Sea Breezes at Brightwater Bay

by Holly Hepburn

  The night was cold as Merry and Niall waited for their taxi. Andrew had wanted them to stay inside, but Merry’s head was woozy with whisky and she found herself craving fresh air. Not that it was helping her to feel any less woozy; if anything, her sense of woolly but warm wellbeing had increased now that she was outside.

  ‘S’freezing,’ she said to Niall as they leaned against his car, staring up at the first stars of the evening.

  Niall nodded. ‘The taxi won’t be long.’ He gave her a concerned look. ‘But we can wait inside if you like?’

  ‘No,’ she said, and took another deep breath of bracing air. ‘No, it’s nice to be outside. I had a lovely time today, by the way. Thank you for organizing it.’

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ he said, then grinned. ‘It actually was – I love visiting the distillery. Thanks for giving me an excuse.’

  ‘I’m not surprised – your friends seem like a lot of fun,’ she said. ‘And I think I could listen to Andrew talk for hours.’

  Niall raised his eyebrows. ‘Believe me, he’d let you. But they’re a great bunch.’ He paused and when he spoke again, his tone had a strange stiffness to it. ‘Just be careful around Magnús. I know you’ve become friends but I get the impression he’s . . . that he . . .’ He puffed out a long breath that clouded in the cold. ‘That his intentions are not entirely platonic.’

  Merry knew without having to look that he was blushing. This was because of Alex, she thought; because she’d led Niall to believe she had a relationship to go back to in London. It had made sense at the time, but now, with several glasses of whisky running through her veins and dulling her thoughts, she couldn’t really remember why she’d stretched the truth. Something to do with professionalism, she decided, and keeping life simple. And she’d told the same lie to Magnús, so at least she could reassure Niall on that point. Even if she was starting to accept that her own intentions towards Magnús weren’t platonic either.

  ‘No need to worry about that,’ she said, as stoutly as she could. ‘He knows about . . . that I’m not—’

  She stopped as a sudden urge to come clean washed over her. It was stupid to maintain the lie, especially since it meant giving Alex space in her head – space he no longer deserved or had a right to occupy. It was time she moved on and she couldn’t do that if she was pretending to still be in a relationship with someone who’d made it clear he didn’t want her. Merry gazed blearily up at the stars and willed herself to think clearly. It was also true that Magnús wasn’t a long-term prospect but, as Jess had pointed out, she didn’t have to marry him, just have some fun. But that definitely wasn’t an option if everyone thought she wasn’t single . . .

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ she said, reluctantly turning her head to look at him.

  By the light from the wrought iron lanterns, Merry saw he was frowning. Doubt made her hesitate; was this something she ought to admit while not entirely sober? Maybe she should wait for a better opportunity, one when she wasn’t tipsy. But then she might lack the courage to say anything at all.

  Reaching a decision, she opened her mouth to speak again, but a flash of car headlights made them both stare at the car park entrance as a taxi swung in through the gates.

  A second later, Niall turned back. ‘Merry?’ he said. ‘What were you going to say?’

  But the moment had passed and the compulsion to come clean had gone with it. Merry reached for the bag that held her whisky and shook her head. ‘Nothing important. Come on, let’s get out of the cold.’

  Chapter Four

  Merry woke up the next morning, head pounding, with no real memory of going to bed. Her mouth was sour with the taste of whisky and she knew the bedroom must reek of it. She lay still, wincing at the throbbing around her temples, and tried to piece together events from the night before. There had obviously been more whisky after she’d left the distillery – she hadn’t been drunk enough to cause a hangover this bad. She remembered getting into the taxi, recalled saying goodbye to Niall as he got out at a very nice cottage on the other side of Kirkwall. Then she’d arrived home, had managed to light a fire in the hearth, and her memories started to become less clear.

  It had seemed like a good idea to open the bottle of Valkyrie, she thought slowly. At some point, there’d been dancing, followed by some terrible singing to old Christina Aguilera songs. She’d been on the phone too – who had she called? And her eyes felt hot and gritty, suggesting there might have been tears. Merry turned cold and sat up fast, groaning at the agonizing burst of pain in her head. She grappled with her phone, not wanting to look at the list of calls made but desperate to know the truth. Please don’t let it be Alex, she thought as she brushed the screen with trembling fingers. Then a worse possibility occurred to her: please don’t let it be Niall . . .

  It was eleven-thirty and she had three missed calls from Jess, plus six unread messages. The call log supplied the details her memory could not and she slumped against the pillow when she saw the numbers she’d called the night before. Not Alex. Not Niall. Just Jess. She breathed a sigh of relief that caught in her throat as her eyes focused on the final call made.

  And Magnús.

  Merry closed her eyes, trying to dredge up the details of what she’d said. The call had lasted four minutes and fifty-eight seconds – plenty of time for her to embarrass herself to an order of magnitude greater than any she’d previously experienced.

  Magnús, she thought weakly. She’d almost have preferred Alex.

  Her phone vibrated in her hand, causing her eyes to snap open in a way that hurt all the way to the back of her skull. The screen told her it was Jess, and she considered ignoring it, except that she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Sooner or later, she’d have to face her best friend.

  She accepted the call. ‘Don’t raise your voice above a whisper or I’m hanging up.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Jess’s voice was louder than a foghorn. ‘I’m just glad you’re alive. I had visions of you throwing yourself over the cliff.’

  A tsunami of shame washed over Merry. ‘Oh god. Was I really that bad?’

  Jess sighed. ‘Worse. I haven’t known you to be that incoherent since the night we emptied that bottle of tequila at Christmas. You sang the whole of “Fighter”.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Merry said miserably.

  ‘Hey, it’s me you’re talking to.’ Jess’s voice softened. ‘You don’t ever have to apologize to me, Mer. Maybe to Christina Aguilera, but not to me.’

  Merry felt the ghost of a smile tug at her lips. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Especially not when you spent so long ranting about what a dick Alex is,’ her best friend went on. ‘It’s taken a ridiculous amount of time, but I think you might finally be getting over him.’

  And now Merry allowed the smile to take hold. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘There’s no maybe about it – you told me in pretty explicit terms what you wanted to do to that hot Viking of yours.’ There was a definite element of glee underlying the words hot Viking. ‘And I wholeheartedly approved of your plan.’

  The smile vanished. For a moment, Merry thought she might actually throw up. ‘Which was?’ she croaked.

  ‘You were a bit hazy on the specifics, but I approved on general principles.’ Jess paused. ‘Why?’

  ‘Guess who I called straight after I got off the phone to you?’

  ‘Oh.’

  Merry sighed and ran a hand over her puffy eyes. ‘Yeah. Oh.’

  There was a brief silence. ‘Do you remember what you said? Any of it?’

  ‘No.’

  Another pause, and then Jess rallied. ‘Well, let’s hope for the best here. Maybe you laid out your wicked plans and he hotfooted it over to your place. Are you sure you’re alone?’

  That was a suggestion that sent Merry spiralling into an even deeper maelstrom of panic. She lowered the phone and listened: nothing. Getting out of bed, she tiptoed to the door, ignoring the sudden shiver caused by cold air hitting her alcohol-fraz
zled skin. The bathroom was empty, and so were the kitchen and living room.

  ‘I suppose he might have left already,’ Jess mused, when Merry passed on the absence of anyone else in the croft. ‘Any evidence that you weren’t alone?’

  Merry edged closer to the coffee table, with its still open whisky bottle and single empty glass. There was a plate with a half-eaten cracker and a lump of cheddar. Her laptop was open; she didn’t want to even look at whatever it was she’d written. ‘I don’t think he was here,’ she told Jess. ‘I feel sure I’d remember.’

  ‘But you don’t remember what you talked about?’

  Merry sat heavily on the sofa and wished she was still unconscious. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out,’ Jess said, sounding more cheerful than Merry found helpful. ‘You’re going to have to ask him.’

  ‘I can’t!’ Merry said, aghast.

  ‘You can,’ Jess replied. ‘And besides, what else are you going to do – avoid him for the next five and a half months?’

  ‘I could come home,’ Merry said. ‘Say I’ve got a family emergency and just never come back.’

  ‘Or you could send him a message and ask. Grasp the nettle. Lance the boil. Drain the wound.’

  ‘Yeah, I get the idea,’ Merry said, as her stomach churned ominously.

  Jess’s voice was warm with sympathy. ‘Sorry, babes. You know I’m right.’

  The problem was that Merry did know: the only way to deal with something this toe-curlingly bad was head-on. ‘Fine. I’ll message him.’

  ‘Good girl. Ring me as soon as you have details,’ Jess instructed.

  It took Merry ten minutes to compose her two-sentence message to Magnús:

  Hey, how are you? Think I owe you an apology!

  His reply was almost instant:

  Not at all! How’s the head?

  Merry gnawed at a fingernail. How to respond in a way that might encourage him to offer up some glimmer of what they had talked about?

  It’s been better. But I’m sorry for bothering you. I hope I wasn’t too annoying?

  This time, there was a slight pause before Magnús replied and Merry wondered whether he was trying to come up with a tactful response.

  You weren’t annoying at all. Luckily, I am a big Destiny’s Child fan and your singing voice is quite charming.

  She couldn’t type fast enough:

  My singing voice?

  Merry saw the blue ticks that indicated the message had been read and then her phone buzzed. Magnús was calling her.

  Feeling sicker than ever, she answered. ‘Hello.’

  ‘I thought it might be easier to explain over the phone, rather than messages,’ he said, and Merry couldn’t prevent an image of him, hair blowing in the breeze, from popping into her head. It was a shame she couldn’t ever see him again, not after the extreme mortification of today.

  ‘Uh – okay,’ she managed. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I must admit I was surprised to see your number appear on my phone last night,’ Magnús said. ‘But I assumed you were still with Niall and Andrew. And then I answered and realized you were not.’

  Merry wished a plume of magma would spurt up from one of the long dead volcanoes under her feet and incinerate her where she stood. ‘No.’

  ‘And then I was disappointed to realize you hadn’t meant to call me at all,’ Magnús went on, his tone cheery. ‘In fact, you weren’t aware that you had. Unless you meant to serenade me with an extremely heartfelt rendition of “Survivor”.’

  The relief was like balm to her jangling nerves. If she hadn’t known she was calling him, maybe she hadn’t said anything too embarrassing. ‘I sang to you?’

  ‘You did,’ Magnús confirmed. ‘Although as I say, you didn’t know you were singing to me. So, I listened for a short while, in case I was mistaken, and then I did the gentlemanly thing and hung up.’

  Four minutes and fifty-eight seconds, Merry thought and swallowed. Probably the whole song and then the start of something else – Kelly Clarkson or Gloria Gaynor, she supposed. But at least she hadn’t said anything regrettable. Surely, he would tell her if she had . . .

  ‘I still owe you an apology,’ she insisted. ‘No one needs to hear me sing, least of all when I’m a bit the worse for whisky.’

  He laughed. ‘As I said, your voice was charming. And quite emphatic. But if you really feel the need to make it up to me, you can meet me for a drink on Monday night.’

  She let out a mirthless bark of laughter that made her head feel as though it might topple from her neck. ‘I’m never drinking again.’

  ‘In which case, you can drive,’ he said, apparently unperturbed.

  Merry sighed. She couldn’t say no, not when he’d asked in lieu of an apology. ‘Okay – where?’

  ‘The Sword and Thistle, north of Kirkwall,’ he said promptly. ‘They have a music quiz that I’ve always wanted to try. There’s a round on girl bands that you might be good at.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ Merry said, and then realized she really was smiling. ‘Okay, you’ve got a deal. Let me know the time and where to pick you up.’

  ‘I will,’ Magnús said. He paused. ‘And just so you know, if I were Alex, I would definitely have put a ring on it.’

  He hung up, leaving Merry to stare at her phone in bewildered mortification. She could only hope that the comment had been in reference to her Spotify playlist. Because really, what else could it mean?

  *

  The pub was busier than Merry had been expecting. They arrived a few minutes before 8pm and all the tables were taken. There were a number of customers leaning on the bar, pens and papers in hand, and Merry was about to suggest she and Magnús do the same when a shout rang out and an arm waved in their direction.

  ‘Some friends,’ he explained, and began to thread his way through the tables. ‘I hope you don’t mind if we join them?’

  How could she mind? Merry thought. Her stomach had lurched and fizzed in the usual way as she’d watched him walk down the path from his house and she’d had to forcibly remind herself this wasn’t a date. The presence of his friends helped to reinforce that. It was a pub quiz with some people he knew – all above board. Nothing to feed Merry’s feverish imagination.

  She stopped dead when they reached the table where his friends were sitting. She didn’t know four out of the five occupants. But the fifth was very familiar indeed.

  ‘Nick!’ she cried, as he looked up and noticed her.

  His face lit up in recognition. ‘Merry! What the bloody hell are you doing here?’

  She grinned and hurried around the table to kiss the tall, dark-haired man on both cheeks. What were the chances of running into anyone she knew from London in a pub on Orkney? Furthermore, what were the chances that the person she ran into would be Nick Borrowdale, the actor who was the darling of the BBC’s Sunday night flagship show, Smugglers’ Inn?

  ‘Never mind me, what are you doing this far north?’ she demanded, with a quick glance at his companions to make sure she didn’t recognize anyone else. ‘You do know you’re not in Cornwall, right?’

  ‘Filming,’ he said, ‘and not Smugglers’ Inn.’

  The penny dropped in Merry’s head. ‘So that’s why no one can see the Ring of Brodgar for trucks and camera rigs,’ she said. ‘It’s you!’

  Nick flashed his trademark lazy grin and Merry was sure the entire room sighed. ‘I’m afraid so. But it’s not just me – let me introduce you to Elspeth Connor, the Oscar-nominated director of The Islander, which is the epic blockbuster we’re filming right now.’

  Merry smiled at the petite, blonde-haired woman and kissed both cheeks in greeting. ‘Lovely to meet you. I’m Merina Wilde – Merry, for short.’

  ‘And this is Sam Silverton, our producer,’ Nick went on. ‘And beside him, the world’s best stuntman, Kiki Braun, and our sound engineer, Polly Jones.’

  Once Merry had said hello to everyone, she turned to introduce Magnús to Nick, but it soon bec
ame obvious he knew him already.

  ‘Magnús has been advising our production department for months,’ Elspeth explained with a smile. ‘Apparently, you can’t make an authentic Viking boat without consulting him, and I’m told he’s a whizz with a circular saw.’

  Merry glanced at Magnús, who had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Is there anyone you don’t know?’

  ‘Not on Orkney,’ he replied. ‘Or in Reykjavik.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Nick interrupted. ‘I still don’t understand why you’re here. The last time I saw you was in that pub in Richmond.’

  Merry filled in the blanks, carefully omitting any mention of splitting up with Alex.

  ‘Merry is a massively successful novelist,’ Nick explained to the rest of the table. ‘So, if we get any literature questions, she’s our girl.’

  Merry laughed. ‘I think it’s a music quiz, so I’m afraid I’ll be no use at all.’

  ‘And has Alex made an honest woman of you yet?’ Nick asked.

  Merry swallowed. ‘Not yet.’

  Nick rolled his eyes. ‘Now there’s man who doesn’t know how lucky he is.’

  She felt someone staring at her. When she turned her head, she saw it was Magnús, his forehead crinkled into a puzzled frown as he studied her. She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but Sam Silverton was leaning across the table. ‘What kind of novels do you write, Merry?’

  That was a very good question, Merry thought, as she pushed Magnús’s odd look to the back of her mind and tried to work out a passable answer to Sam’s enquiry. ‘I usually write romantic fiction,’ she said carefully. ‘Love stories – the kind that make people smile and generally feel happy.’

  Sam didn’t miss a beat. ‘Usually?’

  Merry hesitated but saw no harm in explaining a little more; only Magnús had any local interest and she was itching to bounce the idea off someone else creative, especially someone in the business of stories. Normally, that would be her agent, but Phoebe didn’t even know Merry was writing this particular story . . .