by Alice Ross
Naturally, as is prone in such circumstances, the rumour mill had creaked into action, churning up all manner of prospective purchasers: an American pop star, who planned to dismantle the building and re-construct it in California; a celebrity golfer, who wanted to float a driving range over the loch; and an Arabian prince, who intended buying up all of Aberboyne, chucking out the men, and turning it into one big chiffony harem.
For weeks village gossip had played on a continuous loop, every resident hurling in their dollop of speculation with all the zeal of a champion caber tosser. Yet, despite this unprecedented flurry of conjecture, not one member of the community had correctly guessed the eventual outcome: that the laird’s only grandchild and heir to the property, Amanda Douglas-Brown, would pack in her high-flying career in London and relocate north of the border, to assume the role of laird and manage the estate.
Citing the need for a new challenge, thirty-six-year-old Amanda, a beautiful leggy blonde with a razor-sharp mind and cheekbones to match, had careered into Aberboyne in a zippy little convertible, straight into a wall of apprehension.
‘What did she intend doing with the place?’ became the village’s new mantra. Was she going to keep it as a party pad for the London set? Would they be overrun with lots of zippy little convertibles, being zipped about by people with plummy accents and designer wellies? Would Mrs Summers at the village shop be inundated with requests for cheese with names she couldn’t pronounce, and wine no one in Aberboyne had even heard of? Within three days of her arrival, however, Amanda Douglas-Brown had called a meeting at the village hall, where her high-heeled Manolos had deftly quashed all such notions.
Her plan, she’d launched forth, was to transform the building into the jewel in the village’s dull and dusty crown - by opening it up to the public as a hotel. The venture would, she assured, create lots of jobs and attract discerning wealthy tourists to the area, thereby benefitting the entire local economy.
The entire local economy being more deflated than a newly-burst balloon - as witnessed by the exodus and non-return of the majority of eighteen-year-olds - a bout of rapturous applause had ensued.
‘Could she do it, though?’ had presided over the next round of mutterings. Talk was cheap. But the folk of Aberboyne were soon to discover that, where Amanda Douglas-Brown was concerned, nothing was cheap. Within weeks of her presentation, an army of designers, builders and tradesmen had descended on Glenduff, whipping it into shape like a pliant meringue. The ten previously faded and neglected bedrooms, now decorated in tasteful muted shades, epitomised luxury with their shiny new en suites, plasma TVs, antique furniture, and bedding with a four-digit thread count.
And Flora was loving being part of it all. Or at least she had been. Until a few weeks ago. When her life had taken an unexpected turn. One she had no idea how to backtrack. And one that had spiralled completely out of control. Escorted on its spiralling way by the event this morning.
Despair – mainly at herself for being such a wimp – seeping through her as she sat at her desk, staring at the blank computer screen, she jumped at the sound of a voice - one concocted with equal measures of silver spoons, marbles and fee-paying academic establishments.
It belonged to Amanda.
Striding towards the desk in a smart navy suit and pink silk blouse, she cut a stunning figure. Amanda did, in fact, cut a stunning figure in whatever she wore – even in her paint-splattered jeans and hoodie when she’d been helping the decorators. Just one of the reasons Flora was secretly a little in awe of her. One of many. Another being that, along with her exceptional looks, Amanda held a degree in anthropology from Oxford University. Flora wasn’t even sure what anthropology was. But, whatever its subject matter, and however intimidating her accent and appearance, all the staff had come to like, admire and respect their new laird.
‘Oh, Flora, thank goodness you’re here,’ Amanda gushed, pressing her hands to her chest and casting a grateful look skyward. ‘The morning would have been a disaster otherwise.’
Flora blinked. In her opinion, the morning was destined to be nothing other than a disaster.
‘Will you come through to the main hall and make sure you’re happy with the set-up,’ Amanda jabbered on. ‘I want it just the way you plan to have it on the actual day.’
Flora was thankfully spared the need to reply to that request as, at exactly that moment, her boss’s mobile chirped. Answering the call, Amanda strode off in the direction of the hall, leaving Flora to reluctantly peel her bottom from her chair and drag herself after her.
She was halfway towards her destination when Joe appeared - brown curls flattened by a back to front baseball cap, grin stretching from ear-to-ear, chest encased in a Pearson’s Plumbing – The Best Place To Take Your Leeks T-shirt. The owner of Pearson’s – Joe’s long-standing employer - being a six-foot-six giant of a man, with a fiery red beard and a temper to match, no one had ever mustered the courage to point out the glaring typo. And the error certainly didn’t bother Joe. Having joined the company as a sixteen-year-old apprentice the day after he’d left school, he absolutely adored his job. Particularly since Pearson’s had secured the contract to work on the Glenduff refurb. For the last eighteen months, he’d been involved in installing the new bathrooms, updating the heating system, and doing all manner of complicated things with pipes and pressure that Flora couldn’t pretend to understand.
‘How’s my fiancée today?’ he asked, slipping an arm around her shoulders and planting a kiss on her cheek.
Flora deftly stepped out of his clutch. She’d already had a word with him about displays of affection at work – especially in front of Amanda. Who, much to Flora’s mortification, had now finished her telephone call and was hovering at the door to the main hall, beaming at them.
‘Perfect timing, Joe. Come and join us. I want to make sure you’re both happy with everything before the rehearsal proper.’
‘I’m sure it all looks amazing,’ chuckled Joe. ‘But to be honest, I don’t care. I’d marry Flora in the middle of the supermarket freezer aisle.’
‘Ah, young love,’ giggled Amanda. ‘But I’m grateful Flora would rather her special day wasn’t in the supermarket freezer aisle. Ooh, I can’t tell you how thrilled I am that you two have agreed to be our wedding guinea pigs.’
‘The pleasure is all ours,’ enthused Joe. ‘Not only are you doing us a cracking deal, but we’ll go down in history as the first couple to be married at Glenduff. Plus, if you hadn’t asked us to be guinea pigs, it would’ve been ages before we reached this stage. Now, it’ll all be done and dusted within weeks of me proposing. Meaning we can crack on with the serious business of being married. And maybe even thinking about starting a family.’
At this declaration, Flora’s chest tightened and all colour drained from her face.
Thankfully, Amanda didn’t appear to notice. ‘So, what do you think?’ she asked, stepping inside the room and throwing out her arms.
Following her boss, Flora’s eyes grew wide as she gawped about her. Glenduff’s atmospheric main hall – with its original wood panelling, smattering of family portraits, and floor to ceiling windows overlooking the loch – boasted exquisite timeless grandeur. And at no time more so than today. With glorious sunlight glinting off the polished parquet floor, rows of cream damask chairs flanking a strip of plush red carpet, and an elaborate arrangement of lilies, orchids and various bits of verdure spilling out of a huge vase atop the impressive cast iron fireplace, it looked like it had fluttered straight off the page of a fairy-tale book. In fact, had all the preparations not been undertaken for a rehearsal of her own wedding, Flora had no doubt she’d have spouted forth even more gushing adjectives than her gold-star-winning Princess Flora story had contained.
Joe, meanwhile, was gushing more than an exuberant geyser.
‘Wow. It’s amazing. Better than getting wed next to the fish fingers, eh, Flor?’
Flora couldn’t reply. Her gaze had slid to Amanda’s shoes, w
hich were black and shiny – just like her teacher’s the day of her calamitous recorder recital.
She really didn’t want to be sick over them.
And she really really didn’t want to marry Joe.
Chapter Two
‘Nice day at work, love?’
Despite her problems, Flora couldn’t resist a smile as she closed the front door of the little cottage on the outskirts of the village, that she shared with her mum, Morag. Morag Hamilton favoured habits more than any shopaholic nun, sticking to them like a turbo-enhanced tube of superglue. Every day Flora arrived home from Glenduff, pushed open the front door, and placed one foot on the Hi. I’m Mat doormat, the same question would drift out from the kitchen, along with the aroma of whatever Morag was making for tea - generally:
Chicken casserole on a Monday
Lasagne on a Tuesday
Neeps and tatties on a Wednesday
Tuna bake on a Thursday
And fish pie on a Friday
Unlike most days, though, when she would slug back something along the lines of ‘Fine,’ ‘Exhausting,’ or ‘Good fun,’ today Flora said nothing. Because today had, without a shadow of a doubt, been the worst day she’d ever experienced at Glenduff. And very possibly the worst day she’d experienced at work full stop.
Not that she could tell her mum that. Because if she did, she’d want to know why.
‘How did the wedding rehearsal go?’ prattled Morag excitedly – unwittingly pouncing on Flora’s reason why.
‘The only good thing about it was that I didn’t throw up over Amanda’s shoes,’ Flora wanted to reply. But instead she said nothing.
In a rare break from the usual routine, Morag’s slim, aproned frame appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Was it exciting?’ she pressed, hazel eyes – exactly the same colour as Flora’s – twinkling. ‘Who was there? All the staff?’
Stalling for time before she replied, Flora unhooked her bag from her shoulder and looped the strap over the stair newel. She then turned to the wall shrugging off her coat and securing it on a peg there, scrabbling in her depleted energy reserve all the while, for enough scraps to enable her to paste on a smile.
‘Yes, everyone was there,’ she confirmed, spinning back round to face her only parent. ‘And the room looked nice. Even without all the flowers Amanda’s ordering for the actual day.’
‘Was it romantic?’ asked Morag, eyebrows creeping up her still-smooth forehead. ‘I bet it was. Ooh, I would’ve loved to have married your dad in a castle, but we didn’t have the money. Not that we didn’t have a fabulous day anyway. But a registry office can’t hold a torch to Glenduff Castle, can it?’
‘Which just goes to show that it doesn’t matter where people get married,’ pointed out Flora, recalling how happy her parents had been together. ‘It’s what comes after the ceremony that counts.’
‘True.’ Morag nodded pensively, wistfulness clouding her pretty features, her brown, shoulder-length curls bouncing up and down. ‘We might not have had the most exciting of wedding venues, but me and your dad had nineteen wonderful years together before he—’ She broke off, voice cracking. ‘Anyway,’ she rallied, pinning on a smile of her own, ‘at least I’ll have the next best thing. Seeing my only daughter walk down the red carpet in such a grand setting. And there’ll not be a prouder woman in Scotland when I watch you and Joe exchanging your vows in front of the entire village.’
Flora’s stomach lurched at the mere thought. ‘To be honest, Mum, I’m not really sure about this entire village thing.’
‘Well, there’s no chance of a small do in Aberboyne, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ tittered Morag, before whisking around and disappearing back into the kitchen.
No chance at all – unfortunately - mused Flora, wrapping both hands around the top of the stair post and resting her head on them. As a result of Joe proposing to her in front of the entire village, there now seemed to be a general consensus that everyone who’d been present at the proposal was now entitled to attend the main event.
It had all happened four weeks ago at the Valentine’s Day party at the Spotted Sporran – the village pub. As with most occasions, Sheila, the manager, had indulged her passion for balloons - inflatable hearts, lips and champagne bottles bobbing like billy-o in every corner. Free snacks had been laid on: cheese pies, mini pizzas and salmon patties - all crafted as hearts, plus a veritable mountain of little pink cupcakes. Flora had been having a great time. After a fun day working at the castle, she’d been in such a good mood that the four glasses of love punch she’d imbibed – a potent combination of vodka, peach schnapps and cranberry juice - had served only to heighten her spirits. She’d been strutting her stuff to Anita Ward’s You Can Ring My Bell on the makeshift dance floor, when, completely out of the blue, Joe had dropped to one knee, the music had stopped, and a spotlight had been thrown over them, shining directly into Flora’s eyes and blinding her to anything other than the outline of Joe, proffering what had turned out to be a diamond solitaire.
‘Flora Hamilton, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’ the outline had asked.
Flora hadn’t replied.
She hadn’t had a clue how to.
Glued to the spot, alcohol, mini pizzas, disbelief, shock and horror coursing through her, the eyes of the entire village boring into her, and not a solitary sound to be heard, she’d briefly wondered if she might be having an out-of-body experience; that the whole thing was happening to someone else. The unnerving silence had pressed down on her like a ton of bricks, and the stench of cigarette smoke, clinging to someone nearby, had caused her guts to churn, sweat to bead on her forehead, and her mouth to turn so dry she could hardly swallow.
Then, shattering the hush, a loud burp had escaped the crowd and someone – seizing that as a cue - had let go a rip-roaring cheer, to which the entire tipsy crowd had joined in.
A barrage of applause had followed.
And three hip-hip-hoorays.
Then, in a scene which had jolted her awake on more than one perspiring, heart-racing night since, Joe had vaulted to his feet and, with a grin as wide as the Forth of Firth, had rammed the ring on her finger and enveloped her in a hug so tight the breath had been squeezed from her lungs.
She’d found it increasingly hard to breathe for the rest of the evening, which had passed in a surreal blur, kisses pressed to her cheek, hands patted to her back, felicitations fired at her from every corner. The DJ had played a rendition of Congratulations. And, all the while, Joe had clung to her hand, and Morag had beamed from ear-to-ear.
And so things had continued in the weeks since.
‘How’s the bride to be?’ people would jokily enquire as she walked down the street. ‘Here comes the bride,’ they’d quip when she entered a shop.
Even at home there was no escape, Morag - the most animated Flora had seen her for years - constantly babbling about dresses, flowers and cakes.
And for all Flora had tried several times to talk to Joe about her feelings, he, too, was so carried away by it all, that it had proved impossible.
Her only hope had been a long engagement, during which everyone would have calmed down and her breaking it off wouldn’t seem like such a big deal.
But that plan had toppled at the first hurdle when Amanda, eager for someone to trial the first wedding at Glenduff, had offered to do it on a cost-only basis. An offer which Joe – never one to part with his cash lightly - had deemed too good to pass up. And one which, before Flora could make her views known, had become public knowledge and subsequently whipped from her hands.
All of which conspired to make her feel like she was trapped in an increasingly complicated web, so tightly woven it restricted her oxygen supply.
‘Fish pie for tea,’ her mum called through – rather unnecessarily given it was Friday.
‘Great,’ muttered Flora, before hurtling upstairs to the bathroom and throwing up.
Never, in Flora’s life, had she been so pleased to have
a day off than she was on Saturday. Just like every night since Joe’s proposal, she hadn’t slept well, tossing and turning until the early hours when she’d eventually slid into a restless doze.
Wide awake now, light filtering in through the flimsy blue curtains, the familiar sounds of her mum pottering about in the kitchen drifted up the stairs – of the kettle being filled, the fridge being opened and closed, the faint hum of the radio.
Flora was in no hurry to join her. She was so tired she doubted she had the energy to drag herself out of bed. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d stay there all day. Claim she was coming down with a cold or something. Snuggle up under the duvet with a good book to distract her from her problems.
But, at the sound of the doorbell chiming, followed by her mum shouting, ‘Flora. Joe’s here,’ there seemed fat chance of that.
Lugging her weary bones down to the kitchen, she found Morag at the table, buttering a slice of toast, and Joe leaning against the bench, cradling a mug of steaming coffee. He was wearing black jeans and a grey zip-up hoodie, his brown curls - in need of a cut - flopping into his eyes. As he turned and grinned at her, Flora’s heart contracted. Whether from love or something else, she really couldn’t say.
