‘You have an urgent need for six carved wooden phallic symbols?’
‘I’m sorry, what was that?’ said the woman on the end of the line.
‘I said, YOU HAVE AN URGENT NEED FOR SIX WOODEN PHALLIC –’ He stopped mid-sentence, realizing that the old man was looking at him with some distaste. His wife, however, looked frankly fascinated, and was slowing down her already sedate pace.
‘And would you like these phalluses to be, er, erect, or . . . ?’
‘Come on.’ The old man tugged at his wife’s elbow. She had stopped now, and was taking a remarkably long time to empty the contents of her coat pockets into the nearby rubbish bin.
‘Oh, yes, very much so,’ said the breezy voice. ‘Quite big.’
‘Right, so definitely erect.’ Finn gave a nod to nobody in particular. The old woman gave him the ghost of a wink. ‘And are we talking with, um, testicles, or without?’
‘That’s a very good question, really, isn’t it?’ There was a moment’s pause to consider before the voice continued. ‘They might be helpful from a handling point of view, I suppose, but – well, they’re not very aesthetically pleasing, are they?’
‘Testicles?’
‘It’s such an ugly word, don’t you think?’
‘I have to be honest, it’s not one I’m in the habit of using that often.’
The elderly gentleman coughed discreetly.
‘Anyway, it would be wonderful if you could perhaps start with just one and we can check it handles properly. It’s vital it has the right feel.’
The whole conversation was insane. Finn was beginning to wonder if he’d accidentally taken some kind of hallucinogenic drug with his cornflakes that morning. He looked around – everything on the island looked as it should. Fishing boats bobbed out on the water. Little rowing boats were moored by the edge of the tiny harbour. On the beach a couple walked their dog, and a gang of children stood by the water’s edge skimming stones.
The old couple were still hovering close by.
‘Right. Do you think it might be useful to send over a photo of the sort of thing you’re looking for?’
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Finn realized just what he had said. The old lady hooted with laughter, her husband looking on with undisguised disapproval. She was towed away reluctantly, still laughing. ‘Yes, of course,’ the woman replied. In contrast, she didn’t find the situation amusing at all. ‘I’d be more than happy to send you over some images. Better still, perhaps we could meet? Do you have some sort of gallery, or a studio?’
Finn did indeed. He’d cut down his hours recently, no longer working five days a week as head of forestry for the Duntarvie Estate. Having handed over control to Dave, his friend, who was grateful for the promotion with another baby on the way, he was working on a project that saw timber from the island used to create custom-made, sustainable wooden garden furniture, and as much as he could, he focused on his sculpture. Normally this meant a bit of pottering, doing anything he fancied, music blaring in the workshop, pleasing himself. It suited him perfectly. No ties, no commitments. Friday evenings now and again he’d do a spot of DJing in the Winter Gardens or the local hotels if they had something on, and he picked up a bit of work playing bagpipes at weddings and funerals; but only when he felt like it. Once in a while, he’d pick up a commission – often from one of the visitors to Duntarvie House, where his best friend Roderick lived as Laird. Over there at the far end of the little island, in a turreted, Scottish Baronial castle buried deep in the countryside, Roderick was host to beautiful and exclusive weddings, and the guests were often taken with the wooden carvings dotted around the public rooms. Kate, Roderick’s wife, was used to people departing with one or two carefully wrapped carvings lying on the back seats of their cars.
Later that afternoon, with the workshop radio blasting out an ancient Oasis song and the whine of the wood plane in his ears, Finn couldn’t hear a thing. He silenced both at the sight of a pair of extremely slim legs clad in cropped white leggings.
‘You wanted some photographs?’
Finn turned off the drill, securing the safety lock out of habit before placing it carefully on the workbench beside him.
‘Hello, I’m Scarlett,’ said the husky, breathy voice of earlier.
He looked up into a pair of navy-blue eyes in a smooth, tanned face, framed with loosely waved, streaky blonde hair. She had a smattering of freckles on her tip-tilted nose. He’d always liked freckles on a – no, this was a work commission. He cleared his throat, brushing sawdust from his hands onto his jeans before reaching out to shake her hand.
‘Finn MacArthur.’
She cocked her chin upwards slightly, stepping back. He watched as she licked her lips unthinkingly, tugging at the neckline of her floaty chiffon tunic. She played with the crystal pendant that hung low between her breasts.
‘So,’ he said, grinning. ‘You’re here to talk phallic symbols?’
He was amused to see a slight blush stain her cheeks. She really was very pretty. ‘We call them totems, actually. For a retreat my boss is running.’
‘Men getting in touch with their inner caveman, that sort of thing?’
Finn had recently read something about a course like that in the Sunday paper. He’d been having a pint with a mate before heading back home for a Sunday lunch with Roo. He’d laughed when his friend down the pub had suggested it was the last thing he needed. ‘I’m not that sort of bloke, actually . . . appearances can be deceptive.’
‘Yeah,’ his mate had snorted with laughter. ‘Renaissance man, that’s you.’
Scarlett smiled slightly. ‘No, it’s a retreat for women. I’m not quite sure what they’re for –’ she broke off here, pulling a face. ‘Anyway. Here you are.’ She held out a sheaf of priapic images clipped from magazines and tourist guides. ‘There’s a bit of a variety . . .’
Finn looked down. There was everything from minuscule men with huge erect cocks five times the size of their heads, to solid-looking wooden implements that looked like they could inflict serious injury. A vision of a newspaper headline, MAN FELLED BY HUGE PHALLIC TOTEM, popped into his head, making him laugh aloud.
‘It’s very important this is created in the right spirit,’ said Scarlett earnestly. She moved a little closer to him.
‘Oh yes, yes, definitely.’ Finn nodded solemnly. He leafed through the pictures. Bloody hell, some of them were downright terrifying. ‘Did you have a – er, a size in mind?’
‘Well, as I said earlier, quite big.’ Scarlett allowed herself a flirtatious smile, looking up at him through lowered lashes. ‘Needs to be something you can hold on to, don’t you think?’
Finn returned the smile, with interest. Two could play at that game.
‘So are you new to Auchenmor?’
‘God, no, I’m not living here.’ She looked alarmed.
‘I’m only here for a month, helping Lily – she’ll be running it – set up the retreat centre.’
‘So what d’you do, then?’
‘I work for an investor. He has a string of holistic retreats across the country – they’re big money at the moment, now everyone’s into finding themselves. He heard about this place, and thought it was perfect. Near enough to the mainland for people to get here easily, remote enough that they feel like they’re getting away from it all. And tied in with the weddings up here at Duntarvie House, he’ll be hoping we’re going to rake it in.’
‘I’m sure you will. Doesn’t sound very spiritual, mind you.’
She raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘There’s nothing unspiritual about wanting to live abundantly.’
Finn, who’d learned the art of non-confrontation, backed out of the corner, changing the subject. It didn’t really matter what he thought, and at the end of the day, any financial investment in the island had to be a good thing. With most of the young people who were brought up here leaving as soon as they could, anything that brought in visitors and money was good. And if these hol
istic-retreat people were planning on working alongside Roddy and Kate, that meant more job security for him.
‘Shall we have a look at these carvings?’ He motioned to the wooden shapes waiting on the workbench. ‘Which one d’you reckon is up to the job?’
It wasn’t exactly planned that Finn would end up in town that evening, taking Scarlett for a welcome-to-Kilmannan drink at the newly refurbished Anchor Bar. Nor, when the late spring evening stretched on into darkness and the purple fingers of night reached across the sky, did he expect to take her on a slightly tipsy stroll along the beach where they sat, flirting and chatting, watching the stars come out. And neither of them could possibly have predicted that they’d end up back at his place, music playing and candles lit, not quite making it to the bed, falling asleep, limbs tangled, surrounded by their discarded clothes on the sofa in his sitting room . . .
The phone woke Finn with a start. Eyes half open, he reached back behind his head, groping for the source of the bleeping.
Coffee’s waiting. This is your morning call.
He looked at the message blearily for a moment before it sunk in. Shit, it was half nine. It was half nine and there was an extremely pretty girl lying beside him, draped in one of the blankets that usually covered the back of the sofa where his cat, Alfred, had scratched several holes as a kitten, years ago.
She covered her mouth as she yawned, opening her eyes as she did so. ‘Morning.’
‘Hi.’ He’d done this a million times. There were several directions this conversation could take. He inhaled deeply, preparing himself.
‘That was a good night.’ With a graceful movement she sprung off the sofa and hooked her black cotton knickers from the leaves of a geranium that stood on the windowsill. She climbed into them, apparently unconcerned by her nakedness, and strolled around the room collecting the rest of her clothes. ‘Anyway,’ she looked up at the clock, which hung on the wall above the sitting-room door, ‘I must love you and leave you. Got the ten-thirty ferry to catch. I’m out of here for the weekend.’
As she spoke she pulled on her white leggings and slipped her top over her head.
‘Thanks for dinner. Maybe see you around!’
She scooped up her bag from where she’d discarded it last night by the front door (they’d come in, Finn remembered, kissing, and he’d pushed the door shut with a foot as his hands had been wrapped around her waist, pulling her close) and gave him a wink – the second he’d received in twenty-four hours.
And with that, she was gone.
On my way now.
Near enough, thought Finn, as he hit send on the text and stepped into the shower. Scalding hot water cascaded down his face, dripping from his chin as he stood directly under the blast, eyes closed, contemplating what had just happened. Was he losing his touch? He squirted a handful of shower gel, soaping the muscles of his stomach, running his hand through his hair as he rinsed it. It wasn’t the first time a woman had legged it in the morning before he’d had a chance to open his mouth, and he’d done it countless times himself. But this morning, for some reason, it left him feeling a bit dissatisfied. The sex had been good, that wasn’t the problem. But it might’ve been nice to share a coffee and a chat before parting ways. Scarlett hadn’t even stayed around long enough for the kettle to boil.
He stepped out of the shower and towelled himself dry, found some clothes and pocketed his wallet. He was already late, and he really needed a coffee.
As he slid into the booth at Bruno’s cafe, Finn noticed a knowing look exchanged between Roddy and Kate.
‘What’ve you been up to?’ Roddy sat back, arms folded, teasing.
‘Don’t you mean who?’ Laughing, Kate tucked a stray curl of dark hair behind her ear, then elbowed Finn in the ribs.
Finn shook his head. ‘Just slept in, that’s all.’ He didn’t know why, but for some reason he wasn’t in the mood for his friends’ gentle piss-taking today.
‘Morning, handsome.’ Bruno called from across the Formica counter. ‘The usual?’
He nodded. The bustle of the cafe filled his ears and he listened to Roddy and Kate talk about their latest wedding, which had taken place at the big house – a low-key celebrity event that had been stalked, unexpectedly, by a helicopter funded by one of the big gossip magazines. Neither of them noticed he wasn’t quite his usual ebullient self; their loving, jokey chatter filled in the spaces where he’d normally have been teasing them back.
‘One black Americano. Three slices of millionaire’s shortbread. Anything else, you lot? I’ve got paying customers over there waiting.’
Bruno, who had known Finn and Roddy since they were children, and who lived with Kate’s mother Liz in a little cottage on the outskirts of Auchenmor, wouldn’t ever take a penny in payment for anything they had in the cafe. Roddy made up for it by supplying him with logs for the wood-burning stove that warmed the cosy, book-lined sitting room of the cottage, while Finn was always happy to lend a hand with any repairs that needed to be done in the cafe – not that there were many. Bruno kept the place immaculate; and if it was a bit dated, and the Formica fading – well, it was much loved amongst the residents of Kilmannan, and beloved by the tourists, who were charmed by its 1950s decor.
Sitting back with his coffee, Finn looked across at Roddy and Kate. They exchanged a smile, and Roddy reached across, putting his hand on his wife’s knee.
‘We wanted you to know,’ Roddy began, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes, a habit familiar to Finn since childhood.
‘The thing is –’ Kate continued. She looked at him, eyes sparkling. Life on the island suited her enormously. She’d settled into her role as mistress of Duntarvie House and was a popular, much-loved addition to the community.
‘We’re – well, Kate is – we’re having a baby.’ The smile that burst across Roddy’s face was ridiculously wide. Finn looked at his friend, watching as he turned to Kate with an expression of such love that the whole room seemed to disappear for both of them, leaving them wrapped in a bubble. Kate beamed back at her husband, placing a hand across her stomach – which showed no sign of looking any different than normal, Finn noticed.
‘That’s – I’m so happy for you both.’ Roddy beamed back at him. Kate stood up and he reached across the table, hugging her closely for a split second before pulling back. ‘Shit, I haven’t squeezed you too hard have I?’
Kate laughed. ‘No. I’m pregnant, not made of china. And there’s another six months to go. I fully intend to carry on with life as normal.’
‘Not completely normal,’ Roddy shot her a vaguely worried glance. ‘I mean, you’re not going off riding with Morag or anything like that, right?’
Kate rolled her eyes. ‘No, I’m not planning on taking part in any show-jumping competitions, but there’s no harm in a potter round the estate on one of the Highland ponies, is there?’
‘Kate, seriously. I think you need to watch it. Imagine if you fell off, or—’
Finn cleared his throat ostentatiously. The two of them seemed even more madly in love after two years of marriage, but the other thing that hadn’t changed was the good-hearted bickering that characterized their relationship.
‘Sorry.’ Kate pulled a mock-chastened face. ‘Anyway, the thing is, that’s not the point of this conversation. We were thinking we’d love you to be godfather. And I know you’re supposed to wait until they’re born before you ask that bit, but – well, we were so excited, and . . .’
Finn felt a stab of something he didn’t quite recognize. Pride, perhaps. He reached a hand out, squeezing Kate’s fingers then giving Roddy a blokey pat on the arm. ‘I’d love it. I’d be honoured.’
The conversation carried on then, Kate full of excitement and plans for the future, Roddy showing him the photographs from the twelve-week scan they’d had the day before. Finn nodded appreciatively, but honestly wasn’t quite sure which end was which when they passed the blurry black and white print across the table.
A couple of
hours later, they headed for home. Finn changed quickly and grabbed his mountain bike, deciding the best way to clear his head was to take it up to the woods and blast round the dirt tracks as fast as possible. He was feeling something, but he honestly couldn’t put a finger on it. Whatever it was, it was making him uneasy. Pushing hard, heart pounding in his ears, chest tight with exertion, he reached the highest point on the island and pulled over onto the grassy patch that held the stone triangulation point. He let his bike fall and collapsed, every muscle screaming, on the bench, lying back for a moment. The feeling was still there.
Kate and Roddy were going to be a family now. Life would be all baby carriers and Postman Pat. There wouldn’t be any more drunken evenings hanging out round the fire, or late nights hitching a lift back to Duntarvie House after a lock-in at the Farmers’ Arms. Everything was going to change, and – he realized with a jolt of surprise – he wasn’t resentful. He was envious.
Chapter Six
‘Who are you?’
The girl coming into the salon looked at Isla, her chin jutting out aggressively. Isla, who’d been in the back room trying to make order of the motley collection of towels and equipment, felt herself tense, hackles rising.
‘I’m Isla Brown. Jessie’s niece. And you are?’
‘I’m Shannon. I work here. For Jessie.’
Isla didn’t miss the emphasis on her aunt’s name.
‘Right.’ She gave a single nod. Shannon didn’t seem impressed.
Shannon stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other on the reception desk. She was chewing gum and sizing Isla up. Isla grew a little taller, and stepped forward.
‘Well, if you work for Jessie,’ she said calmly, having learned while training many junior stylists over the years that it was easier to come in super-strict than to give any indication of weakness, ‘then for the next eight weeks you’ll be working for me.’
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