by Jenny Colgan
She ignored the fact that she was in her childhood kitchen, was completely blind to anything that wasn’t him: his cold, clear skin against hers as he cupped her face and kissed her hard, his lightly hairy olive chest glinting in the firelight as they sank to the floor—there was no other light; the power had gone off in Mure, after all.
He broke away.
“Undress,” he said breathlessly. “Undress. Please. I have to see you. I can’t . . . I have to.”
Flora sat back a little, blinking.
“Ha,” she said.
She peeled off her damp top, realizing as she did so that this was an unusually tricky maneuver to pull off in broad daylight without having spent the preceding hours in a bar. Particularly when her brain was shrieking, “It’s HIM! It’s HIM!” at her in a panicky high-pitched voice, and another voice was going, “You’re in your mum’s kitchen! It’s your mum’s kitchen,” and trying not to look at her school photo hanging on the wall above the mantelpiece.
Then he simply leaned forward and kissed her again, and for a moment she couldn’t think of anything else at all.
Her skin was exactly as he had imagined it: pale as milk, white as the sky outside. It was flawless, unutterably lovely. He wanted every inch of it, wanted to see the clouds reflected in those pale, dreamy eyes, to let her hair tumble down her back. His eyes searched her face hungrily, drinking it in.
She pulled back then. All she wanted to see was him, but suddenly the room around her was full of ghosts. No, that wasn’t it. In this strange half-light of the encroaching storm, it felt like she and Joel were the ghosts. That all around them real, normal family life was going on: people shouting and arguing, and playing the fiddle, and looking for homework, and drying muddy boots by the range; she could almost feel them walking through her. She blinked, overwhelmed by the sensations, both past and present.
“Oh God,” she said. “Oh God, I am so sorry.”
Joel sat back immediately as Flora felt around for her damp shirt. He held up his hands.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”
“No, no, it’s not that. It’s not you.”
“What’s up?” said Joel, resting his forehead on his hand as he leaned on the coffee table. “Fuck, I want you. I want you so much.” He gently traced the shape of her face. “I shouldn’t have . . . Sorry. I stepped over a line.”
“Oh God, no,” she said, bright pink—how he would have loved to bring that blush to her another way. She stared at the floor. “Sorry.”
He shook himself, and leaned forward.
“It’s okay, Flora.” He tucked her hair behind her ears. “It’s okay.”
He smiled at her, slightly wolfishly.
“Although I will say it’s a shame. It’s one of the very few things I’m any good at.”
Flora’s heart lurched. She couldn’t believe that something she’d dreamed of for so long, lain awake thinking about, was here. And she couldn’t do it. She wanted to cry.
He held out his hands to her.
“Do you want me to go?”
She shook her head fiercely.
“Do you want me to stay and not do anything? Not move?”
She shook her head again. He smiled.
“Do you want me to stay and do other things?”
She nodded, feeling shamed.
“But I can’t,” she said regretfully. “It’s not right. Not here. And you’re my boss.”
He smiled again.
“You know,” he said, reaching out for her, “you know it’s all right to ask for what you want?”
“I do want that,” she whispered, and a tear slid gently down her cheek. “Oh, Joel,” she said. “I’m sorry. I think . . . Oh God. It’s like there’s a hole in me. Since my mum died. I thought I was fine. And now I come back and I’m not remotely fine. And I can’t even . . . It’s like there’s something missing. Even with you.”
“What do you mean, ‘even with me’?” said Joel. “Am I that awful?”
“No,” said Flora, desperate not to give away how long she’d wanted him, completely twisted up inside because she was making such a mess of it.
He sat up on the old kitchen rocking chair and pulled her into his lap. There were two faded tartan blankets on the back of the sofa, and he tugged them over and wrapped them round the pair of them. He just needed to hold her close, not think of anything else.
“What is it?” he whispered.
The tears Flora knew were waiting, so close to the surface, started to pour down her face.
“Oh God,” she said. “It’s . . . coming back here. It’s been so hard.”
Joel frowned.
“I thought you were having a good time.”
“I know, but . . .”
He thought back.
“You didn’t look pleased. That first day.”
“I didn’t think you noticed me.”
“I didn’t,” he said, with some of the clipped Joel she knew so well. “But I caught a sense of . . . reluctance.”
Flora sighed.
“When my mum died,” she said, “there was a big funeral. Everybody came.”
It hurt her to think of it, even now. It had been a beautiful day. The chapel was small, on a little raised hillock, next to the ruined abbey overlooking the bay. It was more ancient than anyone could conceive of, one of the first signs of Christianity on an island that had older allegiances: to Thor and Odin, and before them, to green men and fertility goddesses and the Lughnasa gods of the equinox, and before them, even, who knew?
It was a plain building, with a cross in the churchyard to honor the war dead, the carved names repeated—Macbeths and Fergussons and MacLeods predominated; inside were unadorned pews and hymnals, and little decoration, for the church of the northern islands was austere and preached hard work and no showiness.
As ever, you could see the weather coming in for miles across the long, flat beach, with the mainland just a line in the distance; and the black clouds that pounded up in the lower reaches of the sky were soon overtaken by a line of blue poking through here and there, until finally the entire sky cleared, and a cool white light shone brightly through the plain glass windows of the little chapel.
It had been full to the brim, of course. Everyone was there. Fields had been left to look after themselves, shops untended for an hour or so as people came to say farewell to Annie MacKenzie, née Sigursdottir, who was born and lived on Mure her entire life, whose grandparents had spoken Norn, who had brought up three sons, none of whom, unusually, had left the island—and a flibbertigibbet daughter, of course, who raised a few whispers as she went past: not married, you know, not settled, down there in that London, goodness knows what she was getting up to, probably thought herself too good for Mure these days.
Flora was inured to it, truly, and didn’t really listen, instead accepting the kind wishes expressed about her mum, nodding gratefully, and thanking people for coming.
But she felt increasingly wound up. Afterward, at the reception, cakes and tea were passed around by friends and neighbors, sandwiches from the bakery, and whisky was poured into teacups as they ran out of their meager stock of glasses. Someone had brought a fiddle and started to play a mournful air, even as the chatter grew louder, and there was a sense that a proper wake for Annie was coming on.
And all Flora could think of was the way people were looking at her, and her memories of her mother: the endless patience, the work, the kindness; the frustration that had surely made itself felt in the way she’d pushed Flora, out to dancing, out to tutoring and extra lessons, out into the big wide world. But nobody saw it. They saw someone who had done everything right; and she, Flora, was letting the side down.
The house was filled to the brim with people who had known Annie all her life—many, she couldn’t help notice with sadness, much older than her mother had managed—talking about her many kindnesses and hard work. Hamish was simply sitting staring into space, not even crying, which was far more
worrying than his crying would have been. Eilidh, Innes’s wife, was breastfeeding Agot and Flora caught sight of them having an argument about when to leave. Fintan was nowhere to be seen.
People were talking to her father but he wasn’t listening—he could barely see them by the looks of things—and suddenly they were all talking to Flora too, and holding on to her, and Mrs. Laird was asking if she was going to come home to look after the boys—the fourth time she’d been asked precisely that question in the last half an hour—and she took another long draft of whisky, furious with them all, and went and stood next to her father, glowering.
She hadn’t realized quite how much she’d had to drink. Her father too. He got up and wandered out of the house, down across the courtyard toward the sea, followed by his friends. Flora stumbled after them.
“She came from the sea,” he was saying too loudly. “She came from the sea; it sent her here and it has taken her back again. She was never ours really.”
And the other men were nodding and smiling and agreeing, and Flora, suddenly, felt a rage as powerful as she’d ever felt, and turned on him, shouting:
“That’s CRAP! Stop it! She never went anywhere and she never did anything and it was YOUR FAULT. You kept her CHAINED to the kitchen. She wasn’t a selkie! She wasn’t some kind of creature sent from the sea to be your slave! And don’t say it to make yourself feel better, because all the life she had was spent in this . . . this shithole . . .”
And she had stormed down to the harbor wall and sat there staring out to sea, feeling utterly numb, not just because of the cold wind, but because of all the things she was meant to feel, or felt, or didn’t know how to feel, and her fury at people saying it was natural, it was normal; grief for all the things her mother would never see if they even happened to her, all the grandchildren she wouldn’t know, all the things they couldn’t tell one another. All of it. Gone. Forever. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t real, and Flora vowed to herself that she would not return, even as she heard the sounds of the wake trailing down on the wind, and finally let Lorna take her to her house for the night, and caught the first ferry in the morning, back to London, back to work, thinking nothing but, I have to get away. I have to get away. I have to get away.
Joel looked at her.
“You actually said ‘shithole’?” he said mildly.
She half smiled.
“Yeah.”
“And you haven’t come back since?”
“Too embarrassed,” said Flora. “It was an awful thing to do.”
“No,” said Joel. “I’m sure it was great. Gave them something to talk about for weeks.”
“Maybe,” said Flora. Somehow, telling him about it had taken the weight of it off her. That and the gradual thawing she’d felt from the island. And she felt so comfortable and safe and warm in his arms. “What’s your mum like?” she asked suddenly.
There was a long pause, and she felt him stiffen slightly. She hadn’t thought it was too personal a question. But maybe it was.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s okay.”
But Joel was shifting, looking uncomfortable.
Overhead the storm still raged. He looked into the fire.
“Christ,” he said. “I’m exhausted.”
Flora looked at him.
“Do you want me to put you to bed?”
He looked at her.
“I don’t think I could bear it.”
Flora smiled. But neither of them wanted to break the spell. She put the wet clothes to dry by the fire, and led him to her bedroom.
“Seriously?” he said, looking at all the dance rosettes hanging from the walls.
“Oh, everyone gets those,” she said, coloring.
He shook his head.
“No,” he said. “You were beautiful.”
Nobody had ever called her that before.
He lay down on the soft bed and smiled sleepily. Seeing him lying there was so odd; her childhood bed, home of all her young fantasies and dreams, and here he was, come to life.
“Tell me a story,” he said, half asleep; he meant it as a joke, but it didn’t come out that way at all.
Flora pulled the covers over him and sat down by his side.
“Once upon a time,” she began. Joel thought the singsong lilt of her voice was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. “Once upon a time, a girl was stolen away. From far up north where the castles are, to be taken a long way away across the sea. And she did not want to go . . .”
Flora paused. Her mother used to tell her this story, she was sure of it. But what came next? The next instant, though, she realized that it didn’t matter. Joel had closed his eyes and was completely and utterly fast asleep. She stared at his face for a long time, mesmerized by his beauty—the curve of his mouth and the slope of his cheek—and for the hundredth time she cursed herself for not being able to go through with what she so wanted to do.
Unutterably disappointed, she pulled off the blanket, and eased herself, practically naked, under the covers with him, as the howling gale deposited great handfuls of rain against the window. She felt his sleeping body against her, breathed in the wonderful warm scent of him, her pale hand tangled in the dark hair on his chest. It wasn’t enough; it wasn’t nearly enough, but it would have to do.
At one point they both woke, and what time of day or night it was, neither could say. Flora fetched them cold drafts of water from the old sink tap and they made a tent under the covers, very close to each other, and Joel put his arm round her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he sounded like he was stuttering and nervous, which was so unlike him she had to look at him to reassure herself.
“I . . . You asked me about my mother.”
Flora nodded.
“I don’t . . . I don’t normally . . .”
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said gently.
“No!” he said, and it came out harshly. “No. I do. I want . . . I do.”
He took a long breath.
“I . . . I grew up in the foster care system. I didn’t have parents. I never knew them. I had . . . foster families. Different families. Lots.”
Flora turned her clear eyes toward him, trying not to show the pity she knew he must be so very terrified of.
“And was it awful?” she asked him directly.
“I don’t have much to compare it to,” he said, swallowing. “But I think maybe it was.”
“And is it over?” she said more softly.
“I don’t know,” he replied, as honestly as he was able.
And then it was her turn to trace the angles of his face, as she pulled him down to her, and kissed him.
Suddenly there was a fierce banging at the door, and they both leaped up, sharing guilty looks, the spell broken, glancing around for clothes and shoes. Joel still had nothing to wear.
“Oh God, it’s Colton telling us this isn’t billable,” said Flora, with a terrible nervous giggle. Joel shook his head.
“Is it your father?”
“Knocking? Wouldn’t have thought so.”
Flora pulled on a loose sweater and trousers and ran downstairs. The bright post-storm sun dazzled her eyes as she strained to see who was there and what time it was. Who on earth would knock round these parts? The banging came again as Bramble woofed, but not in an alarmed way, which meant it must be someone they knew.
“Hello?” she shouted tentatively.
“Hey!” came the voice. “Fintan? Innes?”
Flora opened up.
“Sorry,” she said. “Just me.”
The person standing there nodded, even as his gaze went over her shoulder to the clothes Flora had carefully hung out to dry in front of the fire—the suit jacket; the striped shirt. She blinked rapidly.
“Teàrlach! What is it! Have you got boys out in this?”
“No, thank God, we got them into a bothy in time.” Bothies were small stone buildings in remote places that provided shelter from bad weather.
&n
bsp; Flora glanced at her watch. Oh my God, it was after five o’clock. They’d been asleep all day.
“How long have they been there?”
“They’re heading back down now.”
“Oh. Is this about . . .?” Flora flushed bright red. Oh God. And with another man in the house.
“No, it’s not that. It’s . . .”
Charlie seemed disinclined to finish that sentence.
“Um . . . I have to borrow Eck’s tractor.”
“Why?”
Charlie winced.
“Och, it’s a bad business.”
“What?” said Flora, suddenly alarmed. “Is everything all right? Is someone hurt?”
“Don’t worry,” said Charlie. “It’s not a person. But . . . can you drive a tractor?”
Joel was standing by the fire now, watching them deep in conversation with each other; he couldn’t hear what was being said. Then she turned, and he saw from her face that she was leaving, and leaving with this man, and he wasn’t sure he could stand it.
“I have to go. There’s a whale beached.”
“There’s a what?” said Joel, looking around for his glasses. He was feeling alarmingly shaky and vulnerable, not himself at all. And Flora was walking out the door.
“A whale. It happens sometimes. They get lost in the storm.”
Joel shook his head, completely flummoxed. He absentmindedly pulled his phone out of his pocket. All the connections were back up, and it was filling up with messages. He couldn’t make head or tail of those either.
“Flora! The keys!” Charlie was agitated.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.”
She moved toward Joel.
“You can stay.”
“But you’re going.”
“Not for long. I have to do this.”
He looked at her. He didn’t want her to go.
His phone beeped.
“I have work to do,” he said shortly, and shut up like a clam.
“No,” said Flora. “No. Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare do that. Don’t.”