na Locha.
True to form, within five minutes Mitzi had sloped off to gossip with her girlfriends and left Fliss to get on with it. However, Angus had taken it upon himself to coerce guests - in the nicest way possible - to book several sessions with Fliss while they were rosy with champagne and full of his caviar.
‘Phew,’ Fliss remarked at the end of an eyebrow shaping demonstration. ‘Time for a break, I think.’ She glanced at Angus, flushed and perspiring in his khaki chinos and blue Ralph Lauren shirt.
‘Wait there,’ he ordered, pointing to an empty table and two chairs outside the conservatory doors. Obeying, Fliss sat down, kicked off her Birkenstocks and rested her feet on a stool. In a flash, catering staff appeared with champagne, a silver tray full of nibbles, two plates and linen napkins. Shaking out a napkin, Angus laid it across her knee.
‘Tuck in kid,’ he pushed a plate towards her. ‘You deserve it.’
‘So do you, Angus. I’ve learned a lot from watching you today. Talk about the hard sell,’ she gestured towards the appointment book. ‘I’m booked up for the next two months - and that’s before we’ve even started taking bookings from the general public. I may have to take on an assistant at this rate.’ She regarded him with new respect and guessed that persistence and drive had made him his first million. She raised her glass to him: ‘Slainte.’
‘Slainte. Well, I enjoyed it. Hell, I ain’t much for small talk and besides, it’s Mitzi’s day, not mine. I want to thank you for everything you’ve done, Fliss. You’ve anchored my wandering star, made her realise that she can make a life here in Wester Ross with me. She’s happier than I’ve ever known her.’
‘I think you should claim the credit for making Mitzi happy, Angus,’ Fliss said, and squeezed his hand.
‘Talking about me, sweetie?’ Mitzi asked, joining them. ‘Now Fliss, enough with the boring demos. Come and meet my friends, your clients. You too, Angus, no more hiding.’
‘Sure, honey.’ He put down his glass and got to his feet, reluctantly.
‘They’re all anxious to meet the girl who’s got my business venture off the ground.’ Like Angus, Fliss felt worn out and in no hurry to meet Mitzi’s friends but good manners and business sense dictated otherwise.
‘Okay. Just give me a moment will you?’ Fliss asked.
‘Yes. But do hurry up, sweetie, Ruairi will be back off the hills soon. The girls are packed and ready to be helicoptered over to Angus’s estate.’ She carried on as though nothing had happened between Ruairi and his stepsisters that morning and it was obvious that she’d dismissed the whole incident from her mind.
‘If they’re coming over to stay,’ Angus scowled, clearly not thrilled at the prospect of providing open house for Mitzi’s young relatives.
Mitzi took his arm and guided him through the conservatory. ‘Now, don’t be a cross old Texan bear, Angus. Ruairi won’t want them under his feet when he’s getting ready to return to Hong Kong, will he?’ They carried on debating the subject and rejoined their guests outside.
Fliss’s joy evaporated at the thought of Ruairi leaving the day after tomorrow. She hugged the appointments diary to her chest as familiar feelings of emotional displacement washed over her. If - as now seemed increasingly likely, Mitzi and Angus were to marry, the girls would live on Angus’s estate. With a wedding to plan, Mitzi’s enthusiasm for the centre could vanish overnight. Fliss had a sudden vision of her carefully sourced therapy equipment being stashed under the stairs with the detritus of Mitzi’s other (failed) business ventures.
Would Angus extend her contract at the end of its six month period? Or, would the therapy centre close down for winter and re-open in the spring? Did they expect her to take temporary work in London (if she could find it) and return when the snows had melted? She’d made no attempt to find a permanent replacement for herself, hoping that at the end of the contract she’d be invited to stay on
‘Ur - rrrr.’ She gave a cry of frustration as she took the appointments diary through into the kitchen. She knew she had a tendency to spoil the moment by worrying over something that might never happen. And was capable of grinding to an emotional halt over eve
nts that were beyond her control.
It wasn’t as if she could prevent Mitzi and Angus marrying and setting up home. She couldn’t stop Ruairi from continuing with his Far East fundraising tour just because their relationship was changing. She touched the tattoo on her hip through the thin material of her uniform: Carpe Diem. In truth, it had been more to please Becky than for any other reason that she’d had the tattoo in the first place. But it was a timely reminder that she should enjoy herself and seize any happiness that came her way - however temporary. She had no control over the future. All she had was one more day with Ruairi and she’d better make the most of it.
Chapter Thirty
Later that evening, showered and changed, Fliss walked into the kitchen and found Ruairi peeling back the cling film on the left over canapés and pouring himself a glass of champagne.
‘I wasn’t expecting you.’ She felt as if she’d descended in a very fast lift and her body was no longer governed by the laws of physics. For a few seconds she felt weightless and then the world righted itself.
And breathe …
‘Is that your oblique way of telling me that I’m not welcome?’ Ruairi knocked back the vintage Krug in one thirsty gulp as though his mouth was dry, or he was in need of a champagne buzz.
‘No - never that,’ she replied, sending him an honest, open look. ‘Are you hungry? There’s plenty of leftovers, can I get you something?’
Something of her inner turmoil must have shown on her face because he put the champagne glass down and gave her one of his considering looks. Then he shrugged off his gilet and threw it and his Glengarry onto the counter top.
‘Come here, you mad woman.’ Unable to resist his cajoling tone, Fliss walked into his arms and laid her head on his chest. For a moment they simply stood drawing comfort from the physical contact, and - one by one, her worries melted away.
‘Less of the mad woman, if you don’t mind,’ she answered back with her usual asperity, her voice muffled by his rugger shirt. ‘I can see that changing your diet from Hobnobs to caviar and Krug has had an adverse effect on you.’
