The Christmas Party

by Karen Swan

  ‘Like everything in your life, right? Nothing superfluous to needs. Nothing hanging around simply because you like it, or it happens to make you happy?’

  She frowned – it sounded like a pointed comment – and handed him a weak cup of tea, hoping he liked it strong. ‘I don’t have any sugar.’

  ‘But there’s some cubes right there,’ he said, pointing to the pot on the counter.

  ‘They’re for the horses.’

  He looked astounded, then burst out laughing. ‘Well, that’s me told,’ he chortled, taking a slurp of tea and openly grimacing.

  Pip gave a wide smile.

  He swallowed, smacked his lips together and gave a dramatic shudder, before pinning her with his bright eyes. ‘Could be worse I s’pose.’

  Pip looked away and, for a few seconds, silence filled the tiny room. She could feel his gaze upon her and she felt a self-conscious blush rise up her neck. She liked having short hair – she’d never been the sort of girl to want ribbons or plaits or ‘styles’ – but right now, she’d gladly take a mane to hide behind.

  ‘All right then,’ he said finally as she offered up belligerent silence in lieu of small talk. ‘Well, why don’t you sit on the sofa and I’ll give you the once-over?’

  She gave a sigh of annoyance but obeyed – the sooner he was done, the sooner he’d be gone, right? No doubt he’d be reporting straight back to her mother and if she wanted to stay alone down here . . .

  ‘I’m going to need to listen to your chest so if you could just undo the top buttons of your shirt.’

  Eyes down, she did as she was told, turning her head to look out of the window as he placed the stethoscope – warming it first – on her sternum.

  ‘Take a few breaths,’ he murmured.

  She glanced at the top of his head, the dark curls flopped on their sides like overturned liquorice wheels.

  ‘– Pip, I’m off.’

  She looked up to find Willow peering around the door. She frowned. How did everyone manage to climb her stairs without her ever hearing them?

  ‘Did you add the molasses to Fudge’s feed?’ she demanded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you checked for mould?’

  ‘Just as you told me.’

  ‘Did Whippy seem okay?’

  Willow shrugged. ‘Seemed horsey enough to me. I did ask why the long face when I left him though.’

  Taigh chortled, appreciating the joke, pulling away from her and rocking back on his heels. ‘Nice one.’

  ‘Ta,’ Willow grinned, seemingly happy to have her sense of humour appreciated for once. ‘How’s the patient?’

  ‘Impatient for me to get the hell outta here,’ he said, shooting Pip a sly look.

  ‘Don’t take it personally. She can’t wait to see the back of me either,’ Willow groaned, before looking back at her. ‘Unfortunately for you, I’ll pop back this evening to feed the nags their dinner and bring down some supper for you too. I’ve put Mrs Mac’s soup in the fridge for you for lunch. Eat it,’ she said sternly. ‘Don’t think I won’t be checking later.’

  ‘Ugh,’ Pip groaned, noticing Willow and Taigh share another conspiratorial look before her sister dipped from sight again.

  He glanced up at her, as though silently requesting permission to approach again, and replaced the stethoscope on the other side of her chest. Willow’s light-hearted mood had left the premises with her.

  ‘Okay.’ He pulled back after another minute. ‘Now, I need to listen to your chest. If you can just gather your shirt up and lean forward.’

  She felt the metal disc move across her back in slow-motion bunny hops and after a minute or so, she wondered what was taking him so long – did she have a disco going on in there?

  He got up and sat on the sofa beside her. He pulled a thermometer from his shirt pocket. ‘Just pop that under your tongue,’ he murmured. ‘While we read your blood pressure. If you can just roll up your sleeve.’

  Jeesht, this would all be a lot easier in a T-shirt, she huffed to herself, rolling it up. He placed the cuff on her upper arm and began squeezing the pump rapidly several times until she felt the band pinch against her skin. ‘Just straighten your arm out,’ he said, taking her hand and placing it gently, upturned, on his knee, his eyes on the digital screen.

  She watched him watch it, his usual laughing expression replaced by something far more serious and grown-up. She’d never noticed how long his eyelashes were before; nor the little scar on the outer edge of his eyebrow. She wondered how he’d come by it, though she knew she’d never ask; showing any interest in him, no matter how small, was something her pride would never allow.

  The cuff released and he pulled away the Velcro bindings. He reached over and took the thermometer from her too. ‘Hmm.’

  ‘What does “hmm” mean?’ she asked in her best bored voice, rolling her shirt sleeve back down again.

  ‘Your temperature is slightly elevated.’

  ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it, given how low it was yesterday?’ She was being flippant, she knew, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. He brought out the worst in her.

  ‘It could be a sign of infection. Do you remember swallowing any water?’

  She flinched, looking away quickly as the memories suddenly came unbidden at the question. She didn’t want to remember any of it, wasn’t that obvious?

  ‘Hey. It’s okay,’ he said quickly, reaching a hand to her arm. ‘You’re safe now.’

  ‘I know that,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not an idiot.’

  ‘No,’ he sighed, letting his hand drop again. ‘You’re not – but you would be if you pushed yourself right now. Your body’s in deep recovery and you need to take it easy. We need to keep an eye on that crackle still in your chest: stay warm, don’t go outside, rest. If it’s not gone by end of play tomorrow, you’ll have to go on antibiotics. It’s not worth taking any chances.’ He looked straight at her. ‘You don’t want to give your family another fright.’

  There was blame in his voice. Anger, even.

  She watched as he got up and replaced his equipment in the bag, just as the beeping sound of a truck reversing started up outside. He glanced out of the window.

  ‘Expecting a delivery?’ he murmured.

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Cuneen Livery?’

  ‘What?’ She darted to the window, feeling her panic flood and her colour rise as the horse truck was carefully parked up. She couldn’t believe it, she didn’t want to, but there was no doubting it – Sean bloody Cuneen had come to collect his winnings. She felt the floor drop beneath her, her body run cold again, the memory of the water closing over her head . . . ‘That bastard,’ she whispered. At the very least he could have given her more time! Picked up the phone and made a courtesy call to let her know he was coming over to cash in his winnings. She was barely home from the hospital, for Chrissakes.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Taigh asked, both of them watching as Sean’s vast bulk emerged from the truck, his trousers hanging low on his hips and revealing beneath his caught shirt, a deep bum crack.

  Could her life get any worse?

  Taigh looked at her, his curiosity morphing into concern. ‘Why’s he here, Pip?’

  She took a slow, deep inhale at the question. He was here because he had a right to be: he had won and she had lost, plain and simple. She swallowed and drew herself up, determined to bring her feelings under control. She wouldn’t let Taigh see her upset. ‘Just finishing up some . . . admin.’ She walked across the room and grabbed her coat off the hook.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he called after her. ‘You shouldn’t be outside in these temperatures. It’s bitter out there at the moment.’

  ‘This won’t take long,’ she said, stuffing her feet into her yard boots.

  ‘Hang on a second!’ His voice changed, stopping her. ‘Is that Cuneen as in . . . Sean Cuneen?’

  She already had one foot on the stairs. She leaned back through the doorway impatiently. ‘So
what if it is?’

  He looked at her in disbelief. ‘That’s the guy you were racing in the water?’

  ‘So what if it is?’ she repeated coolly, but her heart was pounding wildly, her emotions raging just below the surface. She felt the tears pressing against the backs of her eyes, her heart pounding like a jackhammer. She’d not said goodbye to Shalimar yet, not even mentioned what she’d done, the terrible risk she had taken and how it had backfired. How everything was now in ruins . . .

  He gawped at her in disbelief. ‘Don’t tell me . . . do not tell me he’s come to claim his prize? You’re not honouring that stupid bet?’

  She stared at him, seeing how his horror matched her own. In truth, the entire wager hadn’t even crossed her mind since that night. She’d forgotten all about the fact that she had lost and he had won; she’d been too busy trying to survive. ‘A deal’s a deal,’ was all she said flatly.

  ‘A deal’s a—?’ Taigh cried, looking suddenly furious, his happy-go-lucky demeanour completely gone. ‘Does nearly drowning not count for anything here? You didn’t lose a race, Pip; you nearly lost your life! I’d say all bets are off, wouldn’t you?’

  She didn’t reply – couldn’t, her tears were close to falling – just simply turned away and went down the stairs. He caught up with her at the bottom, grabbing her by the elbow.

  ‘Look, are you scared of him, is that it? I can understand that, he’s a big fella. But I can make him go away, Pip. You don’t need to do this. It isn’t right.’

  ‘We had a verbal contract,’ she said simply.

  ‘Bollocks to that! No court in the land would honour his so-called claim.’

  ‘But honour’s precisely what it comes down to. We made a deal in good faith and I lost. I don’t suppose he’d be here if I had died – he’s not that much of a shit – but I didn’t. I’m perfectly fine apart from this supposed crackle that’s getting your knickers in a twist.’

  Taigh ignored the slight. ‘The bet should be null and void.’

  ‘I’ll admit he could’ve given me a few day’s grace; it’s . . . tacky, turning up here so soon.’ Her voice tremored slightly at the thought of saying goodbye so prematurely. If she’d only stopped to think . . . ‘But I’ll be damned if I’ll give him the satisfaction of saying I sticked him on a deal. Our family may not have much left these days, but we’ve got our bloody pride.’

  Taigh stared at her, disbelief and frustration running across his features, and she could see she was an enigma to him – inexplicable and confounding.

  ‘So I’ll be needing my arm back,’ she said, glancing down pointedly at her elbow which was still held firm in his grip.

  ‘Oh.’ He released her. ‘Jeesht. Well, do you at least want me to come out there with you and help?’

  ‘You?’ she scoffed. ‘I wouldn’t ask for your help if my—’ She stopped short.

  ‘Life depended on it?’ His green eyes flashed with rare anger as they squared up in the narrow stairway. She felt he wanted something from her, but what? An apology? A thank-you? She’d never asked for his help that night, and she didn’t need it now. Without another word, she turned away and strode out into the yard, to do what had to be done.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Willow pulled into the drive, coming to a stop in her usual place in front of the low purple rhododendron. But she didn’t get out. She didn’t want to go into the house yet and check up on her mother’s mental state this morning, or help Mrs Mac with the beds. She didn’t want to move a muscle. She just wanted to sit here and be quiet, still, invisible, forgotten.

  She looked out over the undulating lawns to the silver strip of sea glittering in the morning sun and leaned forward against the wheel. The view sat before her, comforting and familiar, as unchanged during her twenty-two years as it had been the previous hundred, give or take a garden bench here or a felled tree there. This was home, a part of her as solid as any bone. She had taken it for granted growing up, believing it would somehow always be hers, that like the landscape of her childhood it would remain untouched and absolute. But that dream had come to an end long before her father had died, and now too so would this.

  It was hard though – harder than she’d expected. Hels had acted with impressive efficiency after their meeting last week and the first Christie’s team was due to arrive later today to begin the daunting task of counting, listing and appraising every item they owned. Willow had yet to deliver the news to her mother and had no idea how to go about it. The timing could hardly have been worse, given that Pip had only just been allowed home for the night – near-drowning to house move in one weekend. This conversation wasn’t going to go well.

  She tried to think of ways she could spin it: the estate was being chopped and parcelled up anyway, her sisters officially keeping the bits that chimed with their hearts – for Ottie, the beach; Pip, the gallops. Willow had never had that, one part that felt exclusively hers; to her, Lorne had always been the sum of its parts and her family had assumed that somehow meant she loved it less. It never seemed to occur to them that perhaps she had loved it more than anyone else? On those quiet, boring Sundays in the flat in Dublin, hung-over and lying on the sofa, watching the television unseeingly, her mind would wander back to here like a homing instinct or a factory settings button, remembering the ‘sticky mud’ game they used to play on the staircase landing when their feet couldn’t touch the floor, sledging over the sloping lawns, hide and seek through the secret doors, timed races through the hidden passage between the kitchen and the library. She had missed her sisters . . . She remembered lying on the window seat of her bedroom as a teenager, legs up the wall, trying to imagine the exciting, glamorous life that must exist for her beyond these ancient stone walls and never once thinking it would include lying on a sofa thinking back on this. She remembered the Christmases with always preposterously giant trees – one year, they expected squirrels to jump out of the enormous bushy tree her father had cut down and dragged back in his annual show of knightly pride; she remembered him too putting on Rusty, his beloved suit of armour, for the costume party for her mother’s fortieth – he hadn’t been able to sit down all night nor go to the loo, had had to eat dinner standing up, couldn’t climb the stairs and he’d been left bruised and stiff for four days afterwards. Her mother had called it their best party ever—

  Her mother. Everything always came back to her somehow, but where once she had been the light in the centre of her life, now she was a shadow on Willow’s heart. A black spot in a pristine landscape, ruining something pure and perfect.

  She dropped her head on the steering wheel. She knew she couldn’t put this off. She had to go in there and get it over with – tell her mother about the sale, show her she had done what her father had charged her to do, the one thing he could not.

  She wasn’t sure which was going to be received more badly – the identity of the buyer or that she’d tacitly accepted an offer which proposed taking almost a million euros off its potential value. In truth, she had barely given it a second thought all weekend: meeting Connor that evening, then staying at the hospital with Pip all night and all day on Sunday had meant she’d crashed into bed early last night, sleeping dreamlessly and awaking in the same position she’d fallen asleep in. But now, on a cold, bright, blustery Monday morning, when the world felt fresh and hopeful again . . . had she done the right thing? Or in her haste to be done with it, had she confused selling up for selling out?

  A sudden hard rap at her window made her jump.

  ‘Mam!’ she said, through the glass. ‘Are you all right?’

  She didn’t look it. Her usually serene mother was still wearing the pyjamas with Dad’s cashmere jumper which she’d been wearing when Willow had left to take Pip back to the stables two hours earlier. The look wasn’t complemented by her pair of short wellies; her hair was badly in need of its daily blow-dry and her reddened cheeks suggested either a quick run around the vegetable garden or a glass of wine. She looked flustered and v
ery, very angry.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded as Willow clambered out of the car.

  ‘You know where – I took Pip back to hers and then I did the horses for her.’

  Her mother looked wrong-footed and bewildered. ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘And then I said I’d get some bread on the way home.’ Willow held up the loaf in her hand by way of proof.

  Her mother raised a hand to her cheek and turned away slightly. ‘Oh yes. You did.’

  Willow watched her with concern. Had she taken another sleeping pill? Was she drowsy? ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go inside and I’ll make you a cup of tea and some toast. I imagine you haven’t eaten yet?’ Weariness inflected in her voice like sunlight off water.

  ‘No! I don’t want to go in there,’ her mother cried, as though suddenly remembering her anger again.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s coming back!’

  Willow felt a spike of concern. Her mother was hardly making sense. ‘Who is?’

  ‘That ghastly man,’ her mother snapped, a rare glimpse of true fury in her eyes, and Willow understood that she was angry at her for so many reasons: this (whatever it was); not calling her earlier about Pip; inheriting Lorne; failing at the one thing she had been born to do . . . Take a pick. And it was always there that anger, festering just below the surface of their every interaction. ‘How could you have called him, after everything I said?’

  ‘Mam, I don’t know who you’re . . .’ Her voice faded as suddenly she did. ‘Wait! Shaye came here?’ He said he’d be in touch next week, not on the doorstep!

  ‘He said you’d made him an offer. He’d said you offered him first option to buy the place and that you’ve struck a deal.’

  ‘No. We’re negotiating a deal. Nothing’s signed yet.’

  But merely contacting him was betrayal enough. Her mother stared at her, reddened eyes swimming with tears. ‘How could you, Willow? I told you your father had discounted him and why – pulling that stunt the way he did, right at the last gasp . . . It was dishonourable. Disgusting. And a shitty thing to do.’