Hot Scots Christmas

by Alam, Donna

  Beth. She doesn’t sound like a Beth. More like a Clarissa or a Simone. Someone’s spoiled little princess.

  ‘I told you, I flew up in the jet with Kit, though I had to beg him to give us a little time alone. I have to tell you,’ she adds with a tinkling laugh, ‘he isn’t terribly impressed.’

  ‘You told him,’ Rory states rather flatly.

  ‘There’s no hiding, silly. I’m bursting out of my clothes!’

  ‘You look the same to me.’

  ‘What a delicious compliment. Come closer,’ she coaxes. ‘I’ll let you feel. Give me your hand.’

  Nervous before, but just plain sick now, I begin to feel the pinch of my nails against the skin of my palms. The only thing keeping me upright and here is the need to know conclusively, to know that I’m not hearing things. To be sure . But my fear is there in Rory’s words.

  ‘And you told him it was mine,’ he says now angrily.

  My heart plunges from my throat to the pit of my gut, but still I can’t move.

  ‘But of course, and I reinstated the building contracts. We’re going to be family after all.’

  ‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ he grates out. ‘No wonder he left me that fucking voicemail—he said he was going to tear off my balls. This is your doing,’ Rory spits. ‘You crazy—’

  ‘Don’t be mad, darling. I had to tell him. You weren’t listening. You said you’d come home. But don’t worry, I told him you’d proposed.’

  I inhale a sharp breath, the string holding together the fragments of my fragile heart with an audible snap.

  ‘You really are full of shite, Beth.’ He laughs then, though he sounds far from happy. ‘There’s no fucking way it’s mine, and I’m for sure not marrying your crazy arse.’

  My feet begin to move, but not in the direction I expect them to. I’m not leaving. Instead, I’m suddenly on the threshold of the room, where Rory stands, a sonagram image in hand.

  ‘It’s not mine. I always wear a condom and I check . . . ’

  Oh, Rory. That’s not true.

  It’s a strange thing to watch his emotions turn: anger to confusion, confusion to shock, shock to fear, and as the grand finale, fear to regret. It’s all there in his gaze; a gaze now pleading with mine, each emotion having flickered momentarily to life. And then died. Much like my insides.

  ‘Fin.’ From the other side of the room, Rory’s neck moves as he swallows past the weight of his lie.

  ‘How wonderful—I’m so pleased you’re coming around to the idea, Daddy. Fin is a darling name for a boy!’

  She looks like her voice; even from her back, I can tell. A spoiled city princess. Like the one I used to be. Rory stands rigid—stunned. I suppose I might be heartened by the lack of response his fiancé shows; she doesn’t notice, doesn’t see the nuances of this man. As she steps closer, sliding her arms around his neck, those thoughts turn to ash.

  I can’t help the sound that escapes my mouth, past a fist that holds back gut wrenching sobs. I don’t hear his response as I stumble away, the parquet tiles slippery beneath my feet.

  I can hear him shouting my name, but I don’t wait. Unlike Lot’s wife, I won’t look back at what once was.

  Stumbling, fumbling, running; I have one hand against the wall, the other clapped to my lips. I need to be outside.

  I’m going to vomit. Please don’t let it be here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be near him ever again.

  The pain in my chest is sharp, but I’m at the front door without even realising, not registering that Ivy’s car is out back.

  I don’t care. I’ll walk home. I’ll swim. I’ll hide. I’ll crawl under a bush and fucking die.

  My shoulder registers his fingertips as I jerk away, pulling hard on the heavy front door. I know I’m crying, sobbing, mumbling words that aren’t wholly sentient, as I duck under his outstretched arms and into the cold, dark night . . .

  . . . and into the flash of a camera.

  Finola, how does it feel to have your husband back?

  Fin, did you know he’d faked his own death? Did you help him?

  Fi—do you know where he hid the millions he stole? Has your staff been paid?

  Mrs. Pettyfer, how does Kit Tremaine feel about this? Were you lovers before?

  Does your new bloke know his fiancée is already married?

  Lights flash so brightly, it’s like being reborn. Into hell . I’ve been photographed before, some red carpet affairs, and always felt like meat then. This. This right now, I have no words for. I can’t really comprehend their questions, my mind still back in that room watching her slide her arms around him.

  Is it true your husband encouraged you to sleep with Sheikh Ahmed to distract him from his theft?

  Fifi, is it true you were once a high class call girl?

  A hand catches my elbow from behind; despite the chaos in front of me, I jerk from it as I turn and hiss. ‘Stay away from me.’

  I step on the first stair, shielding my eyes from the glare of lights, faltering and awkward as I stumble again. It’s with instinct, rather than gratitude, that I grasp the hand reaching out for me again, catching my forearm and pulling me up from my temporary collapse. In one smooth movement, I’m tucked into his side. My heart sighs Rory , even as, instinctually, I know it isn’t him.

  ‘Don’t answer,’ he murmurs in a deep baritone. ‘Keep your head down.’

  I don’t need the instruction, like I don’t need to know him, even as my body responds, pressing closer to his side.

  I peek up from under my lashes, and while he looks so much like Rory, his touch feels all wrong.

  Kit—Kit! What’s your take on the husband?

  Will you be expecting a cut of his stolen millions?

  Kit—did you pay her?

  His body draws tight as we reach the bottom step, surrounded by questions, cameras, and flashing lights. Kit opens the door to something low and sleek—I know instantly it’s a Mercedes—buffering his body between the door and the crush. Arms still around my shoulders, he pushes me into the passenger seat, a moment later sliding into the opposite side.

  ‘Fin, I presume?’ In the absence of words, I nod my head. ‘Fucking Anna,’ he mutters to himself, as the engine purrs to life.

  ‘What?’ My head snaps up.

  ‘Anna’s my assistant.’ He frowns as he pulls away, narrowly avoiding one of the more persistent yelling figures. ‘She led me to believe you were a man.’

  I’m not exactly sure what he could mean by that, and ask instead, ‘And you’re . . .’ I swallow his name. Will I ever be able to speak it without a sob?

  ‘Kit,’ he confirms, his gaze sliding my way. Expression unreadable . ‘His twin.’ There’s no need to ask how he currently feels about that.

  ‘Why are they here?’

  ‘I gather they were tipped off by someone in the village. Something about your husband,’ he adds questioningly. But he doesn’t push and he doesn’t speak again, camera flashes following us along the driveway until we turn right on to the road.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Where ever you’d like. It’s just, the way you shot out of the house, I thought the car might be best.’

  ‘She’s pregnant,’ I say—sob—as an explanation, it seems to suffice, and yet he still answers softly.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why would you help me? Why would they think—you and I?’

  ‘Are an item?’ In the dark car, I think I see a glimmer of humour in his gaze. ‘They were at the house when I arrived. Apparently, no comment and helping you into the car is enough to their mind. Fishing, no doubt. Do you know what this is all about?’

  ‘They said my husband isn’t dead, I think. I don’t know, but if he isn’t he owes an awful lot of people a great deal of money.’

  Kit’s eyes flick back to the road again. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he says, wiping a hand down his face. ‘Why is nothing simple with him?’ Then, after a beat, ‘We should decide where you’r
e going. Do you have a friend who can stay with you? Somewhere quiet?’

  ‘No. I’ll be fine,’ I answer without really hearing, because fine is something way beyond the horizon right now.

  ‘Best for you to not be alone.’ This time his eyes find mine briefly, the suggestion of pity there. Pity I don’t want, even as I turn my head to the window and begin to quietly sob.

  Thirty-Eight

  Fin

  Run. Work. Home. Sleep. Run. Work. Home. Sleep.

  My life in brief. The way I like it; no complications. No lies to discover or tell.

  In Waterloo, I live peacefully in less than salubrious surrounds, along with a roommate, because on my level of salary, that’s just how things work out. I’d thought I’d never settle, not sharing such an intimate space with a stranger, but really, it’s okay. Suze is a junior doctor and our apartment within walking distance of St Thomas’ hospital. We’re poles apart in both our lives and backgrounds, but it works for us. Secretly, I think what I like best is we’re on such different schedules we’re rarely together. It’s not that I don’t like her, it just that I like to keep myself to myself. And I don’t like being pressured into going out, because out is something I don’t do, unless you count work or the pizza place on the corner.

  I’m not hiding. At least, not anymore, because the journalists that found and followed me are history. Long gone. I’m yesterday’s news, and thanks to my husband, my reputation is somewhat restored.

  Yes, my husband. I’m still married to him.

  Marcus resurfaced on the day I decided to give my heart to Rory. I’m still not sure which was the bigger shock, truthfully, though his timing sucked. The idiot was picked up in Australian waters by a naval maritime patrol. After faking his own death, it seems he bought a one-way ticket with a bunch of people traffickers. With the amount of money he’d stolen, I find it hard to understand why he scrimped on his escape plan, but I’m sure he’ll have ample opportunity to reflect while in prison. Canberra currently, I believe, while several countries fight over his extradition. I’m not certain what will happen to him, though I like to think he won’t end up losing a hand in Dubai. Or worse .

  I don’t love him and have come to terms with the fact that I hadn’t for some time, even before he faked his death. And while I haven’t forgiven him for what he did, I am glad that he cleared me of any kind of blame. I think this had something to do with Soraya, rather than out of love for me. She won’t say, but I guess she has something she’s holding over his head. He was a good actor, probably for the whole period of our marriage, but I refuse to dwell. It’s a scab that doesn’t itch to be picked. I think it’s accurate to say I feel nothing for him, not even hate, which is kinda perplexing to Ivy and Nat, but not to me. I have no space in my heart for any kind of Marcus related emotion, because that space is inhabited by Rory.

  But I’m glad the intrusive reporters are no more, that our story is yesterday’s news. And I’m more than happy our divorce is progressing rapidly.

  That night, I’d asked Kit to take me to Ivy’s parent’s house. I couldn’t face Natasha and June, not after I’d left them looking so hopeful, but I’d known Mac was home. What was unexpected was that he held me while I’d vomited emotion and bile. Held me while I’d cried. I’d eventually fallen asleep in his arms; I was sure I wouldn’t sleep, not without Rory—because of Rory—but must’ve dropped off sometime. When I’d woken, Ivy’s car was parked on the driveway, keys under the visor, and my holdall on the back seat.

  If I wasn’t yet sure of what the future held, one look at that bag and I knew.

  Rory, Beth and a baby made three.

  Mac drove me to London the same afternoon, dropping me off at Soraya’s Knightsbridge townhouse in the early hours. Ivy flew into Glasgow that weekend and caught a connection to Gatwick straight away. I’ll be forever grateful to my friends, and six months later, I feel like I’m finally finding my feet. That I’ve started running again is more to do with the change of season; it’s much easier pounding pavements secure in the knowledge that your nipples won’t freeze and snap off.

  Soraya’s contact came through, and I got the job. Event management is hardly rocket science and it’s a bit of a pretentious environment. I’m currently experiencing it from the opposite side of the fence, which is odd. Still, it pays my bills.

  So I work, I work out, eat better and sleep, though still with a little help. Pinot Grigio is my sedative of choice these days. I’m looking after myself, though I might listen to a little too much Taylor Swift, but I don’t view that as too destructive. I’m no longer broken, though not quite fixed, but at least I’m no longer hovering in the space where a slight breeze or a wrong look in my direction can reduce me to tears.

  I tell myself none of it matters, that at the end of the day, Rory and I weren’t the right fit. It was too much too soon. Too deep, too fast. All those kind of platitudes, despite what he did or didn’t do.

  After that night, I was a mess. Finding him with another woman was just too close to home. But the bottom line is, I didn’t stick around to find out exactly what it all meant, though I’ve thought about it plenty. Retrospectively obsessed. Beth had to have been an old girlfriend; it was obvious the news of her pregnancy had come as a shock, and not only to me. He said he was in love with me, though didn’t allow me to explain after Melody spewed her venom. And while the bitch may have made a few dollars by calling the newspapers, she’s no longer welcome in Ivy’s salon. And probably hiding from Nat.

  And when Rory didn’t attempt to find me after Beth’s reveal, I knew it was over between us. His choice was plain and my heart felt that truth.

  Despite the pain, I think our parting was for the best. I wasn’t truly in any condition to invite anyone into my life. I let passion overwhelm me and ultimately paid the price. And yet, I still feel a kind of affinity being here in the city he called home. Affinity with a little sickness sometimes; the excitement mingled with fear at the prospect of bumping into him. What would I do? What would he say? Would we both be sorry for what wasn’t to be? But these are just mad musings, because the reality is, in a city of more than eight and a half million, I’m likely never to see him again.

  I try not to judge. I’m all about that these days. He shared so much with me during breakfast that I still find it hard to believe he led me on, but none of it matters.

  Not anymore.

  As for Beth and the baby; I don’t know what happened and I try not to think about it for too long. The one thing I do know is when I last saw her, she couldn’t have looked less pregnant. Or more like a model. I like to think more Talbots than J.Crew.

  Eight and a half million people weren’t big enough odds in her case.

  I hadn’t truly gotten a good look at her that night, not after I’d stumbled away, but in my mind’s eye I can’t recall a baby bump. This would, in theory, make her heavily pregnant right about now. I may have done the math once or twice . And I didn’t recognise her, rather her voice, three weeks ago while at work. I’d rushed into an unscheduled meeting, apologising profusely for being five minutes late, when I’d discovered her there. Her dark hair was longer and she looked so . . . beautiful. Radiant. Though clearly not due to any pregnancy, confirmed by the flatness of her stomach in the confines of a tight dress. She was, however, the epitome of an excited bride-to-be, because in a cruel twist of fate, she’d contracted my employer to plan and execute her engagement party. A rush job. Mega bucks paid. A party to be planned and executed in under two weeks.

  Hearing her voice, I must’ve sounded like I was choking, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. Yet not an ounce of recognition clouded her perfect face. Too perfect, and on second glance, a face very familiar with contouring and the odd derma filler or two. It was a strange sensation, this feeling of invisibility; I’d felt slighted, almost. But then rage set in. Life is fucking unfair, and as she’d sat there, as sweet as fucking cheesecake, with that ridiculous voice, I’d hated her.

&
nbsp; The pain I’d worked so hard to overcome was no longer a dull ache, but fresh once again. It crowded my ribcage and crawled into my throat and it took every ounce of my strength to keep my eyes glued to the diary on my lap. I’ve never wanted to harm another person, but in that moment, I’d have gladly taken her out.

  I’d contributed nothing to the meeting—I couldn’t look at her. Not without seeing Rory leading a life with someone other than me. I’d held it together and afterwards, extricated myself citing a conflicting timetable. And that was all fine. Well, as fine as it could be considering I’d only truly just begun to see we were over. Maybe we never truly were. My acceptance was slow in coming, obviously, no matter what I’d previously told myself, because one sweet breakfast and a whole lot of sex does not a relationship make. No matter what was said that morning, it obviously wasn’t enough.

  In the office, whenever mention was made of the Maybury event—Maybury being Beth’s surname, and make no mistake, it was her event—I mentally removed myself. I didn’t look at mood boards or menus or the guest list. I wanted no part of it, involving myself in every project available but that one. It was a can of worms I was not opening, a can I forced to the back of my psyche to ignore. It’s a good job I work for a sizable company.

  So, even all these months later, it seemed I wasn’t really getting better. I was just kidding myself, but reality had to dawn at some point considering the company I worked for was essentially meant to be planning an engagement party for a man whom, despite my best intentions, I couldn’t manage to un-love.

  A man who told me he loved me, then left without looking back.

  Love sucks big hairy lady balls.

  Do you know what else sucks the afore mentioned dangly bits? Stomach flu. It hit the office three days ago with a frightening speed, wiping out half the team before moving on to infect every wait-staff temp agency within a ten-mile radius, it seems.

  And that little fact is how I find myself this evening, not only at the venue—the engagement venue—but also dressed like a waitress. I didn’t stand a chance when it became apparent at the end of the day that we were all expected to head straight from the office to the event.