Love, Revenge & Buttered Scones

by Bobbie Darbyshire

  ‘I’ve fruits of the sea to tempt you, meat to build you, vegetables to put roses in your cheeks, and puddings to make you purr.’

  What wanker was this? Face jewellery, shaven head, down on one knee alongside Henry at Señorita’s feet, chef’s hat doffed and flourished.

  ‘And so, for starters what is your desire, my lady? Pan-fried scallops, translucent with taste.’

  ‘Who he, Fi?’

  ‘Or poached wild salmon, spiced with lime and ginger?’ Tracing culinary patterns in the air.

  Fiona back on message. ‘He’s James. My eldest brother. He trained in Paris. Cordon Bleu.’

  ‘Un peu précieux, n’est-ce pas?’

  Intake of breath, seraphic brow apucker. ‘Yes, Peter.’ Decidedly frosty. ‘James is what I believe you call “a fruit.” ’

  Fi turning her cold shoulder, drawing closer to her holy family. Well bugger you too then, darling.

  ‘And so, to follow, what’s your fancy? Prime Aberdeen Angus steak, or pink and tender Highland lamb?’

  Enough. Tedious. Food was food, not poetry. And Fido was off the leash, so, yes, melt through archway into hall. Sidle up to Henry’s bag and smoothly does it – less haste more speed, Fiona – hand straight in, under jimjams and haul it up and out. Henry’s bedtime reading. ‘Heart of the Glen’ by Marjorie Macpherson.

  Big Ben bonging away in bonce. What? When? Press rewind. Back to soup and bread and whisky. Fiona furtive, spilling gossip. There was a man. He turned up late. I think he hoped . . .

  Henry! It was Hooray fucking Henry!

  Stuff fist in mouth to stifle shriek of glee.

  Henry

  The dining-room was confusing to say the least. Tubular like a London Underground station and papered in the same green and brown tartan as Elena’s borrowed blanket. It lacked windows altogether; a series of glowing crystal chandeliers, slung low over two rows of tables, stretched away and away to vanishing point. How could it be?

  ‘All done with mirrors!’ James executed a leap from a Russian ballet. ‘Look behind you.’

  Henry turned. Beyond his own reflection, he found another tunnel of lights and place settings spinning away to infinity.

  ‘We can seat fifty at a pinch, but after a good bottle of wine it feels like five hundred. We have to take care the punters don’t collide with themselves on the way to bed.’

  James was even more impressive than Owen. Physically of normal size, but compensating with a flamboyant personality and startling appearance. He was shaven-headed and pierced – it was hard not to stare at the spikes that protruded from eyebrow, nose, lip and ear – and his white double-breasted chef’s jacket hung open to reveal a tattooed slogan above a nipple – What big teeth you have!

  ‘Here. Sit here.’ The extraordinary man ushered them to a large, circular table midway between the mirrors and lit by a double-sized chandelier. Henry helped Elena to a place and sat beside her. The Urquharts – Owen the doctor, two conventional-seeming brothers, two women he hadn’t yet put names to, plus the six children – were busy pulling out chairs or fetching them from other tables. Fiona and Peter took seats opposite Henry. Peter was sporting an uncharacteristic grin. Henry saw the scene reflected again and again; it seemed that no direction lacked a mirror.

  ‘Leave space for me,’ bellowed the chef.

  ‘Round!’ the littlest one began shouting. ‘Round, Uncle James.’

  ‘Hold your water, Georgie.’ James knelt again at Elena’s feet, doling out the charm. ‘Cómo está, Señorita?’

  ‘Muy bien, gracias.’ She looked pale but determined. She smiled, first at James and then at Henry, insisting it was true.

  ‘Okay, Georgie. But gently. Hold on to your sporrans. And Señorita, you must say if this makes you the least bit giddy.’

  He spun like Nureyev to the side of the room and pressed a switch. For a moment nothing happened. Then, slowly, the vistas of chandeliers and Urquharts began to revolve. Good lord, they were on a turntable!

  Peter was still grinning, straight into Henry’s eyes, and Henry ventured to smile back. He felt an unaccustomed glow of pride. He had endured humiliation, pressed on through storm and night, and here he was, for his brother and whoever cared to see, gallantly escorting a glamorous woman with a dark secret through a world of mystery and surprise.

  ‘Scallops and steak it is then,’ said James.

  ‘I want a burger!’

  Georgie banged the table with a spoon.

  ‘Chips, Uncle James,’ chipped in another child.

  ‘Ketchup,’ another.

  ‘And all shall have what they desire.’ James bowed low, then vanished through a tartan-papered door.

  Henry ventured to address Goliath. ‘Are all the children yours, Owen?’

  ‘Nae, only the eldest. Mary, Charles and Jeannie. The three wee bairns are William’s.’

  Another brother, cursed with a florid complexion, completed the roll-call. ‘Adam, Debs and Georgie. It’s ever the way, we haven’t explained ourselves.’ He seemed irritable for no obvious reason. Each nodded in turn as he snapped out introductions. ‘Owen, our medical man, and Janet, his better half. Gavin, the mountain guide. Kim, who was Gavin’s girlfriend at the last count.’ Gavin, with ginger crew cut, scowled, while the young woman with the riot of auburn hair fluttered her fingers and eyelashes across the table. ‘Plus James of course, our virtuoso chef. Which leaves me. Will,’ he concluded belligerently. ‘Entrepreneur, builder, decorator. I trust you like the house.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Henry. He wished the room would stop revolving.

  ‘Owen and crew are in residence here,’ William continued. ‘Plus James of course. Gavin and I share a house-cum-building-site in Inverness. A filthy death-trap for my kids I’m told, so they continue to abide with my lovely ex-wife.’ He hissed and made a crucifix with his fingers.

  This easy sarcasm impressed Henry, who felt his own divorce as a badge of shame.

  Gavin, still scowling, chipped in above the chatter of the children. ‘William, you’ve missed out our busy wee sister, who owes us some introductions of our non-paying guests.’

  Oh dear. That must be why they were cross. Henry looked questioningly at Fiona. Should he offer again?

  She shook her head firmly. ‘Elena. Peter. Henry,’ she said. ‘Elena wants to talk to Father, Gavin. She’s researching a book about the war.’

  Elena nodded. ‘I meet Fiona in the library. She is so kind to invite me.’

  Henry beamed corroboration.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Owen. ‘For let’s hope it will cheer him up. You’re more than welcome here, Elena.’

  ‘And Peter?’ persisted Gavin.

  ‘Peter’s an old friend of mine,’ Fiona said smoothly. ‘And he’d like to meet Father too. He’s interested in Gaelic poetry.’

  Henry opened his mouth, then shut it again. An old friend? It wasn’t true. ‘That young man,’ she’d said last night. She hadn’t known his brother. But she was honourable, he felt sure of it. She must have good reason to lie. So they wouldn’t have to pay? But why?

  The reflected smiles bewildered him. Fiona was lying, Peter was lying, Elena was lying. Was anyone here telling the truth?

  ‘Quite a pilgrimage,’ said Gavin. ‘And Henry?’

  A dozen pairs of eyes scrutinised him, while Elena, bless her, found the strength to trot out his own lies. ‘I am cold in the snow. I meet Henry and he lend me his coat. I ask he come with me today. You pardon me, I hope. It is presumptuous.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said big Owen. ‘The more, the merrier. So Henry’s – ’

  ‘My good friend,’ said Elena.

  ‘Not to mention my complete idiot of a brother.’ Peter’s intervention was so loud that the children fell silent.

  ‘Your brother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gavin shook his ginger head. ‘I’m confused. So you were both in Inverness, and – ’

  ‘No,’ Henry jumped in. ‘I’m up here on business. I hap
pened to meet Elena, got invited along, and blow me, there’s Peter. None of us can figure it out. It’s one of life’s amazing coincidences.’

  ‘So what line of business are you in?’ demanded red-faced William.

  ‘Financial advice.’

  ‘What have I missed?’ James erupted through the tartanpapered door, pushing a hostess trolley.

  ‘Only introductions,’ said Fiona. ‘That smells good.’

  ‘We’d just got to the interesting part,’ said Peter.

  ‘Oh, splendid. Do tell. I am agog!’ James was dishing up burgers, chips and peas at the speed of light. Briefly he juggled three sauce bottles, then set them on the table.

  ‘Henry’s business in Inverness.’ Peter’s voice was sugar-sweet. ‘It’s amusing. I’m sure he won’t mind sharing it.’

  Henry froze in panic. Peter had bloodlust in his eyes.

  James lifted the lid from a steaming dish and began doling scallops onto white plates.

  ‘I said,’ Henry managed. ‘Financial advice.’

  Peter hooted. ‘Oh yeah? And who was your client? Mzzz Marjorie Macpherson?’

  His heart stopped dead.

  ‘Peter!’ Fiona hissed. She had betrayed him. She had told Peter.

  ‘I’ve heard of her,’ said Gavin’s girlfriend. ‘She’s an author, isn’t she?

  ‘Yes.’ Peter rolled on like a Sherman tank. ‘She gave a talk at the library last night.’

  Henry stared at Fiona, imploring her to save him somehow. But she had shrunk in her seat, her eyes cast down. Wretchedness overcame him. He ducked his head and waited for the trap to close. Elena’s hand fumbled for his under the tablecloth. He grasped it and clung on tightly.

  ‘Shut up, Peter!’ Elena said. ‘You completely bad young man.’

  ‘ “Shut up” is rude,’ said Georgie.

  ‘So what’s the joke?’ said Gavin.

  Peter was flying. ‘My brother is. He spends his life reading penny dreadfuls. Gets the hots for some old ladies’ pin-up novelettist. Arrives at her talk angling to get his leg over, and – fucking shock of his life – discovers she’s a he!’

  ‘ “Fucking” is really rude,’ shouted Georgie joyfully.

  ‘Well I never. Is it true? Marjorie Macpherson’s a man?’

  Henry dared to look up. No one was laughing. The children were still tucking into their chips. It was Kim, the girlfriend with the auburn hair, who was asking.

  ‘Yes.’ Fiona found her voice. ‘His name’s Michael McCoy. His publishers thought he would sell better under a woman’s name. But now he’s coming out.’

  ‘I read one of hers . . . his . . . last year,’ said Kim. ‘It was good, it made me cry. I would never have guessed he was a man.’

  Elena gave Henry’s hand a squeeze. He found courage to speak. ‘Yes. They are good, the books – they’re really very good. Accomplished. Sensitive, I think and, well,’ he dared to say it, ‘attractive.’

  ‘I’ll say.’ Kim nodded and waved her bare arms about. ‘Great sex scenes.’

  It wasn’t what he meant, but it would do. He held fast to Kim’s eyes and to Elena’s hand and headed for the safety of confession. ‘But it was rash of me. Unbelievably foolish,’ he grinned to prove the point, ‘to form an attachment, so to speak, sight unseen.’

  Peter whooped, but there was no other laughter. James lobbed the last plate of scallops onto the revolving tabletop, then straightened up. ‘Love is blind,’ he pronounced blithely. ‘And nobody’s perfect.’

  Elena

  ‘Why you are so disagreeable?’ She was trembling with fatigue. She could barely reason or lift a fork to eat this food. But she found Peter odious and wished him to know it.

  Still he was grinning like a stupid little boy. He refused to look at her, or at Fiona, who also was glaring at him. Hipócrita! Elena almost spoke the word. Peter had exposed Fiona’s two faces. She who resembled an angel and behaved as a saint, she had laughed in secret at Henry’s suffering. But of course – treachery was in her blood. ‘Peter Jennings,’ Elena insisted. ‘Are you so much a coward that you cannot answer?’

  ‘It’s all right, Elena.’ Henry was pleading with her. He wished her to stop. But she was furious at such injustice. She could not see it and say nothing.

  Peter’s blue eyes joined hers across the spinning table. ‘Me, coward. You, cow.’

  ‘Peter! Behave yourself!’ Fiona pretending goodness again.

  ‘And you fucking bossy-boots,’ said Peter.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the wife of Owen intervened, ‘but would you please mind your language in front of the children?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Henry. ‘This is all my fault.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Fiona.

  ‘I hate to interrupt the fun, but I’d welcome views on the scallops,’ said James. ‘What do you think? Do they merit promotion to the punters’ menu?’

  ‘Come on, Elena. Loosen up.’ The blue eyes still held hers. ‘You gotta laugh. SADDO STALKS SEX-CHANGE SCRIBE.’

  ‘This is not humorous,’ she told him. ‘Have you no care for your brother, who loses his wife so tragically?’

  ‘Please, Elena, stop!’ Henry was gripping her hand so hard it hurt.

  ‘My heart bleeds.’ Peter was all disdain. ‘Fancy-free for seven years and all he can find to fancy is some fairy. And just how tragic is it to have your wife decamp with an effing stockbroker?’

  ‘Is “effing” rude?’ asked Georgie.

  Elena did not understand. ‘Henry’s wife die,’ she told the table. She leant forward to give force to her words. ‘It is very sad. She – ’

  ‘No, Elena! No!’ Henry was loud with desperation.

  ‘He told you what?’ The triumph on Peter’s face frightened Elena. Had she said something wrong?

  Henry was tugging at her hand. She turned to him. ‘But yes?’ She was certain of this. ‘Your wife. Suddenly, with no warning. From blood in the brain.’

  ‘Wh-hooo!’ Peter banged the table. ‘Would you credit it? What a chat-up line! Ingrid never dropped dead. She sussed the pillock in a couple of months and scarpered before she died of boredom.’

  Henry’s face was scarlet. ‘I am so dreadfully sorry, Elena. I’ve no excuse, no explanation. I told you a lie. Only one, I swear. Please forgive me. It’s a fantasy, that’s all. Another idiotic, habitual fantasy of mine.’ His hands, clutching hers, were slippery. ‘It’s the truth, God help me. Ingrid didn’t die. She lives in Torquay.’ His voice grew loud. His face was filled with self-disgust. ‘She left me, just as Peter says, for a richer, cleverer, vastly more attractive man than I am.’

  Elena stared at him. The table, revolving amidst myriad reflections, was completely silent.

  ‘A – nd CUT!’ said the brother with spikes. ‘Great stuff, guys, it’s a wrap. And now, please, can you hold the next scene while I go cook the steaks?’

  Chapter Twenty

  Elena

  The air began to pulsate and hum, the sunlight dazzled her, the seat beneath her was hot stone.

  ‘Whoa!’ she heard Urquhart cry. He towered above her, gigantic and without pity. He blocked the light and the village voices as she slithered into the well.

  She tried to save herself, but her strength was gone. She was weary beyond caring. It was tranquil to slide and fall through the suffocating air. The well opened its black mouth and swallowed her. From air into water, she sank peacefully, gently, relinquishing her fear, until warm mud lifted itself to claim her, swallowing her softly in its turn. Down she drifted, deep into the mud, each moment more slowly, until at last she lay still. Peace embraced her. She rested safe in the earth beside her mother and Marisa. She saw their faces, clear and bright, not old as before. A smile from the angels was growing around them. You can stay here, the smile said. There is no need to think or worry, no need to move or open your eyes.

  ‘Sleep now, lassie.’ Urquhart’s voice echoed inside the angels’ smile. ‘Close the curtains, Janet. Let’s be leaving her to sleep.’
<
br />   Henry

  ‘Please. Henry. I need to speak to you.’

  He faltered at the foot of the cantilevered spiral staircase, up which big Owen, competent and kindly, had just disappeared with Elena’s limp body in his arms and his nice wife, Janet, at his side. The staircase wound into darkness above Henry’s head. Not even the echo of their footsteps lingered.

  He had lied to Elena. He had lost Elena. In one wretchedly small and unnecessary detail he had broken faith with reality, and bang, he had blown his fragile chance of winning a woman of his own.

  Fiona Urquhart bobbed at his elbow, wanting to speak about things that didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered any more. And here came his bloody brother, smirking.

  Fiona followed his despairing eyes. ‘Peter,’ she said. ‘Will you take Elena’s case up? And her bag?’ She paused. Then, ‘Henry?’

  What? She was touching his fingers. He looked down and saw the handle of Elena’s handbag clenched tightly in his fist. ‘Yes, of course.’ He let it go.

  Fiona took it and held it out to Peter. Peter pulled a face. He slung the bag to his shoulder, lifted Elena’s case and executed a clicked-heel salute. ‘Ja wohl, mein Führer.’

  ‘You never relent, do you, Peter?’ said Fiona.

  ‘I will if you will, so will I.’ Peter set off up the stairs after Henry’s forfeited chances. Henry watched until he was out of sight.

  Fiona’s anxiety lapped around the wreck of his hopes. She still had her pointless speaking to do. ‘Please let me apologise, Henry. I have no excuses either, but I want you to know I never once laughed at you, or felt like laughing.’

  He dragged his eyes away from the dark spiral of steps and tried to cut her short. ‘Whatever you say. It hardly matters. Elena was there, Elena saw. And she laughed, why not? But then, later,’ he took a breath, remembering her tearful, trusting gaze, ‘later she didn’t laugh. She completely understood. It was my lie. Mine was the lie that counted.’