Charlie would have laughed his ass off. He gravitated towards men like Argyll, Jack-the-lads with big personalities.
The entrance lobby was deserted when I made it there. I should have just left my bag in the van. I peeked around the staircase, listening for signs of life. Nothing. Behind me, I heard the doors to the games room open and close again. I didn’t look, not even when heavy certain steps grew slowly closer.
Daintier taps of a woman’s feet came at me from the opposite side.
“Did you find him?” she asked. You had to love house staff—they were just so efficient.
“Hi, again. Yes, thanks. Could I get my bag, please?”
“Ah, of course. Just a minute, dear.” And the friendly lady disappeared again.
Argyll junior had moved casually along the hallway and settled himself against one of the decorative pillars near the foot of the staircase. He was sharply dressed in a well-cut dark grey suit, his ice-white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He was sharp, all right, but less formally so than his father, and every bit as certain it seemed.
I tried not to fidget as I waited for my bag’s return.
“Working late?” He was being polite. I hadn’t expected it.
“Yes.” I smiled, knowing that it didn’t quite reach my eyes. I let them fall away to the intricate tile work of the floor.
“I’m sorry if Fergal embarrassed you,” he said in a smooth and certain voice that held only a fraction of his father’s Celtic lilt. I smiled again. I used to feel more awkward about uncomfortable silences, but I’d survived a lot of them and I didn’t feel the need to fill them the way others did.
“He gets carried away with cake.” His eyes narrowed with the quip.
“He didn’t mean any harm,” I offered, looking off to the doors the lady had disappeared through.
“You’re right—he doesn’t,” he said, pulling my eyes back to him again. His hair was a little longer on top than his father’s, but fell forward slightly in nearly the same place.
Out here, without the clouds of cigar smoke, there was nothing to compete with the scent of the rich wooden panelling, the preparation of savoury foods somewhere off in the house and, over that, the subtle sweetness of the more polite Argyll’s cologne. It wasn’t like the bottle I slipped under Charlie’s pillow every Christmas Eve, not quite so familiar. This had a sweeter edge to it, the difference between flowers and berries.
“Nice cake, by the way,” he said, trying again for polite exchange. “I haven’t seen one like that before.” He smiled then—it was a good smile, but his didn’t reach the eyes, either.
“Ciaran, your father’s ready,” the ice maiden purred, sashaying along the corridor to us. I hadn’t heard the doors that time. This close I could see she’d made her blue eyes colder with smoky make-up.
“Here you go, dear.” The friendly lady smiled, approaching us again.
“Thank you.... Good night.” I smiled, taking my bag from her.
“Good night,” Ciaran Argyll called as I reached the cool of the evening air outside.
I looked back over my shoulder to the perfect couple and gave him an acknowledging smile.
Moving into him, to mark her territory, the ice maiden gave me nothing.
chapter 4
I couldn’t feel the bite of the freezing waters around me, only the urgency to swim further out into them. He was here—I knew that—waiting for me to find him. To bring him home.
Behind me on the jetty, the life ring hung idly against the timber post. Why hadn’t I brought it with me? A sensation of unease deep in my chest tried to dig a foothold.
“Come on, Hol! Catch up, it’s warmer here!” Charlie laughed, water sloshing against his face. The unease disappeared.
“I’m coming! Hang on!” I laughed, trying not to splutter. It wasn’t easy swimming and laughing at the same time, but Charlie managed.
Over the sounds of water, slipping in and out of my ears, another voice found its way to me.
“Holly! Holly, come back!” Martha and Dave were on the jetty. She’d thrown the ring into the reservoir but it bobbed around without validation. I threw my hands above myself and waved at her.
“It’s okay, Martha! We’re just swimming! Look, I found him! I found Charlie!” I turned back to see if Charlie had waited for me, but he was twice the distance away now. Still laughing.
“Charlie! Wait!” I called, the unease digging down again.
“Holly!” Martha called worriedly. Can’t she see? I’m with Charlie.
“Charlie? Charlie?” The unease became heavier, like lead in my chest. “I can’t see you. I can’t see you, Charlie!”
“Holly?” Martha called, but I was swimming away from her.
“Come on, Hol,” Charlie called, “catch me up!” I’d found him but he was further away again.
“Wait for me, Charlie. You’re too fast!” I called, but still he swam. Why won’t he give me a chance?
Martha’s voice grew nearer.
“Holly? Holly?”
Swim harder, Holly. You can get there.
“Holly? Holly honey, wake up.”
Martha was gently rocking me, concern etched into her face. My heart was still thudding, not realising the trickery yet.
“I’m awake,” I whispered. Please go now. I could still get to him. He was still there, still within reach. I wasn’t ready to give him up yet, not ready to accept the day.
“Are you okay, honey?”
Already I could feel him slipping. Now I’d never get him back.
I’d expected more dreams; it was coming up to that time. But not those ones. Not like the dreams that had plagued me last year.
That was when I’d stopped drinking with the girls. So that I wasn’t spending my weekends waking up after midday not only with a hangover, but fewer hours to pull myself together again. It’s hard enough nursing an aching heart; an aching head helps nothing.
Don’t cry. You’ll upset Martha. Be grateful.
“Hol? Were you having a nightmare?” I didn’t think she would go, stationed eternally on the jetty.
In place of my self-imposed ban on girly nights, Martha instigated a nonnegotiable scaled-down version. For the two years since the accident, Saturday nights had been dedicated to the emotional well-being of her kid sister. She didn’t realise that staying here every week, eating with her and Rob, sleeping in their guest room—it didn’t take the edge off my loneliness as she hoped it would. It defined it.
“Hey. No, I’m good.” I sent her the lie with a smile. It worked and she sent one back. I preferred Martha with her dishevelled morning look. Before she perfected her make-up for the day and set her hair flawlessly in place, she was the most beautiful girl I knew I’d see all day. But it was pointless telling her. I’d heard Dad try when Mum was out of earshot. Gilding a lily, he’d called it.
Really, she didn’t need to gild anything. Martha had inherited all the good stuff, which was probably for the best as it would have been wasted on me. She had a respectable inch on my five-foot-six—that was without the heels—her eyes were more decisive as to the shade of hazel they wanted to be and she was bestowed our mother’s rich blonde waves. I, on the other hand, had taken after our lovely dad—less polished and less blonde, with that not-quite-brown, not-quite-blonde colouring that could have been either had I’d ever decided which way to go with it.
But despite our differences, and the things I kept hidden from her, there was no question that we were tight.
Martha was a good sister, the best even. But this staying over every Saturday night was really about her emotional well-being more than it was mine. She needed to feel that she was doing some good, and I loved her enough to go each week as a spectator in her blossoming family life. It was the least I could do for her, since she lost
Charlie, too.
“Rob’s making breakfast,” she chirped. “He’s breaking the big guns out. Full English?” I wasn’t a breakfast person, but Martha was hell-bent on taking care of me for the entirety of the time she was allocated each week. She was weeks away from giving birth to their first child and, happy as I was for them, I couldn’t help but think of my impending niece or nephew as a welcome distraction. Maybe then I could have breakfastless Sunday mornings in my own home again.
“Sure.”
Downstairs at the breakfast table Rob had spared no efforts in his quest to fatten me up. He was just shovelling the last of the scrambled eggs onto an already mountainous pile when I bypassed him for the coffeepot.
“Morning, gorgeous,” he said, busying himself with the next bubbling saucepan. “Beans or tomatoes? Or both? I’m having both.”
“You are not. You’ve got enough on your plate already,” Martha warned him.
Rob leaned into me and whispered, “She’s got that right.” I stifled a smile while Martha scowled at him. “What? I’m a growing boy. I need my energy,” he protested.
“Rob, we aren’t going to fit in the bed if you carry on.”
Rob looked at his beautifully rotund wife and then threw me a collusive look.
“Sorry, my love. I’ll tell you what. I’ll have half a grapefruit next Sunday morning instead. Hol will hold me to it, right, Hol?”
“You got it.” I grinned into my mug. Martha made good coffee. “Anyone else have a headache this morning?” I asked, sitting down to survey the man-sized portion waiting for me. It smelled good, actually.
“Only from Rob’s snoring. You two were the only ones drinking last night.”
“Was that you snoring, Rob?” I asked, biting into a triangle of toast. “I thought someone was firing up a Harley outside.”
Martha smiled over the top of her Sunday Journal.
“Do you want some ibuprofen?” she asked, already setting the paper down. It was pointless stopping her; she’d only fuss until I’d swallowed a few painkillers. “Didn’t you sleep too well last night?”
“No, I slept fine.” Memories of my dream made me wonder what Martha might have heard through the night while Rob snored on. Change the subject. “It’s been a grueller in the shop this week. I’m probably just a bit highly strung. You know what it’s like—as soon as you stop, it all piles on top of you.” One of the reasons I kept myself busy.
“Yes, Martha was flapping when she couldn’t get hold of you Friday night. How come you were working so late?” Rob said as he chewed his way through a sausage. It was difficult to look at Rob without smiling. He reminded me in some ways of Dave, a little obedient maybe, but loyal to the core and utterly dependable. They were the gentle giants in my life, but whilst Martha’s tolerance flexed for her husband, it didn’t stretch to Dave. I guess Rob slobbered less. Just.
“I had to deliver to a gentlemen’s evening, over at Hawkeswood.”
“Oh, yeah?” Rob mumbled, a forkful of hash browns meeting its doom.
“I use the term gentlemen loosely. Dave has better manners.”
“Hawkeswood’s the property tycoon’s place now, isn’t it, Martha?”
Martha settled back behind paper. “Hmm?”
“Hawkeswood. Didn’t you do something there years ago with Parry and Fitch?”
Martha loved to talk about her work. It was a shame Parry & Fitch Interiors had to scale back, but the UK property market had taken a big hit over the last few years and most people we knew had been affected in one way or another.
“Did you, Marth? What did you do there? I only got as far as the games room and that was impressive.”
Martha had taken voluntary redundancy, slipping into her new life as a domestic goddess with ease. But all that extra time meant she’d stepped up her attempts at finishing the decorating at my place.
“The games room was original while we were there. Did you see the orangery at the back of the main house? The views over the countryside are a-ma-zing. Who are the current owners?” she asked.
“The property tycoon, like I said. What’s his name? Martha, what’s his name? Andrews or—”
“Argyll,” I helped, trying to reduce the stack of mushrooms.
“That’s him—Argyll. He’s been in some scrapes the last few years. I work with a chap who used to be with Scargill’s. They represent his company... That’s them, Argyll Inc. He keeps Scargill’s in a steady stream of work.” Rob shook his head and carried on his assault on the food.
Why did that not surprise me? “Is Fergal Argyll the head of the company?” I asked, reaching for more coffee.
“That’s him. Fergal Argyll. He’s the big dog. Worked the whole empire up from scratch and then nearly lost the lot. Do you remember, Martha?”
“He seems to be doing okay now,” I said. “What does he do exactly?” I asked, struggling to understand how a man like Fergal Argyll would have built anything but a dodgy reputation.
Rob finally took a breather between mouthfuls. “They’re a property company. I’m not sure, but I think he started out in construction. Small scale, extensions, that sort of thing, and then I think he got lucky and bought a bit of land while the prices were good. If I remember correctly, these days Argyll Inc. shoot for large-scale property investment, developments, that sort of thing. But as with most of the construction industry, they’ve had their pain over the last few years. Didn’t he marry into the aristocracy for good measure, Martha?”
Martha lifted her nose from the paper, and gave Rob a considered look.
“The hunky playboy!” Martha yelped. “You mean this guy?” she said, shuffling through her paper. Martha split the paper open, revealing a small thumbnail of the young Argyll and the ice maiden.
“Yeah, that’s him,” I said, examining the picture. He was a handsome man, but there was a melancholy about him, and melancholy knew its own reflection. On the page opposite, computer-generated images of starter homes, soon to be built on recently sold forestland, made my stomach flip over.
“Hel-lo, Ciaran Argyll. He’s utterly gorgeous, Hol, don’t you think? A womanizer, but gorgeous. I can’t believe that they live around here!”
Charlie had worked tirelessly to protect the forests from sale.
“Keep your knickers on, my love. I think your hormones are playing up.”
Martha swatted Rob with her paper.
“Rob? I can’t eat any more. Please may I be excused?” I asked wryly.
“Sure,” he replied. “You’re washing up.”
“Er, you’re washing up, Rob. You made the mess, you ate it, you’re cleaning it. Hol and I are going to talk colour swatches.” Martha lifted a handful of binders onto the table in front of her. Inwardly, I groaned. “So I was thinking, and feel free to say no, but—”
“No.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to say yet,” she countered.
“I do.... You’re going to say, ‘Holly, it’s nearly October, and then it will be Christmas, and before you know it, your lounge and hall and wherever will have been left whitewashed for nearly three years, and—’” The look on Martha’s face was enough to stop me mid-flow. Damn it, why can’t you just leave this alone?
Six months after the accident, she’d talked me into letting her finish the bedroom for me. She’d made a beautiful job of it, all soft greys and dusky blues against the deep stain of our antique furniture. She’d made my bedroom look as though it belonged to a boutique hotel. The problem was, Charlie had never been in that boutique hotel with me, and so I couldn’t picture him in it. It wasn’t our bedroom anymore; it was just mine. I couldn’t tell Martha that was the reason for fobbing off her offers to decorate the rest of the house for me when she was so desperate to. It would have devastated her that I felt that way about the room she’d already
finished for me.
“Look, Martha. I’d love you to come help me, but I’m absolutely rushed off my feet in the shop and—”
“Well, that’s what I was going to say!” A smile filling her eyes again. “Rob has some time off before the baby’s due, but I’ve already sorted everything out. I’ve decorated the nursery, put the crib together, packed my hospital bag, written my birth plan, A and B actually. I’ve even vetted both of the nurseries we’re thinking of using.”
“You’re thinking of nurseries?” I said. “Already? When will the baby start nursery?”
“When they’re three.”
“Months? Are you going back to work?”
“No, years. Well, I want to be prepared, Hol.”
I knew it. I’d always known it. My sister was a domestic android. “So, Rob can come and do some DIY-ing for you.” I looked at Rob, who looked about as enthused as I was.
Lie, lie, lie.
“You know what, Martha, I would really love that. But I kinda have a more pressing problem, if you guys wouldn’t mind helping me out?” I knew how to reel Martha in. I had a childhood’s worth of practice under my belt. “The shop’s due an inspection sometime in the new year, and it could really do with some TLC.” Rob’s face dropped. He thought we were a team. “Nothing drastic, just a few maintenance issues, maybe a little painting. It’s just too big a job on my own. If you could spend a few days in the shop, Rob, I’d appreciate it.”
Martha didn’t look convinced—but then, Martha’s sole wish was to do what she could for me and I was at least offering her an inch in place of her mile.
“Um, okay. But what about the house? I have some ideas I think you’ll like, Hol.”
The guilt twisted in my stomach.
“Well, let’s see them, then! If Rob moves his ass quickly enough, we might get started on the back bedroom before Junior arrives.” I could keep Rob busy at the shop for as long as I needed to. All I had to do was keep Martha sweet until the baby was born, then she wouldn’t have the energy, or the inclination, to pimp my house anymore. That was my grand plan.
Since You've Been Gone Page 3
