Since You've Been Gone

by Anouska Knight

  Stalking across the courtyard seemed to set me up nicely, my disgruntlement good and ready once I’d banged on the knocker. But I hadn’t prepared myself for the brunette lady’s cheery disposition, and the dent it would instantly make on my mood.

  “Hello, dear,” she said brightly. “Come on in. It’s brisk out there this morning.” I felt my grimace slip immediately at her cheerful welcome, knowing I was failing already. I needed the grimace back in place before I set eyes on either Argyll.

  “Hi, again.” I smiled, entering the main lobby again. She was still smiling, too, waiting for me to state my purpose. How was I going to put it exactly...?

  “It’s a bit quieter this morning.”

  “Oh, yes, nobody’s awake yet,” she replied.

  “Oh,” I said, not factoring that into my loosely planned campaign. “I was hoping to catch a word with Mr Argyll.” Good start. Nice and vague enough.

  “Well, which one would you like to see, dear?” she asked, still as friendly as ever. “Fergal is closer, although—” her voice tailed off to a whisper “—he’s probably a little harder to wake. Or,” she said, volume returning to normal levels, “I could wake Ciaran for you?”

  “Wake Ciaran for who?” came a voice from the landing above us. I turned to look through the stairwell as two bare feet, followed by legs in baggy grey marl sweatpants, were treading their way down to us. If the voice alone hadn’t told me which Argyll was coming, the athletic line of his thighs and other things through those joggers did. I tried to get my grimace back, but when I looked at the woman next to me I was met with an expression of total bafflement. I couldn’t do this! I couldn’t be friendly, and annoyed at the same time!

  This was already going badly. I already felt embarrassed!

  As the stairs led him lower, sweatpants gave way to a naked and exhaustively ripped torso. I heard myself swallow.

  Ciaran Argyll’s body hadn’t shown up shirtless on the endless pictures of him I’d seen last night. If it had, I might have been able to prepare myself—as it was I’d just walked myself straight into the jungle without so much as a fly-swat.

  The warm rush was already creeping up over my chest. Be cool, Hol. They’re just pecs...just well-defined pecs.

  “Hello, again,” he said, sending me a polite smile. “Morning. Mary.”

  “Morning. Ciaran. I didn’t think you’d be awake yet after all that racket last night.” There was an edge of a mother’s rebuke in there. “Are you ready for breakfast?”

  Ciaran crossed the hallway and planted a kiss on Mary’s head. “Yes, please, in the orangery?” Mary smiled a mother’s smile and then looked back to me. Ciaran was looking at me, too—everyone wanted a reason for my being there and I couldn’t remember myself what it was.

  “Are you here for me?” he asked, running his hand back over his head to settle bed-ruffled hair. As he lifted his arm, my eyes fell to that line alongside his hip, happily disappearing into the waistband of his joggers. “It’s just that I thought I was dealing with your friend Jesse. Exclusively. On Monday mornings.”

  He delivered the sarcasm with a smile that could have softened granite, and without anything to feel defensive about, the flush carried on its skyward crawl.

  “I’ll just go and arrange breakfast. Will you be staying, Miss...?”

  At last, something manageable... “Holly,” I said, without allowing the catch in my throat to betray me. Mary carried on beaming at me, and again I was lost for words.

  “Will you be staying for breakfast, Holly?” she repeated.

  “Oh!” I stammered. “Oh, no...thank you. No.”

  “Then I’ll leave you two to it.”

  Ciaran’s eyes followed Mary as she passed him, and I could tell she was watching him, too. Then, he turned them back on me.

  “Do you mind if we don’t stand around here?” he asked, pulling on the matching grey hoody to his sweatpants. “The floor’s a little cold.”

  Already I felt stupid for even being there, and following Ciaran as he walked off through the passage behind the stairs did little to make me feel any less so. At least from there I couldn’t see any flesh.

  “So, to what do I owe the pleasure, Holly? Or is this business?” he asked.

  “I, er, wanted to run something past you. Well, I think you should just know that, er...” Ciaran had led me through an enormous reception room, where Fergal was slumped in boxer shorts and last night’s shirt over one of the settees. He looked something between a sleeping baby and a hog, the depth of his snoring leaning more towards the latter.

  “Don’t mind Fergie,” Ciaran said, this time not bothering to turn his head. “He’s just getting his beauty sleep.”

  We left the thrum of Fergal’s snoring behind and crossed two or three smaller rooms, these ones facing the grounds to the back of the manor, I thought.

  I waited for Ciaran to ask me to finish what I was saying, but he didn’t.

  I didn’t know where I was in the house now, and could only follow like a little lost sheep. Ciaran took us left into a much lighter, brighter space. The room wasn’t overly large, not so much bigger than my open kitchen at the cottage, but I felt as though I’d just walked straight out into the gardens.

  On all but one side of me endless lawns rolled away into a landscape punctuated by pockets of trees and occasional garden sculptures. Behind the pavilion, the river wound off into the distance beneath uninterrupted sky for as far as I could see.

  Ciaran allowed me to take it all in, sitting on one of two sofas. He scooped up one of the two coffees he’d just poured for us.

  “Do you take sugar, cream?” he asked, waiting for me to finish with the great outdoors.

  “Just milk, please. Or cream. Whichever.” What are you doing? You’re not staying. I caught him up at the sofas and moved to stand beside the one he wasn’t sitting on. If I thought the hoody was going to spare any more blushes, I was dead wrong.

  Ciaran casually sat forward on the edge of the sofa, stirring the cream into my cup. His grey hooded jacket gaped open over a tan body, the chunky white pull cord on either side of his collarbone dangling down over the flat expanse of his chest. Beneath that, stomach muscles bunched as he leaned forward, a neat little belly button crowning the beginnings of a hairline running down to other things best not to think about.

  I was ogling. I’d been in here minutes and so far all I’d done was stare at stuff.

  “Would you like a seat?” he asked, gesturing at the sofa I was standing idly alongside.

  “No. Thank you. I’m not staying.” There was a snip in my voice, which was good, but even I couldn’t help think its timing was off.

  “Well, you’re staying for your coffee, aren’t you?”

  I reached for the coffee cup on the table and began to glug it down. Crikey, that’s hot! I think I’ve just given myself third-degree burns!

  I did that thing then that all idiots do when they’ve hurt themselves—I pretended I hadn’t.

  “I’ve only come because I thought you should know someone from your company, I think, has been placing a lot of orders with us lately, and maybe that was something your father needed to be aware of?” Ugh, that could have been worse but it still sounded bloody ridiculous.

  “I see. And why do you think that?” he asked, sipping sensibly from his cup. His chest was playing peekaboo with me. I ignored it. I was rolling now. Mary came back into the room, still smiling, with a tray of toast and fruit and weaved her way between the sofas to place it on the table between us. If I stopped now, I might not get started again.

  “Because in less than three weeks we’ve pushed ourselves to finish eleven last-minute orders, all of which have been delivered to the wives of people featured on your company website.”

  It had sounded a lot less sensible out loud.

&n
bsp; Mary stiffened and looked worriedly at me, before turning to Ciaran. Ciaran smiled at her and shook his head a little—to reassure her? That one gesture made me a little braver.

  “And it’s not that I don’t appreciate the business. It’s just the lack of transparency I don’t understand.”

  “I’m sorry, Ciaran. I just thought that when you said that it would be nice for the wives... They’d appreciate the thought, I thought.” Mary looked positively mortified now, and whatever it was that I’d said to make her look that way, I regretted.

  “It’s okay, Mary. I think that was a great idea, and I’m sure they all loved Holly’s artistry.”

  Mary looked apologetically at me, and it made me squirm a little.

  “I’ll bring the dishes through when I’m done, Mary,” Ciaran said.

  Mary took her leave and left me alone with him again.

  For the first time so far, I looked straight at those serious umber eyes without flinching. “Did I just upset her?” I asked.

  Ciaran didn’t flinch, either, meeting my stare just as assuredly. “My father wanted to give his staff a token of appreciation for their dedication over recent months. I suggested we do something different, unusual. Your business fitted the bill.”

  Made sense. I guess.

  “So why not just get the ice—Ms. Richardson to email us? We would’ve offered you a discount for multiple orders.”

  “After Fergie’s behaviour, I wasn’t sure you’d be in a rush to work for him. So I asked Mary to arrange the cakes, and allocate them accordingly.” Ciaran’s explanation had knocked the wind out of my sails. “I’m sorry if we’ve put any unwelcome pressure on your team to get the orders fulfilled,” he said.

  “It’s not that we didn’t appreciate the extra work. It’s just...” What was it just again? What was my problem? I felt like I had something to apologize for.

  Fergal Argyll grunted his way into the summer room, still just in pants and shirt, smoothing back his hair as his son had done. If he were anything like his son from the neck down, it was well hidden by years of overindulgence. He looked at me and an unnerving smile broke across his sleep-filled face.

  “Ye havenae come tae feed me more body parts have ye, darlin’? Ma guts couldnae handle it this morning!”

  “No, not today, Mr Argyll,” I said, eyeing for another spot in the room I could safely look towards.

  “It was very good, you know, and I dinnae normally eat the stuff. I’m more of a meat-and-tatties man,” he said, surveying Ciaran’s breakfast platter.

  “Right, I’ll be going, then,” I said to Ciaran, before turning to his father. “Thank you for the cake work, Mr Argyll. I appreciate the business.”

  “Business? I don’t think she’ll be back fer another!” he laughed. “That was probably a one-off te accompany the divorce papers.”

  I didn’t understand what he meant.

  “And don’t rush off on my account, darlin’,” he continued, not at all bothered about his state of undress. “I’m goin’ to see what the kitchens have got that doesna involve rabbit food.”

  “Fruit won’t kill you, Dad. Go easy on the sausage, eh?” Ciaran responded.

  “Why dinnae ye take Holly here back into the kitchens? Ye can show her what your mother said was the best oven she’d ever used. It is Holly, isnee it?”

  “Yes,” I said, confused, “but really, I don’t need a tour of your kitchen, thank you, Mr Argyll. I spend enough time in my own.”

  “Oh? It’s just that Mary said Ciaran was helping you replace your oven? Is that no right?”

  “Replace my oven?” I said. “Why would you think that?” I smiled.

  Fergal looked at his son. No one said anything.

  “Why would your dad think you were helping me replace my oven?” I asked Ciaran.

  “Right then, about those sausages,” Fergal said, and without offering any more goodbyes, he left through the door Mary had taken.

  “What does he mean?” I asked again.

  “Look, I overheard that you were in need of a new oven. I just thought that you might like the chance to earn enough to meet your needs.”

  “But...what? So that’s why we got the orders? That’s the reason?”

  “It killed more than one bird. You can’t operate efficiently without working equipment.”

  “Why would you do that? It’s not your place!” My voice was getting higher.

  “I really don’t see what the problem is. You’ve increased your turnover, I’ve made amends for my father’s indiscretion and your product has been exposed along the way.”

  “So, you’ve ordered cake after cake, because you thought I needed the money? You’ve spent a fortune on cakes nobody wanted,” I asked, disbelievingly.

  “Sure they did. They just didn’t know they wanted them until they took a bite. I don’t understand the problem. You should be gra—” He stopped himself short.

  “Grateful?” I finished for him. “For making a mockery out of my business? I never asked for your help, Ciaran. I wouldn’t have even if I’d needed it.”

  “Then you’re saying you weren’t glad for the additional money coming in? Come on, I heard you say you needed a new oven.”

  “Yes! And would have bought one myself with my own money. And yes, as you’ve asked, I was glad of the extra work, but not because there was more money in the till. It’s not just about money, you know.”

  Ciaran rose to his feet and cocked a wry smile.

  “It’s always about money.”

  “No,” I answered him defiantly. “It’s not. But it must be nice to have enough of the stuff that you can convince yourself of that.”

  He wasn’t so good-looking when he talked like an idiot. I turned to leave him there, hoping I’d be able to find my way out of the myriad rooms I had to pick my way through.

  “Holly, look. I thought you had a problem. I was simply making it go away for you.”

  I watched him walk barefoot across the rug to me.

  “Well, it must be very nice to be able to just pay your way out of a problem,” I said, trying not to look anywhere near his torso.

  He laughed then, and it irritated me. “In my experience, money can buy most things.”

  I was brave enough to look at him then, into eyes that were hard now. “Well, I guess that depends on who’s selling.”

  I’d take my chances with the rooms. Storming my way out seemed to help my sense of direction.

  Somewhere behind me, the floor creaked.

  “So you’re a traditionalist, then?”

  I halted beside a long occasional table where silver-framed photographs catalogued the life of a family here. “What?”

  “I bet you’re just waiting for Prince Charming to come rescue you from your broken oven every night, huh? Before taking you away to your happy ending?”

  “Happy ending? I’m not waiting for my happy ending, Ciaran.”

  “Sure you are. You’re a woman. I bet you’ve got it all mapped out.”

  He was annoyed? He was? He didn’t know me; he didn’t know anything. I did believe in Prince Charmings once. I’d even met one. But no, I didn’t believe in happy endings. Either they didn’t exist, or you couldn’t have them as well.

  chapter 12

  “No, Pattie, I won’t leave my phone anywhere irresponsible. No, no, I won’t do that, either.... A what pump?”

  Jess and I giggled in the back as we listened to Rob being read the riot act by my mother for the second morning in a row. Normally, I’d have felt sorry for him, but after knocking over the bin of flour yesterday, as well as twice drinking the hazelnut praline latte Jess had bought specifically to lift my mood, it was difficult not to enjoy Rob’s ordeal now. He was as good as my brother, so I was allowed to delight in h
is misfortune. He was as good as Mum’s son—she was getting her allowance, too.

  We were on the countdown to the baby’s due date, and despite him being in the way, I still thought Rob could use a few last days of normality before he succumbed to Martha’s colour-coordinated baby outfits, my mother’s inescapable visit from Minorca and debilitating sleepless nights.

  Please, it had to be someone else’s turn for the sleepless nights.

  Maybe I was coming down with something. Maybe by some weird sisterly marvel, I was experiencing Martha’s hormonal imbalance. Whatever it was, it needed a steady stream of hazelnut lattes.

  My spat with Ciaran Argyll, the pretentious git, hadn’t eased my mood any. It had been refreshing, though, arguing with someone. No one argues with you when you’re a widow. I took a deep breath and let it out slow. Come Saturday night his Hollywood cake would be delivered. His name would be crossed out of the diary, his order sheet deposited in the Jobs Done file. Ciaran Argyll would finally be out of my hair.

  Rob appeared in the doorway to the bakery looking emotionally drained. “Your mother wants a word.”

  I mentally corrected myself. Some people argue with widows.

  “Hi, Mum.”

  “Holly, I see Robert’s back there again this morning?” my mother trilled.

  “Yeah, he’s really helping me out around the place.” On the counter in front of me there was a conspicuous mound of crumbs where Rob had covertly devoured a cupcake.

  “But that’s what you pay Jesse for. Don’t you think Robert should be at home, with his wife?” Even from Minorca she had to interfere.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Ma. I’m sure Martha’s glad of the peace and quiet.” She’s probably vacuuming less, too.

  “She’s due to give birth in three days, Holly. I don’t expect you to understand but your sister’s body is under a lot of pressure right now.”

  No. What would I know about my body being under pressure? I hadn’t slept properly for weeks in the run-up to Charlie’s birthday, but no, she was right. I’d never been pregnant.

  “Martha is fine, Mum. If she needs anything, she’ll ask. We’re less than ten minutes from their house,” I said.