by Lizzie Lamb
‘Because it’s not Urquhart money. Duh. It’s Angus’s money. Not that I’d expect you to understand.’
‘Luckily my landlord and utility companies aren’t too bothered where the money comes from to pay the bills - as long as it’s been obtained legally. Not that I’d expect you to understand,’ Fliss snapped back. No way was Isla going to take her bad mood out on her this evening.
‘One thing I do understand - ever since you arrived in Kinloch Mara, everything’s been out of kilter. It’s as if someone dropped a great boulder into our lives and the ripples have eddied out, touching us all. Everything’s changing, and not for the better.’ She shot Murdo a murderous look as though he was part of the conspiracy. Fliss didn’t rise to the bait; and she shook her head when she sensed Murdo was about to spring to her defence, knowing that would only make matters worse.
‘I like working at the vet’s,’ Cat said cheerfully, in an attempt to restore the party atmosphere. ‘And maybe it’s time things did change around here. I don’t really mind moving onto Angus’s estate - the plumbing works, the roof doesn’t leak, he’s upgrading the swimming pool and having the tennis courts resurfaced. Plus, he says I can decorate my suite of rooms just how I like. And his estate is closer to Port Urquhart so I won’t have to worry about getting snowed-in come the winter months.’
‘You and those bloody animals - you think of nothing else! You don’t get it, do you? It won’t be the same as living in Kinloch Mara, which is full of our history, our memories. Mumma won’t be Lady Urquhart once she’s married; she’ll be boring old Mrs Angus Pimp-My-Kilt-Gordon,’ Isla said huskily. Murdo seemed to have some sympathy for her because he laid a hand on her bony shoulder, but she shrugged him off. ‘We won’t be Urquharts, we’ll be Aberdeen Angus’s stepchildren,’ she said, pulling a disdainful expression.
‘Oh, I never thought of it like that,’ Cat remarked.
‘This is the shape of things to come.’ Isla gestured at the triple-sized marquee, which was decked out as if for a country wedding - with tented roof, swags of flowers, electric chandeliers and fairy lights. Tables were set with china, glass and silverware and in a smaller tent, just visible through a curtained-off section, staff were busy preparing canapés and replenishing huge fridges with wine and champagne.
‘What do you mean?’ Fliss asked, puzzled.
‘Mumma will go on a mad spending spree. There’ll be disagreements over her maxing-out on her credit cards - it’ll be like when Papa died and Ruairi had to curtail her extravagances … arguments, recriminations and fallings out. Angus will probably divorce her within eighteen months, by which time Ruairi will have married some frump from the glens and we’ll be forced to come back to Tigh na Locha to live, like …’
‘Like unwanted, impoverished rellies in a Jane Austen novel. Oh, I hope the family lawyers have made sure that Mumma’s pre-nup is watertight,’ Cat said, looking suddenly very anxious.
‘Hardly impoverished,’ Fliss couldn’t help adding, deciding a reality check was well overdue for the Misses Urquhart.
‘Okay, that’s enough,’ Murdo cut in. ‘Calm down Isla, you’re overreacting, as usual. You know Ruairi wouldn’t do anything to hurt you or Cat.’
‘Ever the faithful retainer,’ she sneered, Murdo’s intervention seemingly making her angrier than ever.
Picking up her name card, she ostentatiously crossed through Urquhart using the pencil attached to her dancing card and then removed her tartan sash and put it on the table along with her clan brooch. Getting to her feet, she scraped her chair back and walked away - the desire for revenge and retribution written all over her pinched face. Fliss, Cat and Murdo exchanged a worried look; in this mood, who knew what she was capable of?
Sometime later, as hot canapés were served and champagne glasses refilled, the serious business of filling in dance cards began. Young men, some wearing tartan trews and the distinctive red and black mess jackets of officers in the British Army, crowded round Fliss and requested that she put their names next to such reels as The Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh and Hamilton House. Within five minutes, her dance card was filled, leaving no room for Ruairi … should he deign to ask her to partner him in one of the set reels.
Perhaps, she thought darkly, that was his intention.
‘My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, take your places for the Dashing White Sergeant,’ the Master of Ceremonies announced and the band played the familiar chord. Fliss, desperate not to disgrace herself, concentrated on the steps Murdo had taught her and danced her way through the reel. The next two dances - the Eightsome and Foursome reels - were down to Murdo and she managed to exchange a few words with him between the changes.
‘Have you seen Ruairi?’ she asked, a little breathless from her exertions.
‘The last time I saw him he was circulating amongst the guests, checking things out, making sure everyone’s happy … the usual. Is there a problem?’ Fliss showed Murdo her completed dance card as they waited for the Foursome Reel to begin.
‘Ah - I should have explained - on these occasions, Ruairi doesn’t dance.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because it sets up an expectation amongst the unmarried ladies - like a code? One dance means he’s interested, two dances means he’s definitely interested and after three dances, she’s the next Lady Urquhart. He thinks it keeps things simple if he doesn’t dance with anyone.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Ready?’ Murdo bowed on the long chord, she bobbed a half curtsey and they were off.
After the two reels, Murdo escorted her back to the table and then excused himself. Mitzi was seated at the table, taking a breather, and wafting herself with a little wooden fan that looked like it had seen action at quite a few Highland Balls.
‘Having fun, sweetie?’ she asked, waving to various relatives and friends as they walked past.
‘Yes,’ Fliss replied, telling a half-truth. How could she enjoy herself when she had issues to resolve, with Ruairi? If she could find him. Was he avoiding her or was she being overly sensitive? ‘I was looking for Ruairi,’ she said as casually as she could, knowing that Mitzi never missed a nuance.
‘He’s had to sort out some problem with the event management team over the valet parking. Cars have been blocked in and - oh, I don’t know - some business with the delivery vans not having enough room to manoeuvre.’ She waved an airy hand as though it had nothing to do with her. ‘Angus has gone out to help him - oh, look - there he is.’
Ruairi was standing next to a willowy blonde who was wearing a navy blue satin dress and had a diamond tiara on her upswept hair. Something about her body language, the way she insinuated herself into his side and her hold on his arm, made Fliss bristle.
‘Oh that’s Fiona,’ Mitzi said, apparently reading her mind.
‘The Fiona?’ Fliss asked, her blood turning to ice.
‘Yes - Ruairi’s ex-fiancée, now Mrs Malcolm Balfour. That’s him making his way towards them … terrified in case Ruairi runs away with her.’ Mitzi laughed as a powerfully built man with a florid complexion and a straining tartan cummerbund barged his way through the tables, knocking chairs over in his haste to reach them. Fliss remembered Ruairi mentioning that his stepsisters called his ex-fiancée Princess Fiona and it did rather look as though she’d married SHREK.
‘Why are they here tonight?’ she asked, dismissing the nonsensical thought and concentrating instead on the way Fiona placed herself between Ruairi and her husband. Mitzi gave one of Isla’s whatever shrugs before replying.
‘As is the way with highland families, Malcolm is related to me in some vague fashion and Fiona’s apparently been pestering him for weeks to ask for an invitation. They were married a couple of months back in one of those awful beach weddings in the West Indies and are still on extended honeymoon. She got a wealthy husband as part of the deal and he got his trophy wife. But if you ask me, she wouldn’t say no to some extracurricular activity with Ruairi - if it came her way.’
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br /> ‘Mitzi - something tells me you’re playing reverse cupid by inviting them here.’ Fliss gave her a suspicious look and Mitzi laughed and looked straight back at her with canny blue eyes.
‘Just making sure that she knows it’s over and Ruairi isn’t holding a torch for her. She had her chance with him and blew it. Besides - everyone knows it’s you Ruairi wants.’
‘He does? I mean, they do?’ Fliss blushed to the roots of her hair.
‘Everyone apart from the two of you, it appears …’
‘Mitzi. I’m not in love with Ruairi …’
‘Of course you are, darling. Now, go and do something about it.’ She tapped Fliss on the cheek with her fan. ‘Go on! Men can be so dim about these matters and often need a nudge in the right direction. Angus would still be searching for the right words if I hadn’t cut to the chase and told him - of course, I’d love to be Mrs Angus Gordon.’ Fliss wasn’t sure the same went for Ruairi but she smiled at Mitzi, nonetheless.
There was a drum roll and a clash of the cymbals after which the Master of Ceremonies announced: ‘My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, take your places for the Reel of the 51st Highland Division.’ This was greeted with cheers and Fliss’s partner claimed her before she had time to follow Mitzi’s advice. During the reel, her attention was focused on the complicated steps, double handclasps and changes. But every time she whirled round, she saw Ruairi standing with his back to the band, arms folded across his chest, looking very serious and watching her intently. The reel ended and she removed her dance card from the pocket in her glove to check out her next dance partner.
Ruairi strode over, took the dance card from her and tucked it in his pocket. ‘You don’t need that,’ he declared.
‘I don’t?’
‘No, you’re dancing with me. Then, afterwards - we have things to discuss. Ghosts to lay.’ Fliss shivered at his use of ghosts, but was warmed by the passionate look he sent her. She knew their relationship couldn’t progress with so many issues between them and welcomed the chance to finally say her piece, to put things straight.
‘But - but, Murdo said you never dance.’
‘Tonight, I do. With you, mo chridhe.’
He sent her another dark look - but this time it was full of promise and she knew she’d been right to put her trust in him. As he took her hand and kissed it, the burgeoning feelings she’d kept in check over the last months and the realisation that she loved him took wings. And when he escorted her onto the dance floor, all her reservations melted away and were replaced by a light-heartedness she hadn’t felt since the morning on Shingly Beach, when they’d kissed and talked foolishly of the each-uisge.
Ruairi nodded at the Master of Ceremonies who announced that - in a change to the printed program, there would be a waltz, followed by the Gay Gordon in honour of the engaged couple and finally Marie’s Wedding. (In honour of Ruairi’s late mother, Mairi Urquhart, and a link with the past). A past they all seemed more than ready to leave behind.
Apart from Isla, that is.
Jaimsie touched the brim of his Glengarry with his pipe’s chanter in salute to Ruairi and then blew air into the bag. Fliss immediately recognised the tune as the one he played when Ruairi and Murdo beat the bounds. Other couples joined them on the floor and, judging by their amazed expressions, Fliss knew that dancing with Ruairi was sending out a signal that everyone understood.
‘F - Fiona?’ She forced herself to ask the question.
‘Gone home with her husband. It appears this evening hasn’t quite worked out the way she planned,’ he explained.
‘I - well, I’m glad,’ she said simply.
As he held her in his arms, the familiar scent of his aftershave mingled with the scent of her heather and lily of the valley corsage. She was glad she was wearing gloves; otherwise, he would have known her hands were slippery with nerves and her body was on fire from his touch. She tried to keep a sensible distance between them - but Ruairi was having none of it; he laughed as if seeing through her ploy and pulled her even closer into his body.
‘Cat got your tongue? That’s a first, for you. Now that’s better, a smile. You look very - pink,’ he observed delightedly. She looked away from him, using the pretence of concentrating on the steps as a way of avoiding his too-knowing blue eyes.
‘That’s because everyone’s looking at us, as if …’ She stopped herself from saying as if this was our wedding breakfast and our first dance together.
‘I’m dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room. In the whole of Wester Ross. Why wouldn’t they look at us?’
‘Enough,’ she whispered ‘You know very well what I mean.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, giving her an amused look.
‘I’m not - what you’ve just said. And this is -’ she was about to say all too much, when the waltz ended and everyone got into position for the Gay Gordons - with Angus and Mitzi in poll position. The only thing in that particular reel’s favour, Fliss decided, was that it precluded speech and kept Ruairi moving round the room. When the dance was over, however, Ruairi picked up the conversation where they’d left off.
‘Tonight I’m going to say all the things I should have said that morning on the hillside before I sounded off at you like a fool.’
‘Well,’ she conceded, ‘I shouldn’t have interfered in your running of the estate - or said that Fiona had a narrow escape.’
‘I rather think I’m the one who had the narrow escape, don’t you?’
Luckily, the Master of Ceremonies announced Marie’s Wedding and she didn’t have to answer. A guest grabbed the microphone and sang along as they danced: Step we gaily, on we go, Heel for heel and toe for toe, Arm in arm and row in row - All for Marie’s wedding. When the dance ended, Ruairi didn’t bow as he had at the end of the other dances, he kissed her on the back of both hands - and then on the mouth, in full view of everyone.
It was a perfect moment and Fliss recalled Murdo’s words: ‘One dance means he’s interested, two dances means he’s definitely interested and after three dances …’ Fliss wished she had Mitzi’s fan because she was chilli-hot and burning up like she was incubating a fever.
She was granted a breathing space when the event coordinator presented Ruairi with another logistical problem to solve. Giving a resigned nobless oblige shrug and mouthing later at her, he walked off with Angus and Murdo. The band put their instruments on their stands and went off to the bar, the disco took over and the younger members of the party cut some shapes on the dance floor.
Fliss felt like an ancient dowager as she returned to her table and watched them gyrate like this was Ibiza, not Wester Ross. Cat flopped down beside her and poured out a long drink of water.
‘Great party, eh Fliss. You and Ruairi - what’s that all about?’
‘I’m not sure myself - yet.’ Cat grinned and dug Fliss in the ribs. As they watched the dancers, it occurred to Fliss that she hadn’t seen Isla for quite some time. ‘Where’s your sister?’ she asked Cat.
‘Outside snorting coke off the back of a business card holder with Charlie and Freddy Gordon last time I saw her.’ Cat sighed. ‘Idiots! If Ruairi catches them …’
‘I can imagine. Is she still upset over the trust fund?’
‘What do you think? She wasn’t too happy seeing you dancing with Ruairi either, even though she still believes it’s Murdo you’re after. Murdo, thank goodness, is at last showing signs of softening towards her, after the YouTube viral. Who’d have thought he’d get so upset over something as silly as that?’ she asked, artlessly.
‘Who’d have thought it,’ Fliss agreed, dryly. Her attention was drawn towards a group of young Urquharts gathered round the DJ. At that moment, Isla walked into the marquee and as she was crossing the dance floor, ‘Don’t You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me’ blasted out at full volume.
‘Go Isla.’
‘Go Isla.’
The cousins positioned themselves at various poles around the marquee that sup
ported its structure and replicated Cat and Isla’s now infamous YouTube dance routine. This carried on until Murdo went over to the record deck, pulled the plug and tore a strip off them. Instead of looking pleased at his intervention, Isla gave him a murderous look, stuck a finger up at her cousins and then flounced out of the marquee. Despite their earlier set to, Fliss felt sorry for Isla - she knew how it felt to have to have your world turned upside down and forced to move on with your life before you were ready to do so.
Now that things were working out between her and Ruairi, she was filled with a generosity of spirit. A desire to help not just Isla, but the whole world. She got to her feet, intent on following Isla out of the marquee but was forestalled by the event coordinator.
‘Excuse me, Madam, the lorry carrying the replacement generator has arrived. It needs to get as close to the Muster Ground as possible in order to keep the fridges working and prevent the ice sculptures from melting. Where should we park it?’ The hopeless coordinator was looking at Fliss as if she was a fully paid up member of the Urquhart family and had all the answers.
‘Oh, I’m not sure. Can’t you find Lady Urquhart? Oh, wait, Miss Urquhart is just outside, we can ask her. Give me a moment?’ Fliss left the marquee thinking that whatever Mitzi was paying the coordinator it was too much. She was clearly out of her depth and had spent most of the party getting Ruairi, Murdo and Angus to do her job for her.
When Fliss found Isla, she was standing alone overlooking the loch and smoking a spliff. The scent of cannabis was strong and Fliss fervently hoped that it would take the edge off Isla’s unhappiness. As she moved closer, the cutting wind off the loch wafted the tiny lanterns strung along the edge of the canopy leading to the marquee and cast Isla’s profile into relief.
She looked far from chilled; in fact, she appeared totally wired.
‘Isla,’ Fliss began, already regretting the impulse that’d brought her out here.
‘Oh, it’s you. What do you want?’ Isla asked, but not quite as brusquely as before - maybe the cannabis was helping her to calm down. Suspecting that she wouldn’t welcome a shoulder to cry on in this mood, Fliss used the pretext of looking for Ruairi as her reason for leaving the marquee.