by Lizzie Lamb
‘Ruairi, you’ve got it wrong; you’ve got me all wrong. Please …’
Sickeningly, she knew that no matter what they’d shared: the morning on the island, the snatched kisses in the kitchen and almost becoming lovers - he would always have the suspicion lurking at the back of his mind that she was too good to be true. That one day she’d run true to form and show her true colours.
She glanced up at his face in profile, at the almost dejected slump of his shoulders and wondered how the morning could have gone so spectacularly wrong; how she could have got him so spectacularly wrong.
‘Will you listen to me for a moment,’ she begged, desperate to turn the clock back. ‘Maybe I didn’t make myself clear.’
‘Clear enough.’ Plainly, he thought that in order to achieve her ends, she was prepared to sleep with him-turn him into play-doh in her hands. ‘Can we go back to the Land Rover? I’ve got a plane to catch.’ He glanced at his watch as if she hadn’t spoken.
Defeated, Fliss knew the last thing she wanted was to sit by his side and be thrown against him as they negotiated the potholes all the way back to Tigh na Locha. Hurt turned to anger at his wrong-headedness and inflexibility - and she wanted to make him feel as wretched as she did.
‘No.’
‘No, what?’
‘I don’t want to ride back to Tigh na Locha with you. I want to walk back on my own. You’re the Laird, as you’re so keen to remind me. So, use your walkie-talkie and summon a member of staff to meet me at the bottom of the hill.’
‘Now you’re just being irrational. You’ll get lost.’ His lips were set in an annoyed line at what he patently regarded as a further example of her mulishness.
‘That’s not your problem. I’m not your problem. So if you wouldn’t mind?’ She squared up to him, hands on hips and stared him down.
‘Don’t be so pig-headed.’
‘Pot and kettle …’
He moved towards her as if he meant to drag her down the hill. Then, apparently reading her determined expression, reached the conclusion that it was pointless arguing with her. He summoned Murdo on the walkie-talkie instead.
‘On my way. Ruairi - tell Fliss to stick to the well-trodden path and keep the sun on her right hand side. Is there a problem?’ Ruairi held the walkie-talkie at arm’s length so she could hear Murdo’s response but didn’t answer.
‘Over and out.’ He put the two-way radio into his rucksack and shrugged it onto his shoulders. ‘Is this how it’s going to end? God help me, Fliss, I’m not even sure what we’ve argued about.’
‘We’ve argued about differences. The difference between asking and expecting; of things staying the way they are - or changing. About you trusting me … Figure it out on your journey to Hong Kong.’
Last night, she’d believed they’d been on the brink of making love and starting a relationship. Now she realised that she’d read too much into it and they’d simply been about to have sex. Stung by his attitude, his inability to take advice and unwillingness to see the lifeline Angus was throwing to him, she cast around for caustic words to hurt and wound him.
Words that would make him feel wretched, too.
‘I’m beginning to think …’
‘Yes,’ he clearly thought she was about to change her mind.
‘… that Fiona had a lucky escape.’
‘Is that how you see it?’ His eyes were as cold and hard as dark sapphires.
‘Isn’t that how everyone sees it?’ she shrugged, playing out her role.
He didn’t respond. He tightened the straps on his rucksack and started to make his way downhill. After two or three steps, he turned back. ‘Here, you might need this.’ He gave her the bottle of water they’d shared earlier and as she took it from him, their fingers touched, briefly and regret lingered, unspoken between them.
‘Thanks.’ He didn’t reply but strode away from her and was soon lost behind a veil of her tears and the Brigadoon-like mist in the valley.
Chapter Thirty Two
Six weeks later, Angus helped Fliss to manoeuvre a new piece of therapy equipment into the drawing room of the Wee Hoose. Resembling a luxurious barber’s chair with padded armrests and two independent legs which could be raised or lowered hydraulically, it was the answer to her prayers. Since opening the therapy centre to the public, appointments had flooded in - thanks to a combination of Isla’s eye-catching flyers, the draw of the Urquhart name and the newspaper article about Iona’s premature delivery on the night of the big storm.
‘It’s a great chair, Angus. Life’s going to be a whole lot easier now Shona’s found me a part time assistant. I’ll be able to concentrate on holistic therapy, massages and spa treatments in the conservatory while my assistant gives pedicures and manicures in here. The drawing room with its view of the loch lends itself to the task, doesn’t it? We’re really on a roll, aren’t we?’
She maintained an air of forced jollity whilst studiously ignoring the elephant in the room - the yellow brocade Knowle sofa with the cinnamon comforter folded neatly over one arm. She closed her mind to the loneliness and melancholy that had settled on her since Ruairi’s departure. Her professional life was right on track but she was constantly drawn back to the ill-considered things she’d said on the hill top and the sight of him yomping into the swirling mist.
Pushing her fringe out of her eyes with the back of her hand, she sighed.
‘That was a big sigh, Fliss - something you wanna share?’ Angus angled the chair so it faced the windows. Fetching a matching bubble wrapped footstool from the hall he placed it by the side of the chair and patted it for her to sit down.
‘Oh, it’s just - you know …’
‘You gotta spell things out for me, honey. I’m great at putting out wildcat fires in oil fields but when it comes to figuring out females I don’t know Jack.’
‘Well, to be blunt Angus. It’s my contract.’
‘Ah,’ he sat down on the yellow sofa, clearly not trusting his six foot five frame to the newly acquired therapy chair. ‘Go ahead.’
‘It expires in two weeks’ time right after the Highland Ball. I’ve started taking Christmas bookings, ordered new equipment. The therapy centre could really take off, if you and R-Ruairi were amenable. I - we could build a wooden gazebo outside near the rhododendrons and install a hot tub - then I’d be able to offer hydrotherapy alongside other holistic treatments. So - please tell me where I stand? Is my contract to be renewed or should I stop taking bookings after the last week in October and prepare to head back to London?’
Sitting on the bubble wrapped stool, she put a hand on Angus’s khaki chinos and looked at him pleadingly.
‘Fliss, I wish you hadn’t brought this up. It’s kinda awkward, you know?
‘Awkward? Look, I know under the terms of the contract the position of manageress was temporary for six months, during which time we’d see if the therapy centre was a go-er, or not. Well, it is, isn’t it? A go-er, I mean.’
‘You’ve done a great job,’ Angus started, but Fliss cut across him.
‘And I know that part of my brief was to find a permanent manageress for the centre if necessary. Well, it isn’t necessary, because … I - I’d like to stay on and manage the centre. If that’s okay with you and Mitzi?’
‘It isn’t that simple, Fliss.’ He shook his head sorrowfully.
‘Not that simple? Angus, if you’re about to close the centre because you and Mitzi are getting married or if I’m about to be let go, I think I have a right to know.’
‘Let go? Never that, Fliss. It’s just that Ruairi …’ Unable to meet her eye, he fiddled with the large tassel on the end of the sofa.
‘Ruairi - Yes?’ She spoke sharply, already anticipating his answer.
‘I spoke to him on the phone and he said …’ Red faced, Angus ran his finger round his shirt collar. ‘I wish you’d speak to Mitzi, honey.’
‘Tell me what Ruairi said. I can take it; in fact I’ve been living in Kinloch Mara for so l
ong now, I think I’m developing taibhsearachd - and can guess what he said.’
She thought back to a very different scenario on this sofa when Ruairi had tried to second-guess her reaction to him touching her. Then, in quick succession she recalled each of her well-aimed darts and his expression as they struck home - it’s time you thought outside the box … Stop thinking about what you can’t do and concentrate instead on what you could achieve … . I’m not your problem.
‘Fliss honey,’ Angus rubbed his finger across his upper lip, betraying his agitation. ‘I don’t know how to put this …’
‘He doesn’t want me to stay on, does he?’
‘Yes and - no.’
‘And he wants to shut down the therapy centre?’
‘Er - kinda.’ Angus looked like he was searching for the right words but they were proving elusive.
‘If we’re shutting down, why did you allow me to order all this new equipment? Am I a child to be pacified with new toys? Or bought off with expensive presents when life isn’t going according to plan? What about the therapist Shona’s just found for me? Do I sack her even before I’ve employed her?’ Her skin felt tight, itchy and hives spread over her neckline and down her arms.
‘Ruairi says he - he wants the therapy centre to continue. It’s a money spinner and you’ve done a good job in setting it up.’ Fliss glared at him, if he thought she could be placated with a few sweet words then he was mistaken.
‘But how will that work? The therapy centre won’t run itself and I can’t see Mitzi breaking a fingernail to do it.’ Anger made her speak more harshly than she’d intended. ‘Sorry - I know I shouldn’t shoot the messenger. But -’
‘Ruairi’s going to install a new manageress. In fact he’s got someone lined up.’ Angus retreated into the back of the sofa, as if hoping he could disappear down the sides of the cushions like loose change and avoid her wrath.
‘A new what? Of all the dirty, rotten, underhand tricks.’ Agitatedly, she picked at the bubble wrap, popping the blisters as she delivered each scathing word. ‘He swans off to Hong Kong, loads the gun and leaves you to fire the bullets?’ Angus looked like a man under siege so Fliss took pity on him, calmed down and asked: ‘When’s this - this changeover going to take place?’
‘Soon after the Highland Ball, when he returns from the Far East in just over two weeks. But, Fliss,’ Angus dragged himself out of the back of the deep sofa and took her hands in his large paws. ‘Let Ruairi explain, honey. You’ll see it all makes sense.’ But she didn’t hear a word of it, because her chest felt tight, her heart heavy and she was near to bursting into tears.
‘But Angus - I thought you liked me,’ she said with a catch in her voice. ‘I thought I’d done a good job …’
‘You have darlin’. It’s just that Ruairi feels it’s time for a change and -’ He clammed up, as if he’d said too much. Fliss’s lips twisted as she saw the irony in the situation. She’d told Ruairi to break free of the ties that bound him to Tigh na Locha and the past. When she’d exhorted him to move on with his life, she hadn’t thought for one second that she’d be the first casualty of his reorganisation.
Thank God, they hadn’t become lovers. How much worse would his rejection feel then? When she met Hugh Auchinloch she’d shake him by the hand … he’d saved her from making a complete fool of herself. She looked at Angus - he’d been so kind and considerate since their first meeting, almost avuncular. But at the end of the day, Ruairi was Laird of Kinloch Mara and his wishes were to be obeyed.
‘OK, Angus, I’ll play ball.’ Resignedly, she stood up and ran her hand over the therapy chair she’d ordered with such optimism. ‘I’ll fill your appointment diary. And to show there are no hard feelings, I’ll throw in the business plan I’ve drawn up for phase two of the therapy centre. And my ideas for expanding the business into a full-size spa - should you ever persuade Ruairi to swallow his pride, accept your loan and drag the estate into the twenty first century.’
‘Sure, Fliss. I’d be glad to see them. You’re a girl in a million. About Ruairi and the loan …’ Fliss stopped him in mid-sentence by raising her hand.
‘Nothing to do with me as Ruairi has made plain,’ she said bitterly. Angus stood up and shuffled past, kissing her awkwardly on the cheek before leaving the house via the conservatory.
A girl in a million, she grimaced - and about to join the other two million or so seeking employment during a recession. She looked longingly at the telephone and thought how much she wanted to ring Becky and talk this over with her. But the pain was too raw, and besides she hadn’t even told Becky the whole truth about her relationship with Ruairi. As far as she was aware, they were still at daggers drawn … which just about summed it up.
Two nights later, Fliss was cleaning her brushes and washing her sponges in the kitchen sink when Isla strolled in, took one look around and gave a so-this-is-what-you-get-up-to-down-here sniff. Having spent two days brooding over Angus’s bombshell, Fliss was in no mood for Isla’s game playing.
‘Did you want something? If you’ve come for a treatment, you’re out of luck. I’ve just hung the CLOSED sign over the door. Come back tomorrow, or better still - make an appointment like everyone else. I’m an employee of the Urquhart estate - not its slave. As of ten minutes ago I’m officially off duty.’
‘Wow. That was quite a speech.’ Isla wriggled her slim derriere onto a bar stool, helped herself to an apple from the fruit bowl and waved it in the general direction of the loch. ‘I told you you’d get fed up living and working in this dump. Everyone does.’
‘Like Fiona, you mean?’ Fliss couldn’t help asking. Now she’d been given the order of the boot she no longer felt the need to pretend she wasn’t interested in Ruairi’s disastrous engagement.
‘Princess Fiona you mean,’ Isla laughed. ‘Such a lightweight. Two flakes of snow and a frozen pipe and she was off. That - and when I pointed out that her initials after marriage would be F.U. she lost interest in becoming Lady Urquhart of the Glen very quickly.’ Somewhat surreally, it occurred to Fliss that if she were to substitute Urquhart for Bagshawe she’d have the same initials. Not that there was any chance of that happening!
‘And doesn’t it bother you that you chased away your brother’s fiancée?’
‘If she’d really loved him, nothing would have put her off. Now, would it? Actually, I think I did Ruairi a favour - she was totally self-obsessed and up herself,’ Isla said, without a trace of irony. Restlessly, she got up and examined the contents of the fridge, read the notices fastened to the freezer with magnets, picked up Fliss’s brushes and cast a cursory eye over them. She was really beginning to grate on Fliss’s already shredded nerves and Fliss knew she had to get rid of her before she said something she’d later regret.
‘Is there something I can help you with? Something specific, I mean?’ She took the brushes away from Isla, threw dirty towels into the washing machine and banged the door shut to indicate how busy she was.
‘Oh, yes. Thanks for mentioning my plans for Art School to Ruairi. He’s arranged for me to have some private lessons with Malcolm Cameron, starting next week.’ Fliss was about to remonstrate that she’d done no such thing, but then remembered their conversation on the morning of the Brocken Spectre. Isla has a God-given talent, which you would see if you opened your eyes. So he had been listening after all.
‘Malcolm Cameron?’ she queried.
‘He paints iconic highland landscapes that sell for hundreds of thousands to ex-pats and the Japanese. Not quite my style but I might learn something from him. Why are you looking at me like that?’ Isla’s blue eyes narrowed suspiciously and the sharp angles of her face were thrown into relief by the westering sun.
‘Because you’ve actually thanked me for something and admitted that someone might know more about a subject than you.’
‘You’ve changed - know that?’ Isla waggled a finger at Fliss. ‘And not for the better - you used to be quite sweet, but now …’ Ignoring the
gibe, Fliss glanced at her watch and Isla took the hint. ‘Anyhoo, I’d better be on my way, Cat wants to tell us all about her first week in the vet’s practice, over dinner - urgh. Just hope she spares us the gruesome details of sticking thermometers up cats’ bottoms.’ Pulling a face, she tossed her half-eaten apple in the general direction of the waste disposal unit and missed.
Fliss wished she’d just go. She was expecting Murdo at any moment and wasn’t in the mood for another of their strained silences followed by longing looks and heartfelt sighs.
‘Expecting a visitor?’ Isla asked, plainly not missing a trick.
‘Murdo’s coming down to teach me a few reels in time for the Highland Ball.’
‘Is he now?’
‘Don’t start with me tonight, Isla. Murdo’s a mate, nothing more. Stay and act as chaperone if it makes you happy. Now what have I said?’ she asked as Isla’s face crumpled.
‘Murdo hasn’t even looked in my direction since the YouTube viral. He’s refusing to speak to me until he sees evidence that I’ve,’ she gulped down some air, ‘grown up. He’s taken it all way too seriously - and strangely, Ruairi hasn’t taken it seriously enough.’ She forgot her self-pity long enough to shoot Fliss a suspicious look.
‘Ever thought that maybe Ruairi has more to worry about than you and Cat making fools of yourself on the internet? Like, making the estate turn a profit and clearing his debts? As for Murdo, I thought you wanted him to leave you alone. Didn’t you tell me there was no place for him in your life? Sounds to me like you’ve been - what’s the saying - hoist by your own petard.’
That didn’t please Isla, she jabbed the space in front of Fliss’s face with her forefinger for emphasis. ‘See? That’s what I mean. You wouldn’t have dared to speak to me like that, once.’
‘Breaking news: Times - Have - Changed. Just telling it like it is, sister - it’s an additional service I’m offering these days. Relationship counselling followed by a full body massage - shall I book you in?’ Her days of treating Isla with kid gloves were over, Angus’s bombshell and Ruairi’s plans to replace her had changed all that.