by Alice Ross
Whatever it was, the information didn’t impress Mrs Mack, who narrowed her eyes a shade further. ‘Are those trousers seconds? Or are they designed for someone with three legs?’
Feeling a spike of indignation, Flora tilted up her chin. ‘They’re harem pants. Gwyneth Paltrow never wears anything else for her practice.’
‘Gwyneth who?’
‘Paltrow. She’s an actress. And a big yoga fan.’
Mrs Mack pulled one of her faces, implying she couldn’t care less who Gwyneth was, or if she did her yoga in a spacesuit with a donkey on her head. ‘Well that yoga woman in reception isn’t wearing anything like that,’ she crowed.
Flora wrinkled her nose. ‘What yoga woman in reception?’
‘The one waiting for you.’
In reception, Flora discovered that Yvonne of Yvonne’s Iyengar Yoga was not only not wearing harem pants, but that she did not look remotely like the lithe and supple specimen on her videos. Possibly because she was now a decade older, approximately four stone heavier, and the glossy red hair – pulled into a sleek bun for the camera – now resembled a rusty pan scourer. But while Flora’s flabber was most definitely gasted at Yvonne’s appearance, Yvonne seemed equally taken aback by Flora’s.
‘Oh.’ Porcine eyes swept over Flora’s colourful person. ‘I see you’re all… prepared.’
Flora cringed inwardly. Had she gone a bit overboard? But no, she reassured herself. She was supposed to be acting like a paying guest. And she was sure all paying guests would wear harem pants. Even Gwyneth. Probably.
‘Oh, you know,’ she replied, assuming a disarming smile and a breezy tone. ‘Us Scots and our harem pants.’
Yvonne cocked an eyebrow. ‘I thought it was kilts.’
‘Yes, well, those too,’ Flora blustered, aware of the questioning looks being launched her way by Amy – the junior receptionist Flora had recently recruited - behind the desk. Eager to escape her new colleague’s bemused gaze, she threw back her shoulders, and said, ‘Now, let me show you to your room, then we can make a start.’
Despite it only being mid-morning, said start was delayed by over an hour due to Yvonne declaring her chakras needed some sustenance, and that she really had to eat something.
Nuts, pulses, fruit and vegetables forming the basis of any self-respecting yogi’s diet – according to Yvonne’s website – Flora had asked Chef to make a kale and quinoa salad, a vegetarian quiche, and a batch of granola bites, especially for Yvonne. Upon being informed of this, however, the instructor looked marginally less impressed than Mrs Mack had at the sight of the orange harem pants.
‘Well, the thing is,’ she explained, ‘I used to eat all that stuff but it gave me terrible wind. It’s a very individual thing, of course, but I’ve found that a high-protein diet is the best thing for my constitution.’
‘Oh. No matter,’ piped up Flora proudly. ‘I also asked Chef to get some tofu for you.’
A wave of something that could possibly have been irritation flittered across Yvonne’s flabby features. ‘Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of burger and chips.’
Sitting with Yvonne as she devoured her burger – surfacing for air only to request more ketchup – Flora had felt more than a little out of place in her harem pants in the dining room, where everyone else favoured sensible tweed and walking gear. Relieved when Yvonne declared herself ready for action, she hurled herself back into exercise mode, swiping up her rucksack and scuttling past Amy in reception. She was midway down the path that led to the lawned area overlooking the loch, when she bumped into Colonel Dunlop.
‘Good heavens,’ the old man puffed. ‘Don’t tell me the place has gone all continental and they’ve changed the staff uniform.’
Flora giggled. ‘No, Colonel. They’re harem pants. For yoga.’
‘Yoga? All that standing on your head business? Can’t be good for you. If we were meant to stand on our heads, we wouldn’t have legs. Nothing wrong with a few sit-ups. And you don’t need any fancy pants for those.’ He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. ‘I do mine in the altogether.’
Flora’s eyeballs almost exited their sockets. ‘Colonel Dunlop!’ she gasped.
‘But that’s just between us,’ he chuckled, tapping his nose and giving her a wink, before tottering off up the path.
Flora selected a spot in the unseasonably warm sunshine for the session, smoothing out her pink mat next to a rhododendron bush. Aware of a couple of guests watching her from a garden bench outside the drawing room window, and with no sign of Yvonne who’d mumbled something about getting changed, Flora felt compelled – in her exercise garb - to do something exercisey. She drew in a couple of deep breaths, shook out her arms and legs to loosen up a little, then, taking a huge step forward, attempted a lunge, promptly toppling into the rhododendrons as she lost her balance.
Ignoring the snorts of laughter from the bench, she scrambled to her feet and was straightening her now-lopsided ponytail, when she spotted Yvonne waddling down the path towards her - with no harem pants, no T-shirt bearing a natty slogan, no mat, no rucksack, in fact nothing remotely yoga-ish at all.
Flora, keen to crack on and redeem some credibility in front of her still-sniggering audience, asked, ‘Shall we start with the Sun Sanitation?’
Yvonne sucked in a breath reminiscent of a workman when asked to price a repair job. ‘Well,’ she puffed on the exhale. ‘The thing is… as one of the first rules of yoga is not to undertake any practice within two hours of eating, I’ll have to sit it out.’
Flora’s brows snapped together. ‘So how would that work if guests had signed up for a full-day course?’
‘Oh. Right. Yes,’ spluttered Yvonne, seeming to have just remembered the reason she was there. ‘Well, I can still teach, of course. So, let’s begin with some… warm-up exercises, shall we.’
Forty minutes later, more washed-out than warmed-up, Flora wondered if she should have curbed her yoga enthusiasm. It had, however, been a revelation discovering so many words ending in -asana. Indeed, she’d felt a bit of an asana herself, when Joe and a couple of his workmates had made a brief appearance, tittering madly as she’d been lying on her back, legs akimbo, clasping a big toe in each hand and rocking from side to side.
Despite all such distractions, though, Flora had done her best to concentrate. Unlike Yvonne, who’d seemed decidedly tetchy.
‘Just need to pop to the… the loo,’ the woman announced, having twisted Flora into yet another asana – hands linked under one bent leg and secured with the yoga belt. ‘Back in a mo.’ And with that, off she shot.
Oh well, mused Flora, at least she could have a breather for a couple of minutes. She’d thought this yoga malarkey was supposed to be relaxing, but she felt completely knackered. If she could loosen the belt, she could collapse in a heap.
Only she couldn’t loosen the belt.
And the more she shuffled about trying to, the more her harem pants slid down.
‘Need a hand?’ enquired a deep, male, Australian voice.
Flora whipped her head around to its source, so quickly she almost pulled another muscle. At the sight before her, though, her eyes undertook a workout of their own. The accent – obviously unlike that usually heard in Aberboyne, belonged to a guy unlike those usually seen in Aberboyne. In his mid-twenties, he boasted a healthy, sun-kissed glow, dazzling turquoise eyes, and a thatch of shaggy hair so blond it almost looked bleached. He could have stepped straight off a surfboard. Apart from the fact he was wearing jeans and a leather jacket, and had a rucksack dangling from his shoulder – which wouldn’t be advisable on a surfboard – obviously.
‘So, do you?’ he asked, grinning at her.
Flora blinked. So disorientated had she suddenly become, that she’d completely forgotten the question.
‘Need a hand?’ he repeated, correctly interpreting the wave of confusion that had settled over her face.
Oh God. She did need a hand. But whether she needed one attached to s
o divine a body, she couldn’t honestly say. Then again, what was the alternative? If she didn’t get out of this asana soon, she might suffer a DVT. Or rigor mortis. Or something. ‘Um…’ She threw a look at the belt.
Before she could summon any coherent words, then set about what suddenly seemed like the mammoth task of arranging them in a logical order – the stranger had shrugged off his bag and loped over to her. Crouching at her side, so close she could smell the leather of his jacket mingling with his coconut shampoo, he deftly untied the belt.
‘There you go.’ He coiled it up and handed it to her.
‘Thanks,’ muttered Flora, using her now-free hand to adjust her pants.
‘Nice spot for yoga,’ he remarked – in a tone hinting at amusement.
Before she could stop it, a weary sigh escaped Flora. She’d been hoping for a day of calm, a temporary reprieve from her problems, and possibly even the discovery of a relaxing new hobby. What she’d got instead was an instructor more interested in how many burgers were included in her free stay, than soothing Flora’s ragged nerves, and an amused audience of guests, her fiancé, and now a cocky antipodean.
As a tsunami of exhaustion crashed over her, she heaved herself to her feet, at exactly the same moment the stranger rose to his.
‘Sorry, but I’d better go and find my instructor,’ she muttered, not in the mood for polite conversation. ‘Thanks again for your help.’
‘No worries,’ came back the reply.
Flora managed another fleeting smile before whisking around, taking two steps in the direction of the castle. Then coming to an abrupt halt as her orange trousers, in all their colourful glory, slid all the way down to her ankles.
Flora spent the rest of the day swamped in mortification. For all it felt like every scrap had been well and truly shredded, she’d attempted to salvage some dignity in front of the Australian, by hoisting up her pants, jutting out her chin, and strutting up the lawn back to the castle, reaching the entrance just in time to observe Yvonne tossing a cigarette butt onto the gravel.
‘How was yoga today?’ floated out the question from the kitchen, as soon as Flora arrived home that evening. ‘Was it fun? Did you come over all zingy?’
‘It’s Zen, Mum,’ corrected Flora. And, recalling how her heartbeat had rocketed when she’d set eyes on a certain handsome Australian, she concluded it had been anything other. ‘It wasn’t, um, quite what I thought it was going to be,’ she admitted glumly.
‘Oh well. You can try again tomorrow,’ encouraged Morag. ‘It might be one of those things that grows on you.’
‘Possibly,’ uttered Flora, the remark conjuring up an image of a red, itchy, and very unpleasant fungal infection.
Joe rang after tea, bubbling more enthusiastically than a cappuccino maker.
‘Fancy meeting up for a drink at the Sporran later? There’s something I want to show you. And you’re going to be well impressed.’
Flora experienced a thud of anxiety. ‘It’s not another house, is it?’
‘Of course it isn’t another house. One’s enough, isn’t it?’
In Flora’s opinion, one was far too much. But over the phone wasn’t the right time to bring that up. ‘What is it then?’
‘You won’t know unless you meet me at the pub. See you there at eight.’
Walking to the Spotted Sporran a couple of hours later, Flora’s nerves teetered on the edge of a very steep precipice as she wondered what her fiancé might be about to spring on her now - a sensible family car? A year’s supply of free nappies? Joint membership of the bowls club?
She didn’t have to wait long to find out. Joe was at a quiet table in the corner when she arrived. And no sooner had she slipped off her coat and plopped down onto the green velvet seat next to him, than a glass of wine was plonked down in front of her, followed by a sheet of A4 paper.
‘What do you think of that?’ he asked smugly, sitting back in his seat and folding his arms over his chest.
Flora wrinkled her forehead. ‘What is it?’
‘A spreadsheet. For the wedding. I know having it at the castle has taken away a load of organising, but there’s still lots to do. So, to keep us on track, and because we don’t have much time, I thought this would help.’
Flora gulped as she ran a cursory eye down the column headed To Do:
Photographer
Rings
Cars
She squinted at the next item. ‘Does that say heart-shaped mini haggises?’
‘Yep. I think they’ll be a nice touch, don’t you?’
Flora didn’t. Closing her eyes, she dragged in a steadying breath. She couldn’t go along with this any longer - the more time passed, the tighter the threads of the web knitted around her. Soon they’d be so taut she’d never be able to wriggle her way out; she’d be well and truly trapped. She had to tell him how she felt. For his sake as much as hers. Opening her eyes to find him beaming at her, she reached for her glass, chugged down two large mouthfuls of alcohol, then, meeting his gaze, asked, ‘Look, Joe, do you really think we’re ready for this?’
Joe’s smile dipped a couple of degrees. ‘I can scrap the tartan lollipop wedding favours if you want. I just thought you’d like them.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t mean the wedding favours. I mean the whole wedding thing. It’s just… we’re so young. And neither of us have—’
She broke off as something at the bar caught her eye.
Something blond, bronze and Antipodean.
Holding up a hand in greeting.
Crap! The Australian from the castle – who’d had a front row view of the trousers-falling-down incident.
The last person on earth she wanted to see.
At any time.
But especially when she was just about to launch into the well-rehearsed speech that would, hopefully, allow her to regain control of her life.
Maybe if she pretended she hadn’t seen him…
But it was too late.
He was striding over to them. Shaggy, naturally-highlighted hair and all.
‘Hi,’ he said, reaching the table and breaking into a smile that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a toothpaste advert. It turned Flora’s insides a bit squishy. Which she put down to disappointment at having her speech thwarted. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
‘Fancy.’ She swiped up her glass again and took another slurp – eyes fixed on a picture on the wall. Maybe if she acted really coolly – like a few degrees below freezing - he’d go away.
‘You’re not from these parts,’ piped up Joe in his usual cheery manner. ‘Australian?’
‘Brisbane born and bred. I’m Noah,’ the now-no-longer-a-nameless-stranger informed them, as he extended a hand to Joe.
‘Joe,’ confirmed Joe. ‘And this is Flora. Although it sounds like you two have already met.’
‘We have. At Glenduff. When Flora was practising her yoga. I recognise her… face.’ He gave a little cough – which sounded suspiciously to Flora like an aborted snort of laughter. ‘But we weren’t properly introduced.’
Dragging her gaze from the picture, she shot him her most withering glare, cursing herself as her cheeks grew warm.
Joe didn’t appear to notice her less than enthusiastic greeting. ‘What did you think of the instructor?’ he sniggered. ‘I’ve never seen anyone less yoga-like in my life. When I saw her, she was stuffing her face with doughnuts. I bet she wasn’t anything like you were expecting, Flor.’
Indignation pulsed through Flora. Yvonne might not have been quite what she’d expected, but it was bad enough having a complete stranger – who’d seen her bare buttocks - laughing at her, without her fiancé joining in. ‘Actually, Yvonne is very… knowledgeable,’ she retorted. Because she was sure the woman was. In something. Like the ideal number of chips to serve with a burger.
‘What brings you to Aberboyne, Noah?’ asked Joe, thankfully moving the conversation on.
Noah lifted his broad shoulders in a shrug. ‘Ju
st passing through. Working my way round Europe, actually.’
Joe puffed out his cheeks. ‘Blimey. That sounds brave. Not my cup of tea mind. A home bird, that’s me. Isn’t that right, Flor?’
At the elbow in her ribs that followed this statement, Flora managed a tight smile. Which tightened a shade further when she heard Joe asking, ‘Why don’t you join us?’
Flora swivelled panicked eyes to him.
An action which evidently didn’t go unnoticed by Noah.
‘Thanks, but it looks like you’re busy.’ He indicated the sheet of paper on the table.
‘We are actually,’ sniped back Flora. ‘Very busy. Aren’t we, Joe?’
‘Just going over some stuff for our wedding in a few weeks,’ Joe informed the visitor.
Noah’s blond eyebrows rocketed so far up his golden forehead, Flora wondered they didn’t fly off and enter orbit. Or attach themselves to the ceiling at the very least. ‘Wedding?’ he echoed - in a tone reverberating with incredulity.
Joe puffed out his chest and slid an arm around Flora’s shoulders. ‘Yep. Popped the question on Valentine’s Day and now it’s all systems go.’
‘Right.’ Noah scratched his blond head, evidently not knowing what to make of that revelation. ‘Well… congratulations,’ he eventually blustered, exerting, what seemed to Flora, a monumental effort to modify his surprise, as his bewildered gaze bobbed from Joe to her and back to Joe. ‘Blimey. I think that’s even braver than me bumming my way round Europe,’ he added.
Joe roared with laughter. ‘Go on, pull up a stool. You can tell us all about Australia. Flora’s always fancied going, haven’t you, Flor?’
As two sets of eyes – one of them an unsettling, perspicacious shade of turquoise – landed on Flora, she snatched up her wine glass and downed the entire contents.
Chapter Four
Chucking a metaphorical lifebuoy into her ever-expanding pit of despair, Flora clung to it with a vice-like grip, hoping today’s session with Yvonne would prove much more yoga-ish than the day before. Meditation was the intended focus – meant to calm the mind and reduce anxiety.
