Hot Scots Christmas

by Alam, Donna

  Though she doesn’t look up from destroying the throw, her mouth pulls up to one side as she gives a quick shrug. Evasiveness seems to be her forte these days.

  ‘You can talk to me, you know.’ I reach out and cover her hand with my own. ‘And I’m going to be all right. I think last night I just went a bit mad.’

  ‘I will,’ she says, looking at me. ‘Soon. But just tell me one thing. Why did you stay with him?’

  For a moment I think she means last night and Rory, but the look in her eyes sets me straight. ‘I—I wish I knew myself.’ I sigh and begin to chew the inside of my lip, cautious of any further reply.

  ‘It wasn’t for the money or lifestyle.’ This isn’t a question and I’m grateful for that, but I still shake my head.

  ‘Marriage,’ I whisper. ‘I was under the impression we were supposed to be in for the long haul. Love. Fidelity. All that stuff.’

  ‘You didn’t look at the statistics?’ she asks with a small smile.

  ‘I was tired of being one of those.’

  ‘I wish you’d have confided in me,’ Ivy replies, her voice stronger now. ‘I can’t imagine what you’ve been going through, and then yesterday morning—’

  I squeeze her hand. ‘Let’s not rehash it, please. I’m still processing, I think, hence . . .’ I feel my expression twist. ‘Last night’s moment of debauchery.’ The moment of lust-filled madness, the evidence of which is printed in the bruising between my thighs and in the lingering sense of his hands against my skin.

  ‘You’re entitled to be nuts for a wee while.’

  ‘Hey! No nuts conversations or any of the good stuff until I’m in the room,’ yells a voice from the kitchen. ‘If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have seen his nuts at all, ‘cos you’d’ve headed to one of the rubbish pubs. Ones full of old men!’

  ‘Anyway ’ Ivy turns my hand, taking it between her own. ‘I don’t think you’re mental for going home with the hottie. You were just hurt.’ I open my mouth to deny—to tell her I was mainly numb, when she cuts me off. ‘I think last night was, in a way, you evening the score. And I think, even though we both know you’re not a one-night stand sort of woman, if there even is such a thing, what happened last night was probably inevitable. It was going to happen sometime. You were taking back control.’

  Nope, I had very little control, more like. Especially when he held me against the hallway mirror, pounding me from behind.

  ‘And the stakes weren’t high—you weren’t going to be hurt.’

  I really don’t know what to say. It’s obvious her and Dr. Natasha, MD, as in mental donut, have been setting my life to rights while I’d spent the night being screwed senseless. And it seems they’re now both now singing from the same hymn sheet, albeit not exactly in harmony.

  Revenge seems to be this weekend’s buzz word; first Rory and now Ivy. But I’m not so blinded by anger to think a one-night stand will solve everything. It was just a moment of madness following a moment of clarity, because I now refuse to bear the responsibility for Marcus’ death. The man left me poor in more than one way. Poor of wealth, heart and spirit. He deserves none of my guilt; he betrayed me first.

  And often, it seems.

  ‘You’re not, are you?’ Ivy’s voice brings me back with a snap.

  ‘Not what?’

  ‘Hurt?’ her gaze begins scanning my features—my arms and legs.

  ‘No more than she asked for, I’ll bet,’ says Natasha, returning from the kitchen, balancing a laden tea tray. ‘Here,’ she says, placing it on the coffee table. ‘Weak tea and a plain biscuit for the lame and lazy.’ She hands Ivy a steaming mug and one plain cookie, the pair exchanging an odd kind of look. I don’t ponder this for very long as Natasha hands me a cup of what looks like pale green water.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, narrowing my eyes at the contents of the cup.

  ‘Green tea. It’s good for you,’ she says, nodding encouragingly. ‘Ivy’s cupboards are full of the stuff.’

  ‘And?’ Because there has to be a punchline.

  ‘It’s full of antioxidants, which as we all should know, combats the effects of free radicals, are good for your body, and karmically counterbalance the act of hook-up sex.’

  ‘Good to know,’ I say, hiding a smile behind the fragrantly steaming mug.

  ‘And after all that protein last night, I thought you might need some sugars to balance it all out,’ she continues, uncovering a small plate.

  ‘Protein?’ I ask, realising she’s handed me a sandwich. I peel the corner of the bread. Peanut butter and jelly.

  ‘No! Just no,’ interrupts Ivy, making a kind of karate chop with her hand. ‘Don’t even go there. I’m still feeling very fragile and I can smell it from here. Take it away, for God’s sakes!’

  ‘After I sat with you all night, brushing the puke dripped hair from your eyes, you won’t even let me have this moment of vicarious fun?’

  ‘Vicarious?’ I repeat laughingly.

  ‘Aye. I’ve got an English GCSE, you know. It means when you can’nae have any of your own,’ she answers pointedly.

  ‘God, just don’t tease her with foodstuffs.’ Ivy sighs, dunking the last half of her plain biscuit into her mug. The room is quiet, for about three seconds, before Natasha speaks again.

  ‘How was the snow storm?’

  ‘Did it snow last night?’ Ivy looks up from her drink, her gaze sliding to the window and back again. Neither Nat nor I answer. ‘For goodness sakes, it’s nearly spring.’

  ‘It was, er, a good lay,’ I reply quietly, trying not to smile.

  ‘Was it soft and gentle or in like a squall?’

  ‘Really?’ I deadpan.

  ‘What? I could’ve asked if it was a big dump.’

  I shake my head. ‘It was good, okay?’ My voice breaks on the last word.

  ‘How many inches?’

  ‘Ah, good Christ,’ groans Ivy. ‘Cut it out. I’m hungover not deaf!’ She hunches her shoulders over her mug, grumbling something about delicate constitutions and trying to rest in a room full of whore’s drawers.

  So, out of the corner of my mouth I whisper. ‘The higher end of your scale.’

  ‘Really!’ Ivy huffs, an exclamation, not a request for confirmation.

  ‘Excuse me, but women in that entire place were eye banging him. It was like an eye-bang-gangbang, so yeah, really,’ Nat answers. ‘I want to know.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Ivy grumbles. ‘I’m away to my bed.’

  Neither of us speaks as she shuffles from the room, though Nat returns quickly to her questions as the bedroom door clicks closed.

  ‘So was it a night of hot, angry sex? Has he got more tattoos than those on his arms?’ She pulls her legs up onto the chair, eagerly crossing them.

  ‘Not angry.’ It was a lot of things, but not that.

  ‘Oh. That’s a shame,’ she says, her brows pulling into a frown. ‘Angry sex can sometimes be . . .’ I’m expecting her to say something crass when she surprises me. ‘Cathartic.’

  ‘No, but it was good.’

  ‘I bet it was,’ she answers, her tone more to type. ‘Will you see him again?’

  ‘No, he’s a tourist, I think.’ I take a sip from my drink to prevent me from adding anything.

  ‘Probably sensible. Best not to get attached.’ I offer a noncommittal shrug. ‘Just remember the boinking,’ she says, sniggering. ‘You’ll always have that.’

  Sixteen

  Fin

  ‘Sweetheart.’

  Later Sunday evening, Soraya calls.

  ‘Raya, how’ve you been?’

  ‘I’m fabulous, darling, having spent the last two days with my mother in Tehran.’ Her tone conveys what her words don’t. Born in Singapore and raised in Dubai, Soraya is the only child of a very wealthy Iranian woman, who in turn, is the widow of a very wealthy Iranian man. I gather they both consider themselves fortunate in this regard.

  ‘How many suitors did she trot out this time?’ Raya’s mother is
also a woman desperate for grandchildren to spoil.

  ‘None this time, especially after my last visit. I told her if she kept playing those games I wouldn’t return at all.’

  I laugh, imagining her mother’s face even as I silently acknowledge she’ll have some other angle to play. Raya’s mother is like a dog with a bone in her quest to find her only daughter a husband.

  ‘On the contrary, she spent most of my visit in bed, thrashing about and bemoaning the fact that she’d be dead and gone before I ever blessed her with grandchildren.’

  ‘Oh, man. I hate to think what she’ll have up her sleeve next. Maybe you should tell her you’re a lesbian.’

  With a protracted sigh, she tells me she’s already done that. ‘She said there’s no word for a woman who desires another woman in our native tongue, and I told her that hadn’t stopped amme Bahar . My aunt.’

  ‘Ouch. An inadvertent outing?’

  ‘Not at all. The family choses to ignore. Well, it was worth a shot,’ she says, sighing. ‘But speaking of shootings, how close were you to committing violence yesterday?’

  ‘Ivy told you.’

  ‘In an email.’ There’s an awkward pause where we both silently acknowledge their joint handling of this. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there to tell you in person like I’d hoped to be.’

  ‘I don’t like that you were both willing not to tell me indefinitely.’ I feel my shoulders rise along with a lick of anger. It’s there. Like a budding flame.

  ‘Is there an easy way to tell the one you love that her husband, the man she’d devoted several years to, was worth less than shit on her shoe?’

  Soraya rarely curses; in this case I think it’s well warranted.

  ‘It was confirmation,’ I say quietly. I hate admitting this to anyone, but it’s time I face facts. I ignored the signs and I’ve no one to blame but myself. ‘I still can’t pretend I’m comfortable you both hid this from me.’

  ‘You need to put yourself in my shoes. When I found these . . . these abominations, my first instinct was to tell you. You are my friend above all things, and friends deserve honesty. But you weren’t well, so in Ivy I had to trust.’

  My head hits the back of the sofa. Have I been such a basket case? Before the thought is fully formed, I already know.

  ‘I’m over it all.’

  Soraya’s melodious laughter floats over the line. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?’

  ‘Probably more apathy than fury, if I’m honest.’

  ‘While we’re on the topic of honesty, I need to tell you some tabloid TV show has been in contact with the office.’

  ‘TV show?’ My heart rate spikes.

  ‘Don’t worry—they were just sniffing around. Inevitable, I’m afraid. I’m told there are several rich families in East Asia who are short some millions following dealings with Marcus. And, of course, there’s Sheikh Ahmed. I do believe there would be a sizable queue to watch Marcus’ demise, were he not already dead.’

  This isn’t news. Not exactly. She’s hinted as much before, though the confirmation makes me feel ill. This is the reason I was almost arrested; Marcus made me partner in his business without telling me, then forged my signature on several fraudulent transactions. It was only because of Soraya’s quick arrangements that I was able to leave the country on her family’s jet.

  ‘I’d be at the front,’ I whisper. ‘I dread to think what would’ve happened if you hadn’t gotten me out.’

  ‘You’d have had a few days stay in a very warm jail cell, dear. That’s all. It was very easy to prove your innocence.’ Even though I ran. ‘Unfortunately, news of such things brings out the sharks.’

  ‘What do you think they’re looking for, these journalists?’

  ‘Salaciousness, I expect. Someone to blame.’

  ‘You mean me?’ I feel suddenly sick. Terrified.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. Things will blow over. You aren’t to blame.’

  ‘Then why do I feel so guilty?’ Still. In so many ways.

  ‘Guilt is in your DNA, Fin. Let it go. You married a rich man who you thought made his wealth honourably. Lived honourably. It’s not your fault that neither of these things were true. My God, I’m so cross the coward killed himself!’ Her final words sound as though expelled through gritted teeth and followed by a noise drawn from the back of her throat.

  ‘Please don’t spit on the travertine.’

  ‘Why? Do I pay you to clean it?’

  ‘I might end up doing it yet,’ I say, adding a wry laugh.

  ‘Always the comedienne.’

  ‘I’m not laughing,’ I reply, even though I clearly am. ‘I can’t think why those journalists are looking for me, because seriously, funds are getting pretty thin.’

  ‘I have your jewellery,’ she adds. ‘I can courier it to you.’

  ‘No.’ We’ve already discussed this. I didn’t know that our driver, gardener, maid and cook hadn’t been paid for six months. ‘You need to do as I ask. Please.’ Pay them what’s owed, their bonuses, too. Settle their visa fines with the labour courts. Arrange flights back to their homes in Nepal and the Philippines, if that’s what they want. All this and I had no idea. What must they have thought watching me traipse in and out of the house with my designer shopping bags, climbing into my Porsche while they worked unpaid? I want none of it—nothing. The trappings of my previous life are tainted.

  ‘I have someone working on their fines,’ she says wearily.

  ‘That’ll cost, too.’

  ‘He’s already on my payroll and that’s no concern of yours.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I say, not unkindly. ‘I appreciate your help.’ Again. Still. Always.

  ‘No. Enough. I will speak of it no more.’

  ‘Thank you. For everything.’

  ‘Stop. You are my friend and I’d now like to speak of other things.’

  ‘More interesting stuff? Great. How’s Eduard?’

  ‘Insatiable still,’ she replies in a sultry tone. ‘I’ve never known a man to last so long.’

  ‘No, me either.’ My response is a little more droll, because I don’t mean in the sack, though she’s told me of his stamina often enough. I’ve never known Soraya to entertain a man for so long, though this one is super-hot. Supermodel hot. Because he’s a model and he’s . . . also super-hot.

  ‘And speaking of other things, I have good news for you.’ She pauses dramatically. ‘A job interview!’

  ‘Soraya,’ I say in a warning tone.

  ‘Now, before you go getting all moralistic, it is only an interview.’

  ‘An interview where?’ And knowing her, the interview will be purely for appearances sake. I know she means well, but I hate the huge amount of favours I’m racking up from friends.

  ‘London. It’s a job perfect for you. You did say you loved living in London, didn’t you?’

  As she begins listing the company profile and their prestigious clientele, my mind starts to reel. I need a job—money—all of that. I know London having studied there, but am I ready to start again on my own?

  ‘How long before the interview?’ My heart rate speeds up and I can feel the phone slip a little in my wet palms.

  ‘I’m emailing you the details now. You need to set up a time as soon as you can. I must tell you, the opportunity is amazing—’

  I zone out from her validation; her recounting of how perfect a fit this will be. Instead, I pick up the local newspaper lying folded on the arm of the sofa. It’s a free circular, folded open to the classifieds page. I had no idea this thing still existed, I think, as my eyes scan the headlines.

  Household and electrical items for sale.

  Pets and livestock—a litter of kittens. Hens.

  Property for sale and rent—flats, cottages. A farm.

  Positions Vacant—it’s here where a small, square advertisement catches my eye.

  Site Manager

  Developer requires part-time assistant to the Project Manager in the inception s
tages of a local boutique hotel. Must be flexible and have excellent organisational skills.

  I’ll admit it’s not perfect, but it’s enough to make my heart pitter-pat as my eyes scan the text a second time.

  ‘Fin, darling, are you there?’

  ‘What? Yeah, sorry. I was just taking notes.’ Sort of.

  ‘But I’ve sent the information you need in an email. Make the appointment, book a flight to London. Use the townhouse for the night. The housekeeper is expecting your call.’ Her mother’s Knightsbridge townhouse. This is Soraya to a T. She sorts shit out. ‘Let me know how it goes.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘You don’t sound so enthused. This is perfect for you.’ I can hear the reprimand in her tone. She can’t help it; it’s just the way she is. I don’t doubt that it is perfect, other than I’ll be alone. Not that this would occur to Soraya.

  ‘I am,’ I reply. ‘I mean, I will be. It’s just, you know, a lot to take in.’ And I’m also a little distracted by the possibility I’m now holding in my hand.

  ‘Good. I must dash, darling.’

  ‘I’ll go check my emails now.’

  We make our goodbyes and hang up. And I do check my emails . . . right after I apply for the position in the classifieds.

  Seventeen

  Fin

  Sulphates. Isopropyl alcohol. Formaldehydes . . . hang on; formaldehyde. Isn’t that used for embalming?

  Making a mental note to ask Mr. Google later, I place the bottle from the delivery on the newly installed shelf, straightening the bottle next to it, which leads to my repositioning its companion, ensuring the labels of the whole row are aligned.

  ‘Oi.’ Nat pops her head around the door of the treatment room, or the room I’d rename, if it was up to me. Which it isn’t. I’m only required to carry boxes of wax, spatulas and other unfathomable stuff. I’ve tried to impart one or two bits of advice, but Ivy isn’t interested in any of my business acumen, or the fact that I’ve loads of experience arranging huge promotions and corporate events. Major hotel chains. Racing circuits. High-end brands. Nope, I’m only fit for donkey work. Oh, and answering the phone.

  This is Auchenkeld High Street, not Fifth Avenue, she’d said.