by Alice Ross
‘How are you?’ he asked on reaching her.
‘Fine,’ squeaked Flora, voice sounding three octaves higher than usual. In a bid to pretend she hadn’t noticed, she flashed him her most dazzling smile.
As suspected, it didn’t fool him for a minute. ‘You look tired.’
‘Nothing an early night won’t put right,’ she trilled. Then, at the unfathomable look that crossed his face, promptly wished she hadn’t.
For all she’d only just met Kenneth Dunlop, she could have kissed the man as he joined them. Until he opened his mouth.
‘So, you’re getting married.’
‘Yes,’ muttered Flora, aware of Noah’s eyes burning into her.
‘And at Glenduff. Lucky you. I can’t think of a better place for it.’
‘Isn’t it wonderful,’ agreed Morag, slotting into the group. ‘I would have loved to have married my husband in a place like this, but we had to settle for a registry office.’
‘Same here,’ said Kenneth. ‘Although my wife and I did renew our vows in church a few years ago.’
‘Ooh, how romantic. Will she be joining you here later?’
‘Unfortunately not. She died. Six years ago. Cancer. Which was the reason we renewed our vows actually. We wanted to do something special before she… left us.’
Morag pressed a hand to her chest. ‘Goodness. What a lovely thing to do. I’m so sorry she’s gone. If it’s any consolation – which it probably isn’t - I have some idea how you feel. My husband passed away five years ago. Knocked off his motorbike by a tourist driving on the wrong side of the road.’
Kenneth pulled a sympathetic face. ‘Tragic. At least we had a chance to prepare ourselves. But an accident like that… it must have been a terrible shock.’
‘It was. One I’m still getting over, if I’m honest. But,’ Morag mustered a smile and shot a proud look in Flora’s direction, ‘this wedding has taken my mind off it. Given me something to look forward to.’
‘Which we’re all delighted about,’ chipped in Amanda, appearing just as Morag voiced her last sentence. ‘Because I have what I hope is another wonderful surprise for Glenduff’s first bride-to-be.’
All eyes now spun to Flora, just as her stomach lurched to the tartan carpet.
‘If Flora is willing, I’d like her to be photographed as a bride for Glenduff’s marketing literature. By our resident photographer, Noah. Tomorrow - if that’s not soon.’
‘How wonderful,’ gasped Morag.
As a bolt of horror flashed down Flora’s spine.
The rest of the afternoon passed in yet another panic-infused blur for Flora as, once again, all decisions bypassed her, and arrangements for the photo shoot began in earnest. All without her uttering one word of consent. The story of her life lately. One that would have a disastrous ending if she didn’t undertake some serious restructuring soon. But even if she had summoned the strength and courage to talk to Joe that evening, she couldn’t. Because he was stuck on the burst pipe job until after midnight.
As a child, Flora had loved to dress up. Indeed, age seven – around the time of her writing her Princess Flora story – her creative juices had peaked, assisting her in the pulling together of a rather fetching bridal outfit at school – using two net curtains, an I Saw Nessie tea towel, and an entire cotton wool pleat. Her teacher - of shiny black shoes notoriety – had said it showed great flair. And Flora had blushed as prettily as any bride. But she wasn’t blushing now. Because, although the sleek satin gown purchased by Amanda - in a sale for this very purpose a couple of months ago - was significantly nicer than two net curtains, an I Saw Nessie tea towel, and an entire cotton wool pleat, she would have preferred to do a two-mile trek around the Arctic in her bikini than dress up as a bride today. And the torture didn’t stop with the dress. Her boss had also roped in Debbie, the hairdresser, to beautify her. And Morag. Who was revelling in every minute of the day.
‘I can’t remember being this excited since my own wedding,’ Morag prattled. ‘Imagine what it’s going to be like on the actual day.’
Flora could.
Although she’d much rather not.
‘You look absolutely beautiful,’ Morag exclaimed, when the hairdresser had finished. ‘Have a look in the mirror, love.’
Flora didn’t want to. She wanted to rip off the dress, rive the pins from her hair, and run all the way to Edinburgh. But she couldn’t. Because that would upset everyone. Which was why she turned to the mirror instead.
And observed her now-glossy mouth drop open.
With her dark curls pinned up in sleek ringlets, the subtle make-up giving her skin a peachy sheen, and the dress skimming all her curves perfectly, she looked like a different person.
She looked like a bride.
A fact which did not pass her audience by – which included several guests, the entire staff, and Joe – wearing a proud smile and his Pearson’s Plumbing – The Best Place To Take Your Leeks T-shirt.
Noah, meanwhile, wore an expression Flora couldn’t begin to describe as she descended the staircase, where he – and her audience – awaited her.
‘Goodness,’ gasped Amanda, her smile almost as wide as Joe’s. ‘I knew you’d look stunning, but just how stunning, I’d completely underestimated.’
‘Scrubs up well, doesn’t she?’ said Joe.
Amanda nodded. ‘She most certainly does. I’ve been to some extravagant weddings in my time, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful bride. And the dress couldn’t have fit better if we’d had it specially made.’
Flora managed a tight smile. Sending a silent prayer north that she wouldn’t be sick over it.
‘Of course we really should have dressed you up too, Joe,’ Amanda added. ‘But I want to focus on females in the marketing bumf. Debbie’s putting together some hair and make-up packages for us. And I’m thinking about offering a supper night for the bride, bridesmaids, etc the evening before the wedding. So huge apologies if you feel left out.’
‘Not at all,’ chuckled Joe. ‘I’m happy to wait for the Big Day itself for my slice of attention. Not that it will be a particularly large slice. All eyes will be on my beautiful bride again,’ he said, reaching out and taking Flora’s hand.
Just as her stomach made a spectacular lurch.
Grateful for any mercies – however small - it was some consolation to Flora when the guests drifted off, and the staff – including Joe – returned to their work, whittling the audience down to Morag, Amanda, and Kenneth Dunlop – who’d sought out the laird to update her on his father’s funeral arrangements, and had subsequently fallen into conversation with the two women.
Noah, still sporting his unfathomable expression, was behaving like the consummate professional, taking charge of the shoot and ushering them all down to the bottom of the lawn next to the loch, where he positioned Flora under a tree. Flora, meanwhile, was doing her best not to throw up and to hold herself together. A task not helped by Morag’s constant effusing.
Seizing the moment Amanda’s mobile rang, and the laird – phone to her ear – distanced herself from the group to speak to whoever was calling, Flora suggested, ‘Why don’t you and Kenneth go for a cup of tea, Mum?’
A veil of bewilderment fell over Morag’s features as she gawped at Kenneth. ‘Oh. I—I don’t know.’
Kenneth smiled. ‘Actually, I am a bit parched. And hungry. I slept in this morning and because I had to dash out to meet the vicar, completely missed breakfast. So a cup of tea certainly wouldn’t go amiss. What do you say?’
Morag flashed a panicked look at Flora, before yanking the handbag which hung on her shoulder around to her chest and clutching it there. ‘I…’
‘We could sit next to the window and watch Flora from there,’ Kenneth added softly.
Morag’s anxious expression eased. ‘All right,’ she conceded, ceasing her clutching of the bag and smiling at him shyly.
‘Thank God for that,’ Flora puffed, watching her mother and Kenneth
– deep in conversation – making their way back to the castle. ‘I couldn’t have stood another minute of my mum’s babbling.’
Noah shook his head. ‘Give her a break. She’s bound to be excited. Her only child is getting married in a few weeks. Not that anyone would guess. You look like you’d rather be working in a Siberian ice cream parlour than be here.’
‘I would,’ confessed Flora, turning to the loch as tears threatened. ‘I feel a right plonker.’
He came to stand beside her. ‘I don’t know why. You look beautiful.’
The intimacy in his tone caused something warm and smooth to slither down Flora’s spine.
She slanted him a look, almost gasping aloud as her gaze snagged on his.
‘You know,’ he continued. ‘When I offered to do some free marketing shots for Amanda - in exchange for her letting me stay here - I wasn’t expecting this.’
Flora managed a weak smile. ‘It seems we’ve both been put on the spot then, doesn’t it?’
Their eyes locked, Noah didn’t say anything. Nor did Flora, aware of all background noise fading to nothing, and time seeming to stand still.
Unlike her mind, which was whirring more wildly than an over-wound clock. The two most prevalent questions buzzing about being: Did he want to kiss her? And, did she want him to kiss her?
She hadn’t decided on either answer before he cleared his throat, spun around, and marched back to the tripod. ‘Shall we get on? There’s a huge cloud over there. It looks like it might rain later,’ he said – resuming his professional role.
Flora tilted her head to the sky. The cloud hung there like a heavy weight. Rather prophetic, she thought, given this evening - come rain, hail, sleet or snow - she absolutely had to have The Chat with Joe.
‘Well, this makes a nice change,’ Joe chuckled in the Spotted Sporran that evening. ‘You inviting me out for a drink for a change. And a very nice change too,’ he added, planting a kiss on Flora’s shoulder.
Flora forced a smile in response. Her feeling of nausea had increased as the day had progressed. She hadn’t touched her tea. Not that Morag had noticed. She’d been far too busy babbling about the photo shoot, and Kenneth Dunlop and the little guest house he ran in the Italian capital.
‘So, any particular reason for the invite?’ asked Joe, grinning at her. ‘Or were you just dying to see me?’
Flora gulped as she fiddled with the stem of her wine glass. She didn’t dare take a sip from it in case the alcohol lodged in her throat. On top of all the words queuing there, jostling with one another as they anxiously awaited their release. If she didn’t free them soon, she suspected they’d bubble over and spew out anyway. Concluding it would be better to retain some control over them, she drew in a breath and on the exhale said, ‘Actually, there is a particular reason for the invite. I wanted to talk to you about the… the wedding.’
‘What about it? No. Don’t tell me. You’ve changed your mind about the mini haggises and decided they’ll be a nice touch after all.’
Flora’s heart squeezed. He had no idea how she felt. Not so much as an inkling. Which made the whole thing worse. What she was about to do would give him such a shock, it would bring his whole world tumbling down. But on the other hand, if she didn’t break it off, she’d spend the rest of her life regretting it. The rest of her life beating herself to a pulp, always wondering if Joe really was the right man for her. Not the basis of a good marriage. And no basis for making him happy. He was young. He’d rally. Find someone else. Someone less antsy than her. Someone who could make him happy.
Rather than going directly for the jugular, she attempted a softer approach.
‘Noah thinks we’re too young to get married,’ she began, hoping, if his new pal thought the same as her, then Joe might have a better idea where she was coming from.
The sentiment bounced off him like a tennis ball on a newly-mowed Wimbledon court. ‘Noah? What’s he got to do with anything?’
‘Well, it’s interesting, isn’t it,’ continued Flora, doing her best to keep her voice level. ‘How people of the same age want different things.’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose so. But that’s normal. Everybody’s different.’
Flora sighed. This wasn’t working at all. She’d just have to come out and say what needed to be said.
So she did.
After which Joe’s pint glass toppled to the floor.
And for a split second, the world ceased to turn.
Chapter Eight
One week on and the day of Colonel Dunlop’s funeral dawned grey and bleak. Mirroring Flora’s mood. After breaking off the wedding, she’d imagined feeling nothing but relief; the burden she’d been lugging about with her for what seemed like an eternity flowing from her shoulders like an undammed river.
But if anything, she felt more burdened than before the evening in the pub with Joe.
Despite having rehearsed her ‘I think we should call the whole thing off’ speech a million times, it hadn’t come out anything like planned. She’d factored in some input from him. Questions. Protests. There’d been none. While she’d prattled about the misunderstanding the evening of the proposal, about how desperate she’d been to discuss her true feelings with him; about being too young; her need to do something with her life; her dad’s death; ruined university plans, tears spilling down her cheeks all the while, Joe hadn’t uttered a solitary word. He’d just stared at her dazedly, her blubbering monologue seeming to drift right over his head.
Then, the moment she’d finished, he’d picked up his coat and left the pub without a backward glance.
Leaving an inconsolable Flora gawping after him.
Since then she tried phoning and texting him. He hadn’t replied. She’d dragged herself to his house but had got no further than the doorstep, his mum coolly informing her that Joe didn’t want to see her.
Which had ramped up Flora’s sobbing from inconsolable to hysterical.
And with Colonel Dunlop’s funeral today, there was no chance of her tears stopping any time soon.
Aberboyne’s fifteenth century church nestled on a hill just outside the village, the residents of its graveyard enjoying an eternal, uninterrupted view of the loch. Flora hadn’t been there since her dad’s funeral – what now seemed like an eternity ago. The moment she stepped inside, however, the memories flooded back as if it had been yesterday. And, as Morag clamped her arm shouldering her bag – and therefore a portion of her late husband – to her side, Flora imagined she must be experiencing similar flashbacks.
At Morag’s announcement that she would be attending the funeral, Flora’s jaw had slackened. Not only because the service was taking place in the same church they’d bid goodbye to the woman’s husband, but because she’d never met the colonel. Morag, though, had insisted she wanted to be there - to support Kenneth. The Dunlops were, so she’d informed Flora, a tiny family consisting of mainly aged bodies, too infirm to make the journey north. She’d assured Flora that she could cope with it and, noting the shimmer of tears in her eyes now, and the determined set of her face, Flora had no doubt she could.
She only wished she could have been so confident about her own resolve. Thinking about her dad’s funeral had led her thoughts right back to Joe. How he’d been there for her at such a sad time, to lean on – physically and metaphorically – like a big solid rock. How he’d patiently listened to her droning on for hours about how unfair it all was; how he’d done his best to make her smile with his rubbish jokes; brought her a custard doughnut once a week after discovering her penchant for them; and always told her she looked nice – even after her disastrous run-in with a home highlighting kit when she’d resembled a frizzy wasp. What she wouldn’t give to feel his reassuring presence next to her now, to lean against the solid warmth of his body, to reach out and take his hand.
But she couldn’t. Because he wasn’t at her side. He was, she noted - just after she, Morag, and the handbag, had slid onto a pew - entering the church. Amy - th
e new receptionist - at his side.
As he spotted her, she raised her hand slightly in a pathetic show of greeting. It wasn’t acknowledged. Joe looked straight through her. Before taking a seat at the back. As far away from Flora as possible.
‘You honestly don’t have to come with me,’ said Kenneth Dunlop after the service.
‘Nonsense,’ tutted Morag. ‘I was lucky enough to have Flora at my side during my husband’s cremation. I can’t begin to imagine what it must be like seeing off a loved one on your own. Unless of course…’ - mortification washed over her face - ‘… you’d rather be alone.’
Kenneth shook his head. ‘I most certainly wouldn’t. I’ve been dreading it. I’d be eternally grateful if you did come along.’
‘In that case,’ said Morag, smiling shyly as her grip tightened on her handbag. ‘I’m coming.’
Given the lugubrious circumstances, Flora could not have been prouder of her mother had Morag won sixteen Olympic gold medals. As well as attending the funeral, she’d also accepted the news of the wedding cancellation much more stoically than Flora had envisaged, swiftly swapping her initial horrified countenance for one of sympathy. And while Flora had broken her heart, she’d held her in her arms, stroking her hair – just like she had in the minutes following the disastrous school recorder recital.
But while Morag appeared to be on the up – her inner strength returning in spades, Flora’s sensation of slowly sinking had increased ten-fold. She couldn’t face attending the little wake Amanda had kindly provided in the castle. Not least because of the layer of frost that had settled over many of her work colleagues since news of the non-wedding had spread. She’d asked Amanda for a few days’ leave, which had been granted with the welcome proviso ‘take as long as you need’.
Flora had no idea how long she’d need. Nor what she should do with herself after the funeral. She only knew she wanted to be alone. So, rather than scuttling off home to crawl under the duvet and blub again, she wandered down to the loch, settled herself on a rock at the water’s edge, then, watching a couple of ducks waddling about, slid into her reverie.