The Christmas Party

by Karen Swan

  He pretended to be shocked. ‘No!’

  They limped slowly back through the town, towards the car park. ‘You know there is one thing I’d like to do before I go back to New York,’ he said in a thoughtful voice.

  ‘Oh yes? What’s that?’

  ‘Have a pint of Guinness.’

  She was amazed. ‘You’ve never had one?’

  He shook his head. ‘Any time I’ve come over here, I’ve been competing. Alcohol was always off the table.’ He shrugged. ‘It just seems like now’s the time, don’t you think?’

  ‘Damn straight it is! And if it’s a pint of the black stuff you’re after, I know just the place,’ she smiled, swinging his shopping bags in her hands. ‘Come on. Let’s head home.’

  They took the booth in the corner, between the Christmas tree and the window. The pub was busier than Ottie had ever seen it.

  ‘Who are all these people?’ she asked Joe as he pulled slowly on the tap.

  ‘Your fellas,’ he smiled, bemused, watching the black stout flow.

  ‘My . . .?’

  ‘Up at the castle. They’re just finishing doing the renovations.’

  Ottie blinked. What renovations?

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’ Joe asked in amazement as he saw her expression setting down the first pint. ‘Jeesht, you really do need to get over here more often, Ottie. There’s some fancy private members’ club taken over the place for the weekend. It’s a house party really but what did they call it? A blow-up . . . oh yes, a pop-up club.’

  ‘I have no idea what that is.’

  ‘Nor’s any of us. But apparently we’re all invited to the big do Saturday night – the entire village. Black tie. Proper fancy.’

  ‘Black tie?’ Ottie repeated in disbelief. ‘At the castle this weekend?’

  What the hell had Willow been up to, Ottie wondered? She’d only seen her . . . Christ, when had she seen her last? The past few weeks had gone by in a blur what with looking after Ben, looking out for Bertie . . . She realized it had been around ten days ago, when Pip had been in hospital. Bertie had texted her to say her mother was still staying at theirs – he had sounded pretty annoyed about it – so she hadn’t had any particular imperative to go over to the castle in the meantime.

  ‘Thanks, Joe,’ she murmured, handing over the money and picking up the pints, a bag of nuts clamped between her teeth.

  ‘What’s up?’ Ben asked her with a quizzical look as she came back, reaching up to take the nuts from her. His leg was propped up rather comically on a high bar stool to raise his foot higher than his heart; she had been able to tell from the pinch at his eyes that it had begun to throb after their shopping trip.

  ‘I’m not sure. My little sister appears to have arranged some sort of . . . civic event at the castle in the space of a fortnight.’ She sat down beside him and handed him the pint. He admired it for a long moment, the black velvet body, the narrow froth of foam across the top.

  Ottie watched as he took a mouthful, his eyes closing. He’d shaved this morning, the first time since he’d come to stay, and it had come as a shock as he’d debuted the look at breakfast. It suited him, revealing his finely angled face that had been steadily obscured by encroaching stubbly fuzz, but it also made him look more ‘corporate’ again, one step closer to being the man who had stood on her doorstep in the rain that Friday night. He looked ready for his suit now, ready for home.

  ‘Oh . . . yeah,’ he breathed, looking at the pint again before looking at her nodding appreciatively. ‘Well worth the wait.’

  She grinned. Him saying he hadn’t liked it would have been tantamount to saying he didn’t like Ireland. Or the Irish. Or her.

  He took another mouthful, before setting the pint back down again. ‘So, you were saying . . . civic event?’

  ‘She’s apparently hired the castle out to a private members’ club and they’re holding a big black-tie party on Saturday, to which the entire village is invited.’

  ‘Would the entire village want to go to a black-tie party?’ Ben asked, looking around the pub. Anyone not in work trousers either had a white beard or bald head.

  ‘Probably not,’ she chuckled. ‘But maybe they knew that when they extended the invitation: friendly gesture, low uptake.’

  Ben sucked in his teeth. ‘Such cynicism for one so young, Miss Lorne.’

  ‘Listen, the only black ties around here are worn at funerals.’

  It was his turn to laugh. ‘So, will you go?’

  ‘Jeesht, no.’ She took a sip of Guinness herself, quickly dabbing off the white moustache with her index finger.

  He watched her with a bemused expression. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not a black-tie-party kind of person.’

  ‘Because you don’t have a Red Dress life you mean?’

  She grinned. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Got it,’ he nodded, that signature wry tone making the corners of her mouth turn up.

  The pub door opened and they glanced over to see an older couple walking in – followed by the Flanagans.

  Ottie immediately shrank back in her chair, as though trying to push herself through and behind it. She let her hair fall forwards, screening her profile, as Shula and her companions went straight to the table by the fire, a Reserved sign on it. Bertie went to the bar.

  Ben looked at them, not saying anything, before glancing across at her, noticing her newly huddled posture. ‘You okay?’

  She gave an innocent nod. ‘Sure.’ Actually, she wanted to get the hell out of there now but they had only just started on their drinks and she couldn’t think of any reason why they should suddenly leave.

  She flipped her hair across her head and rested her cheek in her right hand. ‘So . . .’ But she could still see Bertie’s reflection in the old pewter tankard on the table which held the cutlery. He was standing at the bar, one foot up on the rail. He was wearing jeans and a twill shirt, a moss-green Schoffel fleece gilet.

  A hint of a frown puckered Ben’s brow but he passed no comment on her suddenly defensive behaviour and took another sip of his pint. ‘This might have to become my new vice.’

  ‘New vice? You mean you have other ones?’ she asked, her interest piqued and drawn off Bertie momentarily. ‘I was under the impression your body is a temple.’

  ‘If by temple you mean a crumbling Aztec ruin.’

  She laughed.

  It was the wrong thing to have done. In the reflection of the tankard, she saw Bertie – knowing the sound well – turn. He went still for a moment as he took in the sight of them here, sharing a pint together.

  Then he was walking over.

  Ottie felt herself tense, knowing she had let him down, for she still hadn’t mentioned the issue of the lawsuit yet. It wasn’t that there hadn’t been plenty of opportunities since yesterday – they had been together almost all the time but it had just never seemed the right time. Chatting as Ben did his physio and she ironed, or walking slowly together along the beach this morning whilst she did the daily litter clear-up . . . How was she supposed to just drop into the conversation the small matter of letting three million euros go?

  But Bertie had needed her to do it, no matter how hard. She realized she had unwittingly made a choice and it hadn’t been him she’d chosen.

  ‘Mr Gilmore.’ Bertie’s voice was as hard and sharp as flint.

  ‘Mr Flanagan,’ Ben said coolly.

  ‘I had expected you’d have seen sense by now.’ Bertie’s eyes slid over to her. ‘Ottie?’

  She stared back at him, feeling her heart pound, adrenaline tearing through her veins like a spring flood. ‘Hey,’ was all she could say.

  His eyebrow arched at the reply, understanding perfectly that she had failed him. She saw his disappointment with her in the pull of his lips. He looked back at Ben.

  ‘My barrister assures me you don’t have a leg to stand on.’

  Ben wiggled the foot of his up-ended leg. ‘Not quite true. I do have one to stand on.’

/>   To Ottie’s horror, a bubble of shocked laughter escaped her, her father’s legacy rearing its head at all the wrong moments. She slapped her hand over her mouth and looked up at Bertie almost with fear. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she whispered. ‘It’s not funny.’

  Bertie glowered at her, his anger and disappointment in her palpable. Slowly he leaned down, his palms flat on the table and astride either side of Ben’s leg. Should he choose, Ben could kick straight up and hit him square in the jaw, but they all knew he wouldn’t do that. Bertie knew it.

  ‘Let me make this very plain to you, Gilmore. I will not have my brand sullied by your baseless and unwarranted accusations. I have spent many years developing Ultra and I take the security and safety of the course every bit as seriously as you would hope I would.’

  ‘So then, how did I end up, in broad daylight, clinging to a rock for thirty-four hours in a storm, with multiple fractures? There were no signs at that junction, Flanagan.’

  ‘Yes, there were.’

  Ottie felt her heart constrict at the outright lie, as she stared at Bertie. Ben could have died because of them. How could he deny such an important truth? But Bertie wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were locked on Ben – and vice versa – in mutual antipathy.

  ‘I’m going to counter-sue for defamation of character,’ Bertie growled. ‘Five million from you.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t go anywhere near the realms of character if I were you,’ Ben said placidly, looking not at all ruffled. ‘People in glass houses and all that.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘. . . What does that mean?’ Bertie asked in a quiet voice.

  ‘What do you think it means?’

  Ottie didn’t move. She scarcely dared to breathe. What did it mean? What did Ben know?

  She became aware that the pub was growing quieter, people beginning to notice their ‘conversation’, Bertie’s body language overtly hostile and intriguing.

  He straightened up slowly, his face redder than when he ran. ‘This isn’t over.’

  Ben arched an eyebrow but made no reply and after another tense stare-off, Bertie turned and left, making his way back to the bar. Heads followed him, gazes shooting back and forth between their two parties, a buzz of gossip beginning to lift up like a swarm of hoverflies.

  Ottie stared at her pint, not sure what to say.

  Ben took another sip of his Guinness. ‘Mmm, so good,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Not sure I’d want two though.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Friday, 20 December

  Willow picked her way uncertainly over the rough ground. The snow had come in hard all yesterday afternoon and overnight, and it was difficult to make out which was firm ground and which bog. Ahead of her Mabel and Dot trotted with their noses down, making it look easy, their Prussian-blue rope leads straddled across her body like lassos.

  She crested the hill with a sigh of relief and, pushing her windswept hair back from her face, looked down the sweep of fields to the deserted campsite and the beach beyond. Snow lapped up to the very fringes of the sand, the long fronds of tufted grass like frozen wands pointing into the air. The sea was a stormy battleship grey today, white horses tussling in the bay, towering clouds rolling overhead. She squinted slightly as she saw an unusual number of people on the beach.

  Being privately owned and part of the Lorne estate, it was always quiet – not that her family had ever stopped the villagers from using it: ‘mi castle es tu castle’, her father used to joke in the pub, although most of them went to Dingle’s Cove anyway which was longer and closer to the village. The campers were allowed to use the Lorne private beach but there wasn’t one tent pitched there now; Ottie always closed up shop after the Ultra, in the run-up to Christmas.

  A light was shining in the cottage, even though it was after midday, and she started making her way, falteringly, over there again. She hadn’t seen her sister in well over a week and had realized with a start, as she was dropping off to sleep last night, that she wouldn’t yet know about the ‘occupation’ this weekend. If she were to just drop in to the castle, she’d get a hell of a fright. They had to talk – and not just about this weekend.

  She walked on over the fields, the little pink door in the gable end getting bigger, along with the crowd on the beach, a steady stream of people filing down the lane, puffa jackets on, dogs on leads. She knocked at the door, Mabel and Dot sitting on the mat beside her feet, as she watched hatted heads bobbing past the hedge, her curiosity piqued. Something was definitely going on.

  ‘Willow!’ Ottie looked surprised. Her strawberry-blonde hair was tied up in a loose topknot, wispy tendrils falling down at the sides, a basket of laundry on her hip.

  Willow felt her smile freeze at the welcome. Or rather, unwelcome, the tension as thick as clotted cream. ‘. . . Hey, stranger. Thought I’d pop over for a coffee.’

  Ottie nodded but there was hesitation in the movement. ‘Great! Come in.’

  She and the dogs stepped into the cottage, Willow pulling off her wellies, noticing a cluster of shopping bags piled by the coat cupboard and reminding her she really must start with her Christmas shopping. The cottage smelled of roses and . . . something else. She couldn’t place it. ‘What’s happening on the beach, do you know?’

  ‘I’ve got absolutely no idea,’ Ottie shrugged, going over and standing at the big window. ‘I’ve just been watching from here. At first I thought it was just a coincidence – a few dogwalkers deciding to come out this way today. But this?’ She sighed. ‘It’s crazy. This is private land, after all. I was about to go down and check.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I’ll come with you then,’ Willow said, pulling her boots straight back on again. ‘We can have that coffee afterwards.’

  Ottie’s smile became fixed. ‘Yes.’

  They stepped outside together.

  ‘So, what’ve you been up to?’ Ottie asked lightly, pulling on her jacket and fiddling with the zip. ‘I’ve not seen you.’

  The statement sounded innocuous enough but they both knew there were fast-running waters beneath this bridge. Willow was the usurper to Ottie’s status as heir apparent and nothing either of them did or said could change it. ‘No. Sorry. I’ve been concentrating on getting Mam moved in to the Dower House. It was pretty depressing in there. The decor hadn’t been touched in years so I’ve been painting all the rooms.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Most of them. The ones she’ll be using most. Just to get her settled in.’

  ‘Yes, I heard she was at Shula’s—’

  ‘Did you? Who told you?’ Willow asked, feeling defensive. Did the whole village know her mother had moved out of her own home? Did they think she’d been pushed out?

  ‘Bertie mentioned it,’ Ottie mumbled. ‘I ran into him the other day.’

  ‘Oh.’ Willow glanced at her sister, trying not to react to his name.

  They were walking down the tiny lane that narrowed to just a path onto the beach. There were people ahead of them, behind . . .

  They both frowned at the spectacle.

  ‘And I hear we’ve got houseguests at the castle this weekend,’ Ottie said lightly.

  Oh God. Who had told her? Willow’s mouth opened but it was another moment before she could push the words out. This was harder than she’d feared. ‘That’s right,’ she said, trying to sound bright. ‘Weekend hire to a private members’ club. It’s for their Christmas party.’

  ‘Right,’ Ottie said mildly.

  ‘They’re hosting a black-tie party tomorrow night. Everyone’s welcome. You should definitely go.’

  ‘Are you?’ Ottie asked.

  The thought of seeing Connor again, after the way she’d run out on him . . . ‘Oh . . . no. No, I think I’ll have a quiet one.’

  ‘But it’s your castle, Will. Don’t you think you should be there?’ There was a definite edge to Ottie’s voice.

  Willow bit her lip, knowing this was her moment to tell her sister the whole truth:
to admit that the hosts were the soon-to-be new owners. It had to come out sooner or later. People would have to know: the Lornes’ long reign was officially at an end.

  ‘Look, Otts, there’s something I have to tell you,’ she said as they stepped onto the sand, the crashing sound of the sea suddenly amplified as they came around the shallow dunes.

  ‘What the bloody hell . . .?’ Ottie frowned. They both stopped short. There had to be at least a hundred people down here. ‘This is not on.’

  Willow scanned the scene, trying to make sense of it too. The plastic bunting that had been strung up through the village for the Ultra the other week, was now being threaded between metal poles stuck in dual lanes in the sand, almost down the entire length of the beach. The brightly coloured plastic flags fluttered and flapped noisily in the wind.

  ‘Is this a sports day for the Sunday school or something?’ Willow asked her.

  ‘In December?’

  ‘Some sort of parade then?’

  ‘No one’s mentioned anything to m—’

  The sound of music suddenly being played from a speaker – ‘Eye of the Tiger’, no less – made them both turn, just as a loud cheer went up.

  ‘You have got to be joking!’ Ottie cried as an overweight man on a bay horse suddenly trotted onto the sand, holding the reins for another horse – that looked strangely familiar – trotting beside him. Bringing up the rear was Pip and she had that look on her face that they had both seen before, too many times. Her jaw was held forwards as though locked in position, her eyes simmering with a fierce intensity and almost glowing brightness.

  ‘Oh God,’ Willow groaned as their wayward sister trotted past without even seeing them. ‘What the hell is she up to now?’

  Fergus whinnied, tossing his head back and giving a little rear as Shalimar was cantered out of range, down to the far end of the beach.

  ‘Ssh, it’s okay, boy,’ Pip said soothingly, reaching down to stroke his neck. ‘She’s coming back. We’re going to get her back, I promise.’ He shivered in reply, his skin already prickled with sweat, the damp humid sea air mixing with the slippery trot down from the campsite car park, the excitement of being reunited with his old stable mate again.