A Room at the Manor

by Julie Shackman

  ‘Follow me,’ called Morven, splashing through a puddle.

  She led me through the brightly lit reception area, resplendent with squashy toffee-coloured leather sofas and walnut furniture. There was a large function hall at the rear of the hotel from which music was pumping.

  All I could make out from the doorway was circular tables and chairs draped in rose pink tulle. The silhouettes of guests made my stomach zing. Crikey! How many people were at this thing?

  The catwalk (or ‘runway’ as Morven repeatedly corrected me) was decked out in pink carpet. To the sound of rapturous applause and a chorus of appreciative wolf-whistles, a shapely black woman sashayed down it. A red maxi dress moulded to her curves, and her braided hair was piled up in an elaborate style.

  ‘You’re on in twenty minutes, Lara,’ beamed Morven. ‘This is Abbey. She’ll take care of your hair and make-up.’ From a side door, a young girl with a choppy blonde bob had appeared.

  ‘You didn’t tell me the entire population of Fairview was at this thing,’ I hissed hopelessly out of the corner of my mouth.

  Morven waved away my concerns. ‘Knock ’em dead, kid!’

  I know who I’d like to knock dead, given half a chance.

  Abbey guided me through to a small room where another model was just departing for the runway. She had a cap of silver hair that framed her face and was sporting a Katharine Hepburn–style suit.

  Abbey sat me down in a chair. ‘Are you ready to be transformed?’

  I gulped back a ball of apprehension. ‘Do your worst,’ I said, smiling thinly.

  Having smoothed, smeared and dusted my skin from an array of pots, Abbey examined my hair.

  ‘For your first dress, I’m going to put your hair up. When did you last wash it?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘Great. It holds better when it isn’t freshly washed.’

  Like a dextrous octopus, Abbey scooped my curls in all directions, pinning and securing with grips. Then she directed me behind a screen to change into my first outfit. It was a long, floaty, almost angelic-looking number in cream, with a V-neck and fluted sleeves. A pair of matching cream ankle boots completed the outfit.

  When I stepped out, still fiddling with the sleeves, Morven almost collapsed. ‘You look gorgeous,’ she grinned. ‘Like a character out of The Great Gatsby.’

  I swallowed mouthfuls of air. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘Can you wait until you’ve modelled first?’ said Morven, sticking her head round the curtain. ‘Right, you’re on!’

  With a gentle push between my shoulder blades, I was out in front of the pink circular tables under dazzling spotlights. I could just make out shadowy faces and various silhouettes.

  ‘Go for it,’ grinned Morven.

  As pop music boomed out of the speakers, I knew I had to do something. Standing there looking like an utter tit wasn’t an option. Pasting on a serene smile, I walked steadily to the front of the runway. Inside, I was a manic duck, paddling for dear life in deep water. With a quick swish of my skirt, I turned to the left and then to the right (I’d seen it on some modelling-competition show on Sky) before marching my way back up the runway. Applause thundered in my ears.

  ‘One down, one to go,’ called Morven from the sidelines. ‘You were great out there.’

  With my heart thudding in my ears, I tumbled through the curtain. Abbey and another girl peeled the floaty cream dress from my clammy skin.

  ‘Here you go,’ said Morven. ‘Outfit number two.’

  I blinked at the black and silver handkerchief she was holding. ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘What’s the matter with it?’ puzzled Morven, holding it higher in the air. ‘I think it’s stunning.’

  ‘Well, you wear it then.’

  ‘What, with my boobs?’

  She did have a point. Morven had her own chest plus everybody else’s, whereas I had always been more modestly endowed in that department.

  Nevertheless, I planted my hands on my hips. ‘I wipe my kitchen surfaces with cloths bigger than that.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  Abbey loosened my hair from its piled-up tower and removed the myriad grips. It fell down my back in a relieved array of wild curls. She fired a comb through the roots and aimed a generous skoosh of hairspray at the finished result. ‘You’re good to go, Lara.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I argued, glaring at the dress. ‘I’m a baker, not a Christmas turkey.’

  Morven’s fine jaw clenched under her foundation. ‘Remember why you’re doing this.’

  ‘Because you bullied me into it.’

  ‘No, not that. The real reason.’

  A wave of guilt washed over me. How come Morven could make me feel like Cruella de Vil when she wanted to?

  If I walked quickly, I reasoned, it’d be over in a minute. ‘Oh, alright,’ I snapped. ‘Give it here.’

  I dived behind the temporary changing screen and eased into the dress. I had to admit, it was beautifully cut. It was off the shoulder and slid effortlessly to the top of my thighs.

  Morven slung a pair of silver strappy heels over the top of the screen. Great. Not only would I be struggling to breathe in this thing, I’d have a nosebleed due to the teetering height of these ruddy shoes.

  I pulled them on, gave one last ineffectual tug on the hem of my dress and stepped out, like a newly born baby deer on stilts.

  If my mother could see me now, trussed and glossed like a Sunday roast, she’d require immediate medical attention, followed by a lie-down in a darkened room, I thought.

  Morven clapped a hand over her mouth. Abbey simply sighed.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘You look incredible,’ beamed Morven. ‘Honestly.’

  ‘Stunning,’ added Abbey, moving forwards to tease a stray curl from my face.

  From beyond the folds of black curtain, I could hear a tinny voice announcing the last outfit of the evening.

  I rolled my eyes and stepped out.

  A huge round of applause and exclamations rose in the semidarkness. With a slight smile, I did my best to swing my hips and strode as carefully as I could, trying not to appear to have wet myself.

  I was acutely aware of my big hair and expanse of leg, but the crowd cheering and clapping made my confidence grow a little, so I adopted a small pout. Reaching the end of the runway, I again angled my body this way and that. As I moved, the silver panels of the dress shimmered like rainwater. I raised and dropped my bare shoulder, which Abbey had smeared with some glossy body cream.

  I performed one more turn to the side, smiling more naturally this time—and froze.

  Standing by one of the tables closest to the stage was a stunned Vaughan Carmichael staring back up at me.

  Seventeen

  I don’t know who was more shocked.

  I stood frozen for a few more moments before Vaughan eventually blinked and broke my trance, his face impassive. Then his attention slid from my face, pointedly lingering on my legs. I tugged down the hem of my dress and clattered quickly back up the runway to retreat behind the curtain.

  ‘You were wonderful,’ gushed Morven.

  I tapped my silver-heeled foot. ‘Thank you for the compliment, but at the moment, I’ve got more pressing matters on my mind.’

  ‘Like what?’

  I jabbed my finger towards the audience. ‘Vaughan Carmichael just got an eyeful.’

  ‘Oh, he’s here? I do hope his family have made a generous contribution.’

  My mouth sprung open. ‘Are you for real, Morvs? Did you hear what I just said?’

  Morven raised and dropped her white lacy shoulders. ‘Please calm down. Your ears are going that strange raspberry colour.’

  ‘My ears are the least of my sodding worries. The laird’s son has just had a good glimpse of this!’ I swept my hand up and down my bare legs to illustrate the point. ‘Can you begin to understand how humiliating that is? I want to be viewed as a serious businesswoman. Flashing my
anaemic Scottish skin at a business associate isn’t really conducive to that!’

  Morven ignored me. ‘Your ears always turn that weird colour when you get annoyed or stressed.’

  ‘No, they don’t.’

  ‘Yes, they do. Remember at school when you said you didn’t fancy Adam Scoular? Every time he walked past, you looked like Spock with an earache.’

  ‘No, I did not!’ I protested hotly. ‘Wait a minute. Why are we still talking about my bloody ears? I repeat, for those who are hard of thinking—Vaughan Carmichael just got a good old look at my thighs.’

  ‘Calm down, will you?’ laughed Morven. ‘You are totally rocking that outfit.’ She gave my arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘He probably couldn’t believe his eyes. Maybe he didn’t realise it was you anyway.’

  I wrapped my arms protectively around my waist. ‘Oh, he knew it was me, alright. He was having such a good look I’m surprised he couldn’t read every word of this ruddy outfit’s washing instructions.’ I shoved my way past her to hide behind the changing screen. ‘Oh, stuff it. I couldn’t give a toss what the Muppet of the Glen thinks.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  I bobbed my head back over the top of the screen as my dress slithered off me to the floor. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Morven ignored me.

  I kicked my heels to one side. ‘I just don’t want the likes of Vaughan Carmichael thinking I’m some kind of airhead. He already suspects I manipulated his late grandfather into altering his will. Goodness knows what he thought just now.’

  Morven muttered, ‘I bet he was thinking a lot of things.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking!’ gasped Vaughan in horror. ‘Dad, don’t tell me you’ve agreed to this?’

  Gordon was sitting against the backdrop of his study window, smooth and silver-haired. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I like Lara’s idea,’ he answered simply. ‘It sounds fun and will be a great way for us to reconnect with Fairview.’

  Vaughan looked as though he’d been punched. He pushed a hand angrily through his hair. ‘Fun?’

  ‘Yes,’ I smiled tightly. ‘Something that makes you smile—or heaven forbid, even laugh.’

  Gordon’s eyes glittered with amusement.

  ‘Very funny,’ ground out Vaughan. ‘Believe it or not, I do know what fun is—and this isn’t it.’ He turned to me pointedly. ‘Anyway, what did you get up to last night? Do anything interesting at all?’

  Heat scored my cheeks. Smug sod. ‘I was helping a friend out, actually. At a charity event.’

  I knew he would be incapable of keeping my catwalk appearance to himself. I flicked a quick glance at Gordon but he was preoccupied momentarily with papers on his desk. Then he muttered an apology. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ He darted out the door.

  When I glared back at Vaughan, he was still studying me. What was with all these unfathomable stares this morning?

  ‘What were you doing prowling around there last night, anyway?’ I asked, irritated. ‘I wouldn’t have thought a charity fashion show was your kind of thing.’

  Vaughan arched his eyebrows. ‘Prowling? You make me sound like some predatory wolf.’

  ‘You said it.’

  He tilted his head to one side. ‘Want to see my big, sharp teeth then?’

  I ignored his playful smirk. ‘No, thanks.’

  He let out a short laugh. ‘For your information, I only dropped by to hand in a cheque from Dad. We wanted to contribute to the library funds.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ I disguised my awkwardness by examining my shoes.

  ‘But I’m glad I popped by when I did,’ he added after a long pause, ‘otherwise I would have missed seeing your fantastic performance.’

  He’s trying to provoke a reaction, Lara. Just ignore the prat.

  I was relieved when Gordon strode back into the room, clutching a couple of invoices. ‘Sorry about that, folks. I remembered I need to get these paid urgently.’ He resumed his seat with a smile. ‘Now, where were we?’

  ‘It will be a great way to kick off getting more revenue for Glenlovatt,’ I explained nervously, clasping my fingers together. ‘And most people love fancy dress.’

  ‘Indeed. And you need to promote your work more,’ said Gordon, turning to his frozen-faced son. ‘This is an excellent way of doing that and it benefits this place at the same time.’ Vaughan opened his mouth to protest but Gordon carried on enthusiastically. ‘We can invite contacts in the art world, as well as the local community.’

  ‘And you don’t have to get involved if you don’t want to,’ I said to Vaughan. ‘I can organise it.’

  ‘With my help,’ insisted Gordon. ‘My experience of fancy-dress balls is somewhat limited but I’ll do what I can.’

  With the morning sun striking Vaughan’s dark hair, he was one intimidating figure. He swung his head between the two of us and then threw his hands in the air.

  ‘Okay! Okay. It’s like being sandwiched between a bloody tsunami and an earthquake.’

  Ignoring Vaughan’s reluctance (and it isn’t easy to ignore a brooding six-foot-three sculptor), we agreed to hold the Glenlovatt fancy-dress ball in six weeks’ time, prior to the opening of the tea room. We’d been assured that all systems were well and truly go for the tea room to open officially on the sixteenth of July.

  Despite the curled lip of Vaughan, Gordon was also enthusiastic about my suggested ‘Ladies and Rogues’ theme.

  ‘There are plenty of rogues in Fairview,’ muttered Vaughan.

  Gordon tilted a silvery brow at his son. ‘That’s the pot calling the kettle black if ever I heard it.’

  Vaughan looked suitably uncomfortable. He slid a look in my direction, before letting out an exasperated ‘Dad!’

  Gordon gave him a serene smile in return. A family joke, I presumed. Getting the Ladies and Rogues Ball organised was not going to be an easy task, but, with Morven’s offer of help, I was determined to manage it. I turned back to my online search for an alcohol supplier.

  Thankfully, Ben, Craig and the rest of the tea-room squad could be trusted to get on with things, even if their tea breaks seemed to go on a little. I took advantage of their morning tea sit-down to tell them about the ball, and Ben squared his beefy shoulders in response. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing, Lara,’ he beamed confidently. ‘Me and the rest of the A-team here know exactly what we’re doing.’

  Every morning I got a kick out of seeing how things were progressing. The studio was becoming more and more like a tea room with each passing day. The cake counter took centre stage opposite the windows and patio doors, and the restored floor was a beautiful blank slate awaiting the placement of tables and chairs, which would be arriving soon.

  New kitchen shelves had been delivered, thankfully in the right colour this time. Two of the carpenters were busy installing white open-shelved cabinets at one side of the room. I’d suggested to Gordon they could house a selection of local produce, such as jams, honey and marmalade—there were a few local businesses I was sure would be interested in getting involved, and it would all be extra revenue for the tea room and the house. I’d also considered the idea of selling china tea pots customised with the Glenlovatt coat of arms, but whether we could organise all that as well as everything else before the opening was another question. I was bursting with enthusiasm!

  First things first, I needed to find a quiet spot away from the hammering and read through the applications I’d received after advertising online for staff.

  Just then, the third carpenter, Oron, arrived, his arm around an apprehensive young woman gripping a large Tupperware box.

  ‘Morning, Lara,’ he began. ‘I’d like to introduce my sister, Jess. We saw your ad about needing staff for when this place opens and I reckon Jess is your girl.’ He smiled encouragingly at her.

  The nervous young woman moved her box to one hand and shook mine with the other. ‘Jess Murdoch. I used to work for a large bakery in Glasgow. I sent you an email, but thought I’d drop by with
something I’d made—just to show you . . .’ She trailed off, uncertain.

  ‘Fantastic! We love initiative here,’ I beamed. ‘Let’s talk more outside. I’ve got a bit of time before a phone call to one of our suppliers. Bring those goodies along,’ I added.

  I led her out of the tea room through the patio doors. We walked down one of the garden pathways together until we reached a tired but charming-looking wooden bench, overlooking the first bank of trees. The summer sun weaved in and out of shreds of cloud as we sat down.

  Jess smiled, obviously still a little nervous, her chestnut hair blowing around her freckled face in the light breeze.

  ‘So,’ I started, ‘You were saying that you used to work for a bakery in the city?’

  ‘Yes, for four years. The details and my references are in that email. I was baking a bit of everything but my specialty is savouries—quiche, pies, bread.’

  As she said this, she eased open the lid of the Tupperware container, and the homey smell of warm Emmental and pumpkin quiche waltzed up to me. Sitting next to the generous slice was a mini pie and a quarter loaf of ciabatta.

  I smiled in admiration. ‘May I?’

  ‘Please do.’

  I accepted a napkin from her and savoured each of the delicious samples in turn. The quiche melted in my mouth, the steak pie was wholesome and comforting, while the ciabatta tickled my tastebuds with its airy softness. ‘Wow,’ I gasped. ‘These are seriously good.’

  Jess’s dusting of freckles danced across her cheeks as she smiled. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ I emphasised.

  Emboldened, she added, ‘Oron said he would put in a good word for me, but I wanted to do this on my own. Your ad mentioned that the tea room would be serving lunch as well, and I thought some of these would work well.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I replied. ‘We’re after someone to be there early in the morning until just after lunch.’ I hoped I was framing my words carefully. ‘So, as you must have seen, it wouldn’t be a full-time position. Early morning to mid-afternoon instead.’

  ‘Oh, that would be perfect,’ enthused Jess. ‘That means I’d be able to fit my work day around Harry’s school hours. That’s my son.’