by Karen Swan
She was confused. Why was he here? Hadn’t Jess snaffled him for a rhumba? ‘Why aren’t you dancing?’
‘Answer the question,’ he snapped. ‘Who are you ringing?’ He had stopped dead in front of her, trying to intimidate her with his size, the fact that this was his turf – his friends – and not hers.
‘That’s none of your business,’ she said, feeling her happy buzz of a few moments earlier begin to fade.
‘It is my business when you’re ringing my cousin.’
‘What?’ she cried, unable to believe her ears. ‘You honestly think you have the ri—’
‘Give me that.’ And before she could so much as blink, he had snatched the phone from her hand.
‘How dare you!’ she shouted furiously, reaching up for it, but he only held it higher, stretching away from her. ‘You have no right to interfere with my private life.’
‘Private . . . ?’ His expression changed as he looked at the screen and saw the name on it. ‘I thought you were . . .’ His voice faded into a deafening silence.
Sholto? He’d thought she was calling Sholto, a spy giving the chairman the heads-up on what had gone down at the dinner? Ha! As if he didn’t know already; his phone would have been ringing off the hook all night.
His arm dropped down and she grabbed the phone back from him.
‘You said there was nothing between you.’ His voice was low. She couldn’t read him – she never had been able to and it was no different after a skinful of champagne whisky chasers.
‘Did I? Well, maybe there wasn’t, but let’s face it, everything’s changed now. Thanks to your stunt tonight, all bets are off,’ she sneered. ‘Now that you’ve most likely lost us both our jobs, we can do whatever the hell we like,’ she said, throwing her arms into the air drunkenly. ‘I don’t even have to pretend to like you any more.’
He stared at her. ‘So that’s . . . that’s your great plan. You’re going after Callum?’
‘Going after?’ she sneered. ‘Please! I haven’t had to do a damn thing. He’s made it perfectly clear that he’s right there. All I have to do is say the word.’
She saw the ball of his jaw pulse as he clenched his teeth. ‘And obviously you realize you’re just one of many. I mean, you know what he is, right?’
‘Yes. He’s fun. And funny. And charming. And about as opposite to you as it’s possible to be,’ she taunted. ‘In fact, I can hardly even believe you’re relate—’
‘That’s enough.’
‘No, actually, it’s not,’ she said, determined to defy him. She hadn’t been able to turn him to her way of thinking, she hadn’t been able to beat him in the field, but she could and would defy him now, for as long as she had to spend time in his company – she would no longer be the patient, long-suffering, rising-above-it professional, because he was no longer her client. She could do what she liked. She could behave just as badly as him if she wanted. The gloves were off. ‘You are the most obnoxious, arrogant, pig-headed man I have ever had the misfortune to meet. These past two weeks have been the worst of my career. Every single day with you has been under sufferance. I cannot wait to get back to that island, pack my bags and never have to see you again.’
‘Great. I’ll fly you there myself. Make it happen that bit sooner,’ he snapped.
‘Great!’
‘Great!’ He glared at her, his breath coming as fast as hers. ‘It’s not been a walk in the park for me either, you know, having to deal with you when there’s been a shitstorm flying round my head. The fire, that fucking deal – and yet everywhere I look there you are, getting in my face. I can’t get away from you. Not at work, not at the weekend, not even at night. I close my eyes and there you are! I come here and here you are! You’re dancing with my friends, making a booty call to my fucking cousin—’
The sound of the slap – of her hand on his cheek – was so loud, it stunned them both, the surprise in both their eyes only growing in hers as she saw her handprint bloom on his skin. He looked so angry. Angry and devastated.
‘Oh,’ she gasped, her breath held high in her lungs, her shoulders up by her ears as she realized what she had done. She had never hit anyone before. She wanted to tell him she was sorry. She wanted to undo what she’d done. She could see, from the dark look in his eyes, the instinct to slap her back and it stopped every word, every thought.
Until in the next instant, he kissed her instead, anger switching to passion, his mouth on hers, her back pushed against the door frame, the cold forgotten as he pressed himself to her. For a moment, she couldn’t move, she couldn’t catch up, but her body instinctively stirred beneath his touch, her tongue to his lips, and their mutual frustration exploded into a hunger she had never known. Every cross word that had passed between them, every insult they had traded, was now swapped for a counterpart kiss, a parrying touch, his body solid and firm against hers.
She wanted to know every inch of him, her hands winding through his hair, her leg hooking around his, pulling him in to her, holding him closer. She wanted this moment to hold through time; she wanted it to – but somehow she still found herself pushing him away.
‘Wha—?’ he panted, confused.
‘I can’t do this.’
‘Alex—’
‘This is a mistake.’ Her voice was thick, the words a struggle, a blatant lie, for it was more right than anything she had ever known. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it, all this time. Even two minutes ago, it had been veiled from her, but now – now it was like trying to hide an elephant behind a throw cushion.
‘No. It’s not.’ His eyes were locked on hers in a rare moment of honesty between them. No more games or power plays – they both felt it, both wanted it, their longing shimmering between them like a white heat. ‘It’s the only bloody thing that’s right.’
She shook her head, using her hand to keep him back as she edged away from him, putting space between their bodies which only moments before had been intertwined, as one. But still the words came from somewhere deep inside her. Not him. It couldn’t be him. ‘This is a mistake,’ she repeated, her voice shaking. ‘It never happened. Do you hear me? It never happened.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Borrodale House, Sunday 17 December 2017
Breakfast was a subdued affair. Everyone was hung to hell, unable to look their sausages in the eye and slurping the strong tea in broken silence. Some didn’t even make it downstairs at all, Lochie being one.
Alex, for her part, got through it with a resolution she didn’t feel. She hadn’t slept for more than a couple of hours as she lay in that enormous four-poster bed, tossing and turning, trying to unpick the events – to determine how and when exactly things between them had changed. The slap was the obvious moment, but was it really the first? What about the way he’d stared at her as she danced with Sam? The way he’d held her arm in his along the red carpet, or how he’d complimented her on the way into the castle? Or maybe it was before then too: his arms around her after she landed the salmon, blue-lipped and shivering; his relentless jealous probing the morning after her dinner with Callum; his unexpected arrival at the farmhouse to take her to the tasting of the hidden malt like a date; the way his finger twitched when she cried out his name as he lay inert and lifeless on the floor; the shock of even laying her eyes upon him that first day in the visitors’ centre when Callum was him and he was late.
Had it started right back then, in the first moment? How could it have done? She was trained to read human behaviour, to pick up the non-verbal cues people didn’t even know they were giving. It was inconceivable she couldn’t have seen this in herself.
No, they had warred from the start, that was their natural state; last night’s passion was just a momentary, fleeting byproduct of too much whisky, a wrong turn in the confusion of the chaos that ensued whenever they were together.
She went back to her room after breakfast and took a long bath. Daisy had suggested elevenses at the village tea rooms, with the men sup
posedly booked for a round of golf, ‘if they can manage to swing without falling over,’ Emma had tutted.
She dressed and met the others by the front steps, noticing for the first time, as she passed through the doorway, a dense bunch of mistletoe hanging above. It made her stop in her tracks as though it was a poster showing everyone their secret passion. Had it been there last night? she wondered, staring at the back of the door as though expecting to see their imprint there.
To her relief, they got away before the men had organized themselves and everyone chatted easily in the car, in spite of their hangovers; Alex felt it was natural she should be the quietest – she was the newbie, the interloper, after all. Lochie had never even invited her here, not really, not properly – and she sat with her elbow on the windowsill, her chin in her hand, looking out the window as they drove through the sweeping rhododendron-dotted grounds to the village.
The tea rooms themselves were pretty – a small whitewashed building with bow-fronted windows looking onto the village square – and they managed to get the table in the window, a small scented candle flickering prettily in the middle. Daisy and Emma went up to the till to look at the selection of cakes at the counter.
‘We’re lucky,’ Elise sighed, shrugging off her coat. ‘Usually we get here just after the church service and can’t get a table.’
‘Lucky us,’ Alex smiled, her voice toneless as she pretended to read the menu. Just a few more hours and this would all be behind her.
‘The scones look like they could revive a dead cow,’ Daisy said, plonking herself down heavily. ‘I’m having two.’
‘I’m going to treat myself to an éclair,’ Emma said, eyes brightening. ‘It’s been years since I’ve had an éclair.’
The waitress came over and took their orders. ‘And you don’t want anything with your tea?’ she asked Alex as she double-checked the requests.
Everyone looked at her expectantly.
‘. . . A shortbread would be great,’ she said finally, wondering how she’d be able to swallow it down. Far from last night’s debacle beginning to recede from her mind, if anything it was beginning to swell, like one of those vacuum-packed towels placed in water. Tears pressed behind her eyes and her throat felt closed, her mouth drooping at the corners every time she actively forgot to smile.
How could she have let this happen? How could she face him again?
‘The sugar will perk you up. You look awful peely-wally this morning,’ Emma said kindly.
Alex still didn’t know what peely-wally was, though Emma’s tone suggested it might be something along the lines of ‘peaky’, her other main description this side of the border. Clearly sixteen per cent body fat and a resting heart rate of sixty-four bpm weren’t the desired state here that they were in New York.
‘So what are you up to for Christmas, Alex?’ Elise asked brightly, as though sensing her discomfort.
‘I’m just having a quiet one at home.’
‘Are you doing the turkey?’
‘Oh, no. No, it’s just me so I’ll probably just have a salad.’
There was an astounded silence.
‘A salad? On Christmas Day?’ Daisy blustered, accidentally blowing out the candle.
‘Oh, now look what you’ve done,’ Elise pouted.
‘Are you fucking mad? You can’t do that! Come and spend it with us!’ Daisy continued as Alex reached into her bag and pulled out a tab of matches, a small silver-clipped wad of business cards coming with it and dropping to the floor.
‘Oh God, no, I couldn’t do that,’ Alex protested to Daisy, who was still looking flabbergasted. She pulled out a match and struck it, but it broke. And the next one. She was all fingers and thumbs, her grip clumsy and heavy-handed.
‘Here,’ Emma murmured, reaching down to pick up the wad of cards. She frowned as she handed it over. ‘Cereneo?’
‘Why not?’ Daisy continued. ‘This lot do.’
‘Do you?’ Alex asked in surprise.
‘Sure!’ Anna shrugged. ‘Max is usually working or on call so poor Emma’s left on her own otherwise and Elise’s family . . . well, they’re so blinking far away in Uppsala, we prefer to go over in the summer. As for my family – Christ, you wouldn’t. You just wouldn’t. And as for Little Miss Suntan over there, well, they don’t usually come. You’re usually on some tropical island, aren’t you, sweets?’
‘Not this year,’ Jess sniffed. ‘The weather’s becoming too unpredictable. I’d rather wait till January.’
Anna shrugged.
‘Well, that’s really nice of you to offer but I’ll be flying out to join my dad on Boxing Day. He lives in Switzerland,’ Alex said.
‘Whereabouts?’ Emma asked.
‘On the edge of Lake Lucerne.’
‘Nice,’ Emma smiled.
‘Well, the offer’s there if you want it,’ Daisy said earnestly. ‘I mean it. You could always fly to Geneva from here.’
‘Thanks,’ Alex smiled, but with no intention of ever taking up that offer.
‘Look, forget about Christmas for just a minute,’ Jess said impatiently, pulling her chair in closer. ‘Now that it’s just us and we don’t have the boys hanging around and making a nuisance of themselves, why don’t you explain to us exactly the deal between you and Lochie? Because we don’t get it.’
‘I’m not sure there’s anything to get,’ Alex rebuffed. ‘I’ve come in as a consultant to the company. I’ve done a couple of weeks of work with him and I’m leaving . . . well, tomorrow probably.’ The words sounded shocking when she said them aloud.
‘Yeah but, you see, you say that,’ Jess said. ‘Just like he did. We get that that’s the official line – but we still don’t buy it. There’s definitely something going on between you two.’ She looked at the others. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Definitely,’ they chorused.
‘I mean, it’s not normal – even for Lochie – to come in and punch the wall.’
‘Excuse me?’ Alex asked, startled.
Jess nodded. ‘Oh yeah – last night. He went into the library and punched the wall.’
‘I didn’t know that!’ Anna chuckled, looking thrilled.
‘Well, I only heard him because I was going through to the kitchen to get another bottle. I put my head round, thinking he must have tripped over the bed or something – I mean, we were all pretty wasted, let’s be honest – and there he was, bent double, holding his fist and swearing like a navvy. Emma had to check he hadn’t broken anything, didn’t you?’
‘Mm-hmm,’ Emma sighed. ‘He’s fine, though.’
‘It’s the bloody wall I’m worried about,’ Daisy muttered.
Alex stared at them all. She didn’t know where to start: that Lochie was going around punching walls; or that there was a bed in the library. She went with the latter; it seemed safer and bought her time.
‘Why is there a bed in the library?’ she asked.
Daisy looked sheepish. ‘Ah well, there was a little miscommunication on his part and I’m afraid he hadn’t exactly told us he was bringing you this weekend. So when you guys turned up on Friday night, well . . .’ She pulled a face. ‘We gave you his room and put him up in the study. Ordinarily it wouldn’t matter in the least – there’s so many blinking bedrooms in that house – but what with all the building works going on, half the house is out of action,’ Daisy shrugged. ‘But it’s fine. I told him if he couldn’t organize himself at his age then what could he expect? We’ve got a little camp bed he’s using. It’s not the most comfortable mattress ever but no one’s ever died from a cricked neck.’ She glanced at Emma. ‘Have they?’
Emma shrugged. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Emma’s the expert on cricked necks,’ Anna grinned.
‘Why did he punch the wall?’ Alex asked.
‘Well, we were hoping you could tell us that. I think you’d just gone up to bed, which may be coincidence. Or not.’
The waitress came over with the pots of tea and set them out on the table with mismatched vintage cups and saucers. ‘The cakes are just coming,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ Anna murmured. But all eyes were on Alex.
‘I’m sorry,’ Alex said, buckling beneath their scrutiny. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say. I had no idea he’d punched a wall.’
‘So nothing happened between you two then, just before?’ Jess pushed.
‘Nope.’ Alex shook her head, keeping her eyes down as she lifted the lid of her teapot and stirred the brew.
The others all sighed.
‘Well, that’s just really weird then. I don’t get what could have upset him so much,’ Anna said. ‘I mean, he’s usually a pretty level guy.’
Alex couldn’t help but snort. ‘. . . Sorry.’ She pressed her hand to her mouth apologetically.
‘What? You disagree?’ Emma asked.
‘Well, yes,’ she said, looking back at their astonished expressions. She was silent for a moment, wondering whether she should say another word; then sighed. What did it matter? She’d be gone from here in a few hours and would never see any of them again. ‘If you want the truth, he’s one of the most volatile people I’ve ever worked with. I mean, I know you all know him far better than I do – you go way back as uni friends – but in the workplace? I’m sorry but “level” does not begin to cover it.’
They all looked between one another; it was as though she’d called him a serial killer.
‘You’ll have to back that up with some evidence,’ Jess said, ever the gate-keeper, stirring her own tea.
‘Fine. Well, I’m sorry to say he’s physically abusive for a start. Not only did he punch his CFO at the family assembly but he has manhandled me too, actually throwing me out of his office on two occasions,’ she began. ‘He’s erratic and unprofessional, pulling out of deals without warning or explanation. He has completely inappropriate relationships with some of his staff . . .’ And when they frowned at her blankly, ‘Affairs. He has affairs with his female employees—’