The Concealers

by Janet Pywell

  ‘Do you want to put the lamb on skewers for me?’ I ask him.

  ‘Are you a chef all the time now?’

  ‘Yes, I’m freelance.’

  ‘Don’t you want your own restaurant?’ He works carefully and diligently.

  ‘I’d love to, but it takes money.’

  I straighten my shoulders and with the sharp knife in my hands, I think of James and the money I’d saved. I’d found the perfect location, on the south coast of England, a small restaurant that I knew would work but then …

  Julie interrupts my thoughts, saying, ‘Ronda, have you met Hugo, the sommelier?’

  ‘Hello, Ronda.’ I turn at the sound of my name and find myself staring into the eyes of a lovely well dressed, dark-haired man.

  ‘Hello, Hugo.’ I smile. ‘Sorry, my hands are filled with spicy marinade.’

  ‘That’s alright. It’s good to meet you, Ronda. Thank you for sending me the menus by email. It’s good to get a heads up on what they’re eating. Herr Schiltz is very particular about his wine choice.’

  ‘Really? Is he a wine expert?’ I ask, trying not to keep smiling at him like a stupid teenager.

  ‘An expert? Probably not but he knows what wines he likes, that’s for sure. So, I have to be quite careful.’ Hugo grins; his hair is gelled into a quiff and shaved at the back of his neck. His sallow skin adds to his continental air and exotic charm.

  ‘Are you French?’

  ‘I was born in Bordeaux, but I was brought up in Paris.’

  My body tenses. That’s where James proposed last Christmas.

  Hugo looks around the kitchen. ‘Where are all the glasses, Dan?’

  The two men disappear, and I’m alone with Julie who continues to work in silence, chopping and slicing. She doesn’t look up and, for the first time, I allow myself to remember James.

  My ex – until six months ago – had been charming, funny, witty, and often irreverent. He was intelligent and smart, but I found out he’d used me, and my savings, to invest in his business – online gaming, he’d called it. He’d convinced me that it was the new craze, the latest fad and it’s where all the big investors were putting their money. And, like an idiot, I’d believed him. I couldn’t think why a man as good-looking as James would actually want me – an ex-military officer. But James had made me feel special. He’d complimented me, paid me attention, listened to me and, of course, he loved me to cook for him. I felt better about myself, and my confidence grew. The shackles of my past, the conflict war zones, and the insults from my dead father began to recede, and I began to emerge as a new butterfly in the world; happy, colourful and free. By the time James proposed last Christmas and planned our wedding in February – I was ready for our new future together. I was prepared to be a wife and hopefully, one day, a mother.

  I glance over at Julie, but she doesn’t look up. She can’t see the turmoil churning inside me, and I’m reminded again of how I was, how I used to be.

  I hadn’t looked up – not once.

  I didn’t notice when James returned with flight tickets to Paris, or even after he’d bought our wedding rings and outfits on my credit card. I hadn’t taken much notice after I’d given him my savings when he’d told me figures for his online gaming company were growing, and he was making money, because I’d trusted him. He was my future husband. I didn’t look up until our wedding day. That’s when I’d waited with Tina in the registry office. February 14th, and we waited, and we waited, and James had never appeared.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Julie’s quiet burr interrupts my thought. ‘Is it the onions? They are strong.’

  ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’ I wipe my eyes with the back of my wrist and then onto my apron. ‘It’s the spices. It happens sometimes.’

  Julie nods in understanding, but as I turn and wash my hands, I can still feel her thoughtful gaze on me. My mood turns darker, and suddenly I’m filled with anger. I started kickboxing classes to tone my body, but it was also a vent for my emotions. I pick up my large santoku and bring it down unnecessarily heavily on a thick gourd and it splits apart. I need to exercise before I do some serious damage to someone.

  Chapter 4

  ‘We are only falsehood, duplicity, contradiction; we both conceal and disguise ourselves from ourselves.’

  Blaise Pascal

  An hour before the guests arrive, I manage to escape from the kitchen. It’s quiet. The prep work is finished, and the Grand Hall is prepared for the evening buffet. The staff seem to have drifted away, and I know Julie is in the garden, smoking and talking to Mac. Hugo says the family will meet in the library for pre-dinner drinks.

  I intend to explore the castle – I’m Inspector Joachin García Abascal’s eyes and ears and besides, I’m curious to see the castle.

  I spend a few minutes in the Grand Hall then I climb the beautiful stone staircase, admiring the thick stone walls. It’s a respite from the hot kitchen, and I take my time, admiring the old tapestries hanging along the corridor; dramatic battle scenes, aged and worn. The golden-framed oil paintings are of serious-looking men in traditional tartan kilts and dark jackets. In some, a regal, thin-faced man poses with recent trophies; deer, rabbits, grouse.

  I glance into the library – a traditionally decorated room in hues of yellow, orange and tamarind, worn sofas, upright padded chairs, comfortable armchairs, placed around a long coffee table adorned with magazines and trinkets. The far wall is lined with old, dusty books, and I smile. It’s like a scene from a film. Did they design it deliberately this way? It’s a chicken and egg scenario. Which came first? The film or the original library?

  In the corner, drinks have been prepared. Various shaped polished glasses sparkle in the late afternoon sunlight, bottles of spirits, an ice bucket, and six bottles of champagne are chilling in a silver bowl. The room holds no further interest for me, and I wonder how I should report all this to Inspector Joachin.

  Up another narrower flight of stairs is the small hall. It has a high barrel-vaulted ceiling, stained glass windows along the far wall and a large oval window at the far end where I stand for a while marvelling at the natural light shining through three large, south-facing stained-glass windows and the patterns the colours make on the floor.

  It’s simply breathtaking.

  ‘Hello, you’re Ronda – the chef, aren’t you? I’m Paula.’

  ‘Hello, I was having a cheeky wander around. It’s so beautiful.’

  Paula – Herr Schiltz’s secretary – is tall and skinny, with long blonde flowing hair to her waist. She’s dressed formally in a smart cream suit.

  ‘Sorry, we didn’t actually meet up in London. It was all a bit crazy. This was all arranged last minute. It’s been frantic, and I’m just making the last minute checks. I was heading down to the kitchen shortly to see you. Thank you for sending the emails – and I apologise for messing you around with some of the menus. It’s sometimes hard to get everyone to agree …’

  I return Paula’s smile, and I notice dark circles around her anxious eyes.

  ‘That’s absolutely no problem.’ I feel quite sorry for her. ‘Have you organised the whole weekend?’

  ‘Yes. I’m just wondering about the dancers and what time they will arrive. They’re performing Scottish dancing before dinner.’

  ‘How wonderful.’

  ‘It would be if I could find them, but they won’t be here until later.’ She checks her notes on the clipboard in her arms and looks at the expensive watch on her wrist.

  ‘Is it a busy itinerary?’ I probe.

  When she shakes her blonde head, her hair barely moves, apart from one strand which she pulls away from her eyes with a long, manicured pink nail.

  ‘I suppose I’ve organised worse, well not worse, but more complicated. Like the time Herr Schiltz flew everyone to the Caribbean for his wedding, but this is …’ She scratches the back of her head. ‘More challenging. You see, I’ve been to the Caribbean, and I know my way around and what’s expected but I’ve never bee
n to Scotland before. It’s hard to know how to go about things and sometimes people aren’t very … ‘Her voice trails off.

  I hear footsteps behind us.

  ‘Hello?’ Hugo appears looking dashingly handsome in black trousers, black waistcoat, a white shirt and red bow-tie. ‘Have you both escaped?’ He grins.

  ‘I was having a nosy,’ I admit.

  ‘And I was taking a quick break.’ Paula smiles, and I wish I had her slim figure and easy swaying walk. I notice Hugo’s approval as she turns on her heels and walks toward the door. We both watch her pert bottom in her tight skirt.

  ‘We were admiring the small hall,’ I say to distract him.

  ‘Ah, yes. The small hall,’ Hugo announces theatrically, casting his arms wide. ‘Castle Calder dates back to 1575, and the Calder family have appeared in historical scripts since the beginning of civilisation. Cale signifies wood, and dor represents water, and as you can see from the top of the tower, from the battlements, the view represents the woods and the water. You can probably see from here too.’ He looks out of the oval window.

  ‘Ah, we have a tour guide in our midst.’ I move to stand beside him. The view is stunning. The sun glistens on the rustling leaves, and the water in the river at the end of the garden shimmers invitingly on this warm August afternoon.

  ‘But that’s not everything.’ Hugo smiles at me and warms to his oration as he moves back into the room. ‘The name Cawdor, that you may remember from Shakespeare’s Macbeth, is an early phonetic spelling of Calder, as pronounced in the lowlands and northeast coast of Scotland.’

  I clap, and Hugo gives a bow of his head.

  Paula looks puzzled.

  ‘Are you not impressed?’ I ask Paula.

  ‘I’m worried the dancers won’t turn up. I’d better go and investigate.’

  ‘Before you go,’ Hugo announces grandly. ‘You might like to tell your guests that Calder is a very ancient Morayshire, Scottish family.’

  ‘Right! Thank you. I will.’ Paula hurries off with her clipboard under her arm.

  ‘Was it something I said?’ Hugo asks in mock despair.

  ‘Probably, are you like this with all the women?’

  ‘You guessed. My secret is out.’

  ‘Is that why you turned to wine and became a sommelier?’ I giggle.

  ‘Of course, but that—’ he taps the side of his nose ‘—is my secret. Now, tell me, Ronda. Are you exploring too?’

  I check my watch.

  ‘I was, but I fear my time has run out. Cinderella must return to the kitchen.’

  Hugo laughs. ‘But I haven’t told you about the castle’s private parties yet, or the team building facilities, or the product sales launches, or even concerts that they hold here in the grounds.’

  ‘Er, no, you haven’t. Sorry, your time is up.’

  Hugo looks crestfallen. ‘But what about the perfect wedding and the fireworks that dazzle the skies, and the floodlights that illuminate the perfect Scottish castle – the ultimate fairy-tale and romantic venue for marriage.’

  ‘Um, no, sorry. It’s not doing anything for me.’

  He steps closer and whispers, ‘What about the secret passageways?’

  I hesitate, wondering if he’s joking and I sigh dramatically.’ Must dash, Hugo! Toodle pip!’ I say reluctantly, enjoying the silly banter.

  Hugo waves from where he’s moved to stand and look out of the window. ‘Farewell, princess, and be sure not to leave your golden slipper on the staircase.’

  ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘Good. Or one of the guests may trip over and fall, and will want to sue you …’

  I can hear Hugo laughing as I descend the stone staircase, and I think what I could report back to Inspector Joachin. He’s given me a unique mobile phone so that I can send him regular messages and updates about the people invited for the weekend. He said I should tell him everything, and no detail would be too small. Will I tell him it’s a castle with secrets and the potential to be sinister? How I will describe Hugo and Paula? But when I reach the bottom step, Mrs Long is standing with her arms folded waiting for me. She is scowling. ‘I wondered where you’d gone. Those rooms up there are out of bounds.’

  * * *

  I’m finishing the garlic and olive oil dressing for the grilled Scottish langoustines when there’s a noise outside, and a commotion in the doorway.

  ‘They’re here,’ Mac announces. He’s changed into a three-piece tartan suit and a white shirt. His eyes are glowing excitedly, and it looks as if he’s trimmed his beard. ‘Best be ready, Mrs Long. The chauffeur drove up from London and picked Herr Schiltz up from the airport but they’re all walking up the drive together.’

  Mrs Long rips off her apron, and I notice that she’s repaired her makeup and tidied her hair. She follows him out of the kitchen while I finish the last of the sponge mixture for the birthday cake.

  ‘How many tiers?’ Julie asks.

  ‘Two or three. They haven’t been specific.’

  Dan leans across the worktop. ‘Do you want to watch? It’s quite a spectacle. John will pipe the guests up the driveway.’

  ‘Where’s Mrs Long?’ Julie asks.

  ‘She always watches the guests arrive through a gap in the bricks in the garden wall.’

  ‘Won’t they mind the kitchen staff gawping at them?’ I grin.

  ‘Follow me. We can go upstairs and spy from the window in the hallway. Come on, Ronda. Come on, Julie. Let’s go!’

  I follow Dan and Julie out of the kitchen and up the back staircase to the next floor where we stand outside the library, looking through the arch window down onto the long driveway.

  A lone piper in red tartan pipes in the guests. The sound is hauntingly sad. He strolls up the drive and the guests follow him.

  ‘We’d better not let them see us.’ Julie stands to one side of the window.

  ‘They can’t see us from here.’ Dan grins. ‘I’ve tested it out.’

  ‘Cheerful music.’ Hugo has crept up behind us and, leaning over Dan’s shoulder for a better look, I’m conscious of his fresh aftershave; spicy, lemon?

  ‘Quite apt, looking at their cheerful faces. God, they look positively miserable, don’t they?’ Hugo says. ‘I thought this was supposed to be a birthday weekend.’

  ‘The small group have been dropped off by a minibus at the entrance. The driver will wait until the guests are inside and then he’ll drive their bags to the main door,’ Dan explains. ‘Do you recognise any of them?’

  ‘That’s Herr Schiltz, leading the group,’ I say. ‘I met him, and the woman holding his arm, I assume, is his wife.’

  She’s much younger and is beautiful. It reminds me of the question asked so often of younger women with older men – what first attracted you to the billionaire …?

  Hugo says, ‘The two tall men at the front are his sons by his first wife, with their partners. I think the younger ones are his wife’s children by her first marriage. Then there’s his business partner Mike, who I have met, that’s the stocky fellow in the yellow jacket with his wife …’

  ‘Who’s the tall lady?’ asks Julie

  ‘I think that’s Mrs Schiltz’s best friend, she’s married to Mike.’

  ‘Do you know them well?’ I ask Hugo.

  ‘As well as I’d like to know them,’ he replies. ‘Herr Schiltz knows what he likes and doesn’t like, and you’re not allowed to get it wrong. He’s a hard taskmaster,’ he sighs, and looks at me. ‘Let’s hope you don’t mess up on the menus.’

  I grin. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘You don’t look too fazed?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  He smiles. ‘Tell me that after he reduces you to tears and you run back to the kitchen sobbing.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘I’ve seen him treat grown men with contempt and he’s left them quivering because they served his soup cold.’

  ‘It won’t happen to me.’ I walk away from the window. I’ve seen enough of the gue
sts and I still have lots to do.

  ‘You’re very confident about your cooking,’ Hugo calls after me.

  ‘I am,’ I lie.

  ‘Cocky!’ Hugo laughs aloud.

  ‘That’s me,’ I sing, and when I glance back at him, Dan and Julie are watching our exchange in bewilderment. I call out, ‘Just make sure you don’t serve them any crap wine or it could ruin his palate for the whole weekend and wreck my gourmet feast.’

  * * *

  Although I’m joking with Hugo, inside I’m trembling. Fortunately, Julie is a great help, and Dan’s good humour has helped me through the day, but now the guests are here and I’m feeling overwhelmed.

  Hugo is right.

  What if it’s a disaster and Herr Schiltz isn’t happy?

  The kitchen is empty. I place the sponge mixture for the birthday cake in the trays, pouring the cake batter carefully. I hear the sound of a van at the back door as the dance troupe arrive. It skids on the gravel and parks outside the back door. It’s evident that they have been here on many occasions and the four females and four males, and the two pipers dressed in traditional Scottish attire, breeze into the castle via the kitchen in a whirlwind of laughter, good humour and banter.

  Mrs Long ushers them through the kitchen and upstairs to the small hall. Behind them, a sold, well-muscled, bareheaded man walks in carrying an overnight bag. He nods but doesn’t smile.

  ‘I’m Jim.’

  ‘Hello, Jim,’ Julie answers cheerfully and she points him toward the bedrooms through the Grand Hall. After he’s gone she says to me, ‘You wouldn’t want to mess with him, would you?’

  I shake my head. I’ve met men like him in the army. He’s a thug.

  Half an hour later, Julie is finishing the canapés, and the waiting staff are in the corner of the kitchen where Hugo is instructing them on the formalities of the evening.

  While the guests are busy upstairs with the entertainment, I decide it’s a good time to have a final look at the buffet display. Rather than disturb Hugo’s lecture, I walk out of the back door and around the castle, across the garden to where the terrace doors of the Grand Hall are open. Upstairs, from the small gallery, I hear the bagpipes followed by clapping and then the soft tapping of feet on the wooden floor. Occasionally there’s a whoop of joy, and the guests clap louder. Whoop, whoop, and a burst of applause.