by Wendy Holden
Lulu’s fingers, as usual, glittered with rings, one of which looked new to Laura. It was a huge sapphire criss-crossed with thin diamonds in the design of the Scottish national flag, the saltire. As always, Lulu’s vast black designer sunglasses remained firmly in place. She even wore them in bed, Laura suspected. Lulu’s look was completed with a pair of vertiginously heeled black ankle boots laced up the calf in what seemed a nod at traditional Scottish footwear.
‘Like my hat?’ Lulu asked.
Laura had been trying not to stare at the item now topping her friend’s mountain of tumbling blonde tresses.
‘It’s very, um, nice.’
While Lulu was a fan of directional headgear, this was more directional than usual. Not to put too fine a point on it, it looked like a pair of bagpipes.
‘And it work too, hmm?’ Lifting her glittering fingers, Lulu pressed an invisible button. ‘Scotland the Brave’ sang tinnily out into the helicopter’s interior.
‘The perfect outfit for Scottish castle-hunting,’ Laura remarked diplomatically. Unexpectedly, Lulu’s full pink lips drooped downwards. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Look freezing down there.’ Lulu shuddered. ‘And big old stone castle even colder.’
‘Well, anywhere would be,’ Laura pointed out, ‘given what you’re wearing.’ Or not wearing, which was more accurate.
Lulu groaned. ‘Old buildings meaning bad plumbing, drying rot, climbing damp. Wish hadn’t promised South’n Fried estate. Am going die of thermals.’
‘Hypothermia,’ Laura guessed. ‘But not if you actually get some thermals, Lulu. Switch your hat on again, will you?’ It might cheer her friend up, if nothing else.
‘We are nearing Edinburgh,’ Vlad intoned once the tune had stopped and Lulu had finished whooping and clapping along.
Laura looked down. What had been wild landscape was now buildings. Forests of spires replaced the forests of trees.
As they banked steeply to the side, she felt a dizzying sickness. It was possible that there was still something of the Estonian military in Vlad’s handling of a helicopter.
*
Roddy had been enjoying a well-deserved afternoon doze when a loud noise woke him up.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he shrieked. ‘What the hell was that?’
Thubba thubba thubba. It sounded like a helicopter right outside his window. But that was impossible. His window was right in the centre of Edinburgh, in a Georgian terrace overlooking a small garden square.
As ever, his personal assistant had the answer. ‘It’s a helicopter,’ Fiona said laconically.
Roddy sprang up with a speed and agility he hadn’t realised he was still capable of. ‘Ye’ll go arse o’er tit,’ warned Fiona.
Roddy took no notice. Something unbelievable was happening the other side of his window; something threatening to shake the period glass panes right out of their eighteenth-century frames.
A helicopter was landing in the garden square; not just any helicopter either, but a bright pink one. As he watched the door was opening and a set of padded steps was being let down; they had some sort of logo on them, one Roddy vaguely associated with his long-departed ex-wife.
Transfixed, the estate agent watched as a pair of long legs in very complicated high-heeled black boots appeared. Gradually, the rest emerged, wearing the shortest tartan skirt Roddy had ever seen – little more than a tartan bandage, in fact. It was a blonde, a blonde with something strange on her head, something that looked like—
‘Bagpipes,’ said Fiona. It was strange and rather scary, the way she could read his mind.
‘But who is it?’ Roddy asked in a faint voice. ‘Them,’ he added, as a more normal-looking girl appeared; dark-haired in a trenchcoat and black jeans.
‘It’s that glossy magazine editor ye’re waiting for,’ Fiona supplied. ‘And her friend.’
Roddy stared at Lulu. His ex-wife had been fond of Absolutely Fabulous, in which all magazine editors looked like this. He had imagined it an exaggeration. But even Patsy Bubbles, or whatever her name was, hadn’t travelled in a pink helicopter.
‘They can’t land here,’ he said, suddenly panicked. ‘They’ll destroy the square!’ In actual fact, as he now saw, the craft seemed to have descended without harming a single branch. But what if the council got wind and charged him for unauthorised access?
Even as the dread thought crossed his mind, the helicopter blades – which seemed to be covered in some strange sand-coloured cloth – were whirring again and the glossy pink craft lifted upwards, again expertly missing the trees.
Roddy was astonished. He had not expected the editor of Society to appear in such spectacular style. The publication clearly had clout and must be making a fortune if it could afford its own helicopter. Perhaps he should buy some advertising after all. And as for being offered free editorial in this obviously amazing magazine, how lucky was he?
Roddy leapt for the cups and saucers and the one remaining piece of Mrs Creel’s shortbread. The special occasion he was saving it for looked as if it had come.
Chapter Thirteen
Laura and Lulu reached the door of the estate agent’s. It was open and standing beneath the fanlight was a small man in a tight three-piece pinstripe suit with a bright red nose and an upward sweep of hair which seemed to have a purple tinge.
‘Ladies! Come in!’ urged Roddy, smiling his best smile. ‘Welcome to Scotland! Can I offer you ladies some tea?’ He hoped that he had enough teabags. He hadn’t checked the stores since Mrs Creel left.
Lulu inclined her sunglasses. ‘Two Moëts, please.’
‘Moëts?’ repeated Roddy. This editor had a strange accent. It sounded like a mixture of American and Russian. On the other hand… Russian. American. Both countries associated with big spenders. Not a strange accent, Roddy decided. A wonderful accent.
‘Okay, not Moëts if you don’t have. Cristal will be fine,’ said the unflappable Lulu.
Roddy looked desperately at the console. He had no idea what type of tea she was talking about, but whatever it was she had to have it. ‘Can you sort that out, Fiona?’
‘Och, certainly, Mr Ruane. At once, Mr Ruane,’ the computer replied, satirically.
Roddy smiled at Lulu and Laura, but especially Lulu. It had to be said that she drew the eye. Up close, the tartan microskirt and bagpipe hat were almost impossibly distracting – and why didn’t the woman take off her sunglasses? He leant forward and picked up the brochure he had hastily got out of the printer. ‘Here are the details about Glenravish, the castle and the estate.’
‘That’s for me,’ Laura said, reaching to intercept it. Lulu grabbed it, however.
Roddy peered at the printed wodge of paper between Lulu’s glittering saltire-tipped fingernails. It was odd, but he could not see Glenravish’s familiar towers and pinnacles. The building in the pictures, what he could see of it, looked boxy.
Horror gripped Roddy. The blasted printer had produced the information for the McBang Estate. That wretched new client that Fiona had taken on in his absence, and which he planned to get rid of at the first opportunity. It was a slow market for all his properties, but one thing was for sure, no one was ever going to buy the McBang Estate. It was outlandish in the extreme, perfectly ridiculous. And embarrassingly out of place in his baronial portfolio.
‘Is castle?’ Lulu’s voice was curious.
‘Not my idea of a castle.’ Roddy tried again to pull the brochure out of Lulu’s hands. This important editor of this influential magazine should not be looking at this ridiculous place. In so far as anyone with such dark glasses could actually look at anything.
The brochure stayed where it was, however; she had, Roddy realised, an unexpectedly strong grip. And she seemed to be really looking at it; her head was on one side, evidently peering.
‘Is modern, hmm?’ Lulu asked.
Roddy took a deep breath. ‘The main building certainly is, as you suggest, madam, modern. But the estate also comprises some ruins, a l
och, mountains, several thousand acres of moorland, a couple of villages, various shooting lodges, some cottages, a pub and a phone box.’
Lulu wasn’t listening. ‘Is bold and high concept, hmm?’
Roddy had to give in and admit that it was. Apparently there had once been a proper ancient castle on the McBang Estate but the father of the present owner had demolished it and replaced it with – what?
Something resembling a 1970s university campus. Or maybe an East European power station. It was boxy, concrete and fitted throughout with smoked-glass windows. It wore its pipes on the outside, like the Pompidou Centre. It had a flashing entrance and an AstroTurf lawn.
The building was currently operating as an ‘edgy’ Scottish hotel called Bangers, but there hadn’t been many takers from what Roddy could see. The TripAdvisor reviews were best described as ‘mixed’. Possibly as a result of this, Torquil McBang, the owner Fiona had – without his permission – dealt with, was offering Bangers either as a going concern or for residential use. Roddy couldn’t imagine anyone wanting it for either.
He tried again to drag it out of the editor’s hands, but again she hung on. ‘Lots of pipes, hmm?’ Lulu said.
‘Yes, ghastly, aren’t they?’ Roddy agreed.
‘Not if heating pipes. Look warm.’
Her tone, to Roddy’s puzzled ear, was one of approval. ‘I like this modern castle,’ Lulu added resolutely. ‘I go see it. Is just what I am looking for.’
I’m hearing things, thought Roddy. How could Bangers be what anyone was looking for?
His puzzled ear now caught another odd noise, a great roaring as of some powerful vehicle. He bobbed up slightly on his somewhat worn pinstriped knees and caught sight through the window of the top of a vast pantechnicon which seemed to have ground to a halt outside his office. It must have got lost, Roddy thought, as now a mighty beeping commenced, accompanied by ‘This Vehicle Is Reversing’ in a Nadine Salmon-approved Scottish accent.
Roddy lowered himself back down and returned his attention to Lulu, still apparently fascinated by the McBang brochure.
‘POA,’ she was saying. ‘Where is Poa? One of transgender wedding islands?’
Guessing her friend meant the Hebrides, Laura stuffed her hand into her mouth.
Roddy, however, had no such insight. ‘POA means Price On Application.’
‘Application to what?’ asked Lulu, just as the front doorbell went.
‘That’ll be the champagne,’ Fiona laconically remarked.
Roddy glanced at her impervious black front. ‘I didn’t order any champagne.’
‘Och, yes ye did,’ tittered Fiona.
Roddy leapt to open the front door. Outside stood a poker-faced factotum in a black tie and tailcoat, carrying a silver tray on which stood a silver ice bucket. Poking out of it was a gold-necked bottle and next to it three glasses.
Roddy glanced quickly up and down the elegant sweep of Georgian crescent and wondered what on earth the neighbours were thinking. On the other hand, matters had gone way beyond his control. A pink helicopter had landed in the garden square; a butler had materialised out of nowhere. What next?
‘The Cristal, sir,’ intoned the mysterious servant.
Roddy looked at the glasses. ‘I see you’ve brought some champagne as well.’
‘Yes, the Cristal, sir. A particularly magnificent vintage, if I may say so. It has just been delivered, sir. In a rather large conveyance.’
Roddy remembered the pantechnicon and Fiona’s titter. He now also remembered what Cristal was – a particularly expensive champagne. The colour drained from his face, even from his nose.
The butler went on. ‘There was rather a large number of cases of it which I took the liberty of instructing the driver to take round to the rear.’
Roddy swallowed. What had that blasted computer done now? A lorry full of Cristal was going to cost a fortune. His entire commission for the past decade, probably.
The frock-coated factotum proffered the tray with the ice bucket. ‘But as none of it was chilled, I took the liberty of presenting it properly. May I come in?’
Following the butler into his office, Roddy saw that Laura Lake’s companion was perusing the Glenravish brochure. ‘So that’s settled,’ she was saying. ‘You’re going to the McBang Estate, Lulu, and I’ll go to Glenravish.’
Roddy was confused. Lulu? The woman in the bagpipe hat was Laura. The editor. Wasn’t she?
The woman in the bagpipe hat now looked up and spotted the butler. ‘Vlad!’ she screeched, leaping to her feet and swaying wildly on her heels.
‘Good afternoon madam,’ replied the servant, increasing Roddy’s confusion still further. How did these people know each other?
Laura, meanwhile, had spotted the copy of Simpleton on the coffee table. She snatched it up and was flicking through it in despair. Close to 90 per cent advertising, at a guess. There was room only for a couple of articles on The Power Of One-ness and cleansing leek curry. She closed the magazine and took a deep breath to calm her rioting mind. She was here, she reminded herself, to get a similar amount of advertising for Society. And Roddy was her route to that.
She tossed back her hair, plastered on her best smile and aimed it squarely at the estate agent. He was not looking at her, however. He was staring, transfixed, at Vlad.
‘If you wouldn’t mind standing back, sir…’
Roddy had blinked a few times to make sure. But his eyes were not deceiving him. The poker-faced butler really was holding a gun. And it really was pointing straight at him.
‘Don’t shoot!’ he screamed, throwing himself to the office floor just as a loud bang ricocheted round the walls. After a couple of seconds’ close examination of the carpet, Roddy realised he was still alive. He lifted his head to see the other woman, the dark-haired one in the trenchcoat, smiling at him sympathetically.
‘It’s just Vlad’s way of opening a champagne bottle,’ Laura explained helpfully. ‘Some people do it with a sword, but Vlad prefers to shoot the cork off. The Estonian military always do it this way, apparently. It takes great skill not to blast the bottle to smithereens.’
‘Yes, I see,’ said Roddy, climbing shakily to his feet and dusting his kneecaps. He no longer had any idea what was going on, but decided to go with the flow. Particularly the golden, bubbling flow being poured by the butler into one of the champagne glasses and proffered in his direction.
Sensibly, Roddy decided to look on the bright side. Two of the castles on his books were going to be visited by these women. One of whom – he wasn’t sure which – ran an obviously powerful magazine that presumably was read by the type of wealthy people he needed to interest in his properties. ‘Well,’ he said, raising his glass cheerfully. ‘Bottoms up! Here’s to the Glenravish and McBang Estates!’
Chapter Fourteen
Later, Laura sat on the train to Glenravish. She had hoped for a lift in Lulu’s pink helicopter but it emerged that the McBang Estate, and Bangers, the estate hotel in which Lulu was keenly interested, was in precisely the opposite direction. Glenravish was in the Western Highlands while Bangers was in the Grampians, on Scotland’s east side.
Laura had therefore been obliged to take the train, and was trying not to mind. How was it that Lulu’s super-luxurious life was so easy to get used to, and yet so hard to give up?
Still, the Scottish trip had got off to a great start. Shortly after her departure for the station Harriet had rung to say that Roddy Ruane was taking the entire inside-front-cover ad, and was thinking about a second. ‘So, potentially two pages of advertising down. Only another two hundred to go,’ Harriet had said, cheerfully.
A growling voice cut into her thoughts.
‘The next station is Auchtergeldie, Auchtergeldie your next station stop.’
The guard doing the train announcements sounded for all the world like Fraser – ‘We’re all doomed!’ – from Dad’s Army. This had positive associations for Laura. Mimi, despite being a lifelong Parisienne, had a
dored the series and they had watched the enormous box set several times over.
However, she was getting a little fed up with Fraser now. This was the type of train that stopped everywhere and Laura had lost count of the tiny little Victorian wooden stations festooned with decorative ironwork at which they had halted. Fraser doggedly made the same announcement on arrival and departure at each one. He was clearly the thorough type.
‘Please take the time to ensure you have all your belongings with you and if you spot something unusual on the train...’
Laura wished Fraser would shut up. She was trying to concentrate on the scenery. What she had seen on the way up from the helicopter had been spectacular enough, but ground level was even better. From an eagle’s eye view she now had that of a stag, or a haggis, or some other Scottish animal.
‘... please either report it to a member of the on-train team or text the British Transport Police. Remember, See it. Say it. Sorted.’
Laura feasted her eyes determinedly and admiringly on the landscape that had started to emerge as the last spires of the city were left behind. It was, she felt, dreamily romantic. The hills had been green and gentle at first but now they were craggy and magnificent. Their dramatic, jagged tops were reflected in the many lochs the train went past. Laura looked out over the still, silver waters and felt peace stealing into her soul.
She could now see why people raved about the Scottish landscape. It was so huge, wide, high and deep; so viscerally wild and thrillingly savage with its steep-sided mountains and tortured trees twisting straight out of the living rock. From the train window it was like looking straight out into a painting; a thousand different paintings. Here was a foaming stream dancing down the hillside. There a white village ranged along a silver loch. In the space of a mere few minutes Laura saw a feathery forest of fir, a sweeping view down a bright green glen, waterlilies in a lonely pool and shining, snow-streaked tops of mountains over which she was almost certain she could see the eagles hovering.