Tall, Dark and Kilted Read online

  If your heart is in the highlands …

  Tall, Dark and Kilted

  by

  Lizzie Lamb

  Tall, Dark and Kilted © Lizzie Lamb 2012

  Eedition published worldwide 2012 © Lizzie Lamb

  http://www.lizzielamb.co.uk

  All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recoding or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author and/or publisher.

  The moral right of Lizzie Lamb as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Kindle Edition

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events featured in this book are entirely fictional and any resemblance to any person, organisation, place or thing living or dead, or event or place is purely coincidental and is completely unintentional and not intended by the author.

  ISBN 978-0-9573985-1-1

  For Dave

  aka Bongo Man

  who came out from under his camper van to bring me coffee and biscuits.

  And for Jasper

  who kept me company and helped me eat the biscuits.

  Chapter One

  The music hit Fliss as she rounded the corner of Elgin Crescent, Notting Hill.

  The sugared almond pink and yellow houses were almost vibrating in the late May evening as I Predict a Riot blasted out from an open window half way down the street. Her stomach flipped over with a mixture of excitement and nerves as she acknowledged the Kaiser Chiefs were bang on message.

  It was going to be that kind of night.

  That kind of party.

  She gazed wide-eyed at the grand houses and the expensive cars parked in front of them. It wasn’t every day she was invited to this exclusive postcode. In fact, she was more likely to be found passively inhaling her friends’ cigarette smoke over shared laughter, gossip and Mojitos outside her favourite pub in Pimlico than hanging with the Notting Hill set.

  But, tonight was different.

  If she read Isla Urquhart’s invitation correctly, she was about to be made an offer she couldn’t refuse. One which would whisk her away from her poorly paid job at Pimlico Pamperers therapy centre and propel her towards … well, if not stardom exactly, then something more promising than the long hours and low wages which were currently her lot.

  She drew near the Urquharts’ house where Isla was holding court at the top of the stone steps. Ranged below her on the pavement were two Police Community Support Officers and a group of angry neighbours. The butterflies, which had been performing loop the loops in her stomach all the way up from the station, slipped on black opaque tights and hard shoes and broke into Riverdance.

  ‘We won’t ask you again Miss, turn that music down.’

  Isla insolently flicked cigarette ash in the PCSO’s direction, but in spite of her defiant stance she looked openly relieved to see Fliss coming along the street. ‘You tell them Fliss. They won’t listen to me.’

  ‘Tell them what exactly?’ Sensing a Mexican standoff developing, Fliss readied herself to push through the cordon of police and neighbours, bundle Isla indoors and get down to the serious matter of discussing the proposal Isla had mentioned a couple of days earlier

  ‘About Mumma - Being - In - India.’ Isla enunciated slowly, putting an exaggerated stress on each word.

  Quickly realising what was required of her, Fliss said smoothly, ‘She’s at an ashram in India, officer - Jaipur to be precise - having her chakras freed. Won’t be home for weeks. Would you like the number?’ With all the aplomb of an Oscar winning actress she slipped easily into role, scrolling through her mobile phone and then pausing. ‘But, with the time difference and various treatments I really can’t see her coming to the phone.’

  Clearly she’d said the right thing because she was summoned to stand on the top step. And for a moment she felt chosen, special and it didn’t seem to matter that she was a poorly paid holistic therapist and Isla a Notting Hill trustafarian with money to burn. They were friends, in this together and that’s all that mattered.

  ‘She’s probably posted a notice on Facebook. The Crescent will be swamped with rioters and the gardens trashed by hoodies,’ one neighbour persisted, clearly underwhelmed by the PCSO’s performance.

  At that moment, the Ministry of Sound medley blaring through the open window came to an end and a blissful silence descended on Elgin Crescent. Everyone drew breath, the policemen and neighbours made as if to walk away - then the music resumed and Johnny Rotten informed everyone he was an anarchist.

  This, apparently, was a groove too far for Isla’s neighbour.

  ‘That’s it; I’m calling your brother …’

  For a moment, Isla’s poise wavered and the colour drained from her cheeks. Fliss wondered what kind of man had the power to dent the thick armour of her self-belief where a visit from the police had no effect. But she wasn’t allowed time for further reflection because Isla was back with a vengeance.

  ‘Ruairi’s too busy to bother himself with the likes of you. Anyway, chillax - we’re moving into the communal gardens.’ She waved a queenly hand at them.

  ‘Those gardens are for residents!’ a second neighbour spluttered.

  ‘And the Urquharts have lived here longer than any of you,’ she said, looking down her aristocratic nose at them. The police officers exchanged a let’s-get-this-over-with look and moved in.

  ‘Right. That’s enough! You,’ the elder officer addressed Fliss, ‘take her indoors. Close the window and turn down the music. Or this party will be over quicker than you can say: injunction.’

  Seizing the Get Out of Jail Free card, Fliss dragged Isla over the threshold and slammed the front door behind her. She stood with her back pressed against its reassuring solidity as Isla, predictably without a word of thanks, sauntered off towards the back of the house where – judging by the noise, the party was in full swing.

  At that moment, Fliss remembered her best friend and fellow therapist at Pimlico Pamperers had nicknamed Isla and her sister Cat: The Spawn of Satan, and resolved to proceed with caution. Longing for a quiet place to marshal her thoughts and make some sense of why she’d been invited here tonight, Fliss made her way towards the cloakroom.

  As she did so, the motto on a t-shirt she’d seen at Camden Locks Market flashed into mind: If you can’t run with the big dogs, stay on the porch. Maybe that was the point of her being here - to determine if she was poodle or Rottweiler; worthy of inclusion in Isla’s posse, or not. She knew Isla collected friends irrespective of class or upbringing, provided they were amusing - or, as she suspected was more likely in her case - could be of use to her.

  Although just what service she could render the honourable Miss Isla Urquhart wasn’t immediately obvious.

  She tried to shake off the feeling of disquiet, of being out of her comfort zone that accompanied her along the shadowy hallway. How could she fit into Cat and Isla’s world? They had a trust fund to smooth their path and make life pleasant, whereas all she had to look forward to for the next forty years was work, work, and more work.

  The very thought made her head ache.

  But just for tonight, she was going to allow herself to imagine what might happen if Fate - maybe in the unlikely form of Isla Urquhart - intervened and sent some good karma her way. She pulled a face and took a reality check - there was little hope of that happening. Hard work would get her out of her rented flat in Pimlico; not Fate, karma or a knight in shining Armani. And, for the record, knights in armour - designer or otherwise - had been thin on the ground of
late.

  She headed towards a door screened by a thick curtain embroidered with appliquéd elephants and tiny, tarnished silver mirrors. She tried the door, but it was locked. One of Isla’s friends was probably in there snorting illegal substances, she thought annoyed, while she was standing cross-legged, desperate to use the loo. She gave the door a kick and rapped on it with her knuckles in an attempt to hurry up the occupant.

  ‘Give us a minute, will ya?’ came back a voice that was more Chelmsford than Chelsea.

  This was followed by a thump, the sound of breaking glass and hyena-like laughter. The key turned, the curtain was pulled back and peering round the door with a broken mirror in her hand and looking guilty as hell, was her best friend Becky Casterton.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Bex - What are you doing here?’ Fliss asked after a stunned silence.

  ‘Fliss, babe. Thank God it’s you. I thought it might have been one of the Urquharts.’ Becky gazed round like a child who’d been invited to a maiden aunt’s house and warned not to touch anything. ‘Quite a gaff, ain’t it?’ She pulled back the mirrored curtain to reveal a Victorian lavatory in all its glory, complete with cistern, dangling chain and flower transferred toilet bowl. ‘Gross,’ was her considered opinion.

  Fliss laughed at her expression. ‘And did you clock the art work while you were in there?’ She pointed to a group of framed erotic prints under a tarnished picture light and Becky twisted her head to check out the graphic sexual positions. ‘Fifty shades of grey. Or should that be tartan?’

  ‘Yeah. What’s that all about?’ she asked, plainly taken aback to find erotica next to the Andrex and air freshener.

  ‘They’re nineteenth century prints of the Kama Sutra and highly collectable - if you’re into that sort of thing,’ Fliss shouted through the door as she used the loo and then washed her hands.

  ‘Posh porn - I get it! Hey, do you think that’s what Cat and Isla get up to after hours? God, I pity any blokes those two drag back here. They probably eat them alive and spit the bits out for breakfast. Bit of a dump though. You’d think - with all their dosh - they’d give the place a makeover.’ Fliss rejoined Becky who was giving the Urquhart’s eclectic collection of antique furniture and artefacts a second look over. ‘Ain’t they heard of IKEA?’

  ‘The look’s called shabby chic, sweetie. It means that you inherited your furniture from Granny and didn’t buy it in Furniture Land.’ Unlike Becky, she wasn’t fazed by the surroundings because she’d visited the house several times to give Cat and Isla treatments. And last March had organised a Girls’ Night In party where she’d given free demonstrations to the sisters and their girlfriends in return for a large donation to Comic Relief.

  ‘It’s the haunted house from Scooby Doo crossed with the Addams’ Family mansion. If you ask me.’ Becky shuddered as Fliss took the broken mirror from her and carefully placed it on the pier table next to a retro Bakelite telephone.

  How was she going to account for Becky’s presence here tonight - let alone the broken heirloom, she wondered? Her arrival was an unforeseen complication and couldn’t have been worse timed. Shrugging off the thought she went on to explain why the house looked so unloved.

  ‘Apparently, the house hasn’t been touched in years - not since the death of Ruairi Urquhart’s mother.’ She looked two floors above them where a cupola let summer light into the dark hall, half expecting to see the ghost of the late Lady Urquhart materialise and float down towards them. ‘From what I’ve heard, he won’t be too pleased to learn Cat and Isla have organised a party, alienated their neighbours and received a verbal warning from the police.’

  ‘Guess they’re in deep dung, huh?’ Becky’s concerned expression was at odds with the hopeful inflexion in her voice. She disliked the sisters and didn’t bother to hide it.

  ‘Up to their necks,’ Fliss confirmed, hoping that was enough to distract Becky from asking why she was the only therapist from Pimlico Pamperers Isla had invited to the party.

  Actually, it was a question she wouldn’t mind having answered herself. Had she read too much into Isla’s throw away remark - arrive for ten there’s something I want to run past you? Knowing Isla that could simply mean that she wanted a split nail filed before her boyfriend arrived. Or was about to offer Fliss a room to rent in this large house because she knew how cash-strapped Fliss was - and how much she hated her mouldering flat in Pimlico.

  ‘I didn’t know they had a brother,’ Becky said, suitably distracted.

  ‘Stepbrother. It appears that he’s the laird of some vast estate in the highlands of Scotland. Cat and Isla call him The Wolf.’ She shivered, imagining a highlander - tall, dark and kilted - silhouetted against a full moon, striding romantically along a mountain ridge. ‘I get the impression he’s not the kind of man you mess with.’

  ‘He sounds well bad. A bit like the bloke in Being Human? Except he’s a vampire - and Irish - I think.’ Fliss watched as Becky struggled to reconcile conflicting images of bad boys, vampires and lairds.

  ‘Forget about him, Bex. He’s out of our league; probably eats therapists like us for breakfast.’

  ‘Mind you, I do love a bad boy.’ Becky smoothed down her top. ‘Even if his house needs a serious make over and is a whatshisname to his mum.’

  ‘A shrine,’ Fliss supplied.

  ‘This house reminds me of the one in the movie we watched last year. You know; the one with the scary housekeeper.’

  ‘Rebecca …’

  ‘Yeah - Creeped me out, just like this house.’

  ‘This must be one of the few houses in Notting Hill that has all its rooms intact and hasn’t got a swimming pool in the basement.’ Fliss was glad that she wasn’t the only one who felt the weight of unhappiness and bereavement in the air. ‘Most of the other houses I’ve been in have been knocked right through to the gardens. Or turned into swanky apartments.’

  Becky did a double take. ‘Hang on a minute, girlfriend; other houses? Oh, I geddit - you’ve been moonlighting again. You know what’ll happen if you’re found out.’ She left the phrase hanging as concern for Fliss’s welfare drove scary housekeepers, wolfish lairds and bad boys from her mind.

  Fliss knew exactly what would happen. She’d be sacked on the spot. Dismissed without a reference - like the governess in a gothic novel caught in flagrante with the master of the house. But she could earn more moonlighting in the evening than in a whole day at the salon, and that made it worth the risk.

  And needs must …

  The extra money helped to pay the rent and utilities on her flat; it filled the fridge and bought a few luxuries. Anything left over at the end of the month went straight into the building society to fund her dream of managing her own therapy business.

  ‘Well, I’d better make sure that she doesn’t find out, then,’ she said with considerably more bravado than she felt.

  ‘You don’t need to worry about Mrs Morris. Cat and Isla Urquhart will get you into plenty of trouble.’ Becky folded her arms across her breasts to underline her point. ‘I don’t get what you see in them, Fliss. They’re nothing but a pair of stupid tarts. They’ll use you and then spit you out - see if they don’t.’

  ‘I know The Spawn of Satan - you’ve said.’ She tried to make light of Becky’s fears but conceded that she had a point. However, Fliss knew Cat and Isla were only dangerous in the sense that they came from a different universe and could take her away from everything she and Becky had shared since childhood. That was the root of Becky’s dislike and distrust of them. ‘Okay … moving on - how did you get in here tonight? I overheard several of my clients bemoaning the fact that Isla was being very stingy with her invitations. Keeping out the riff-raff, as she put it.’

  ‘I just walked up to the front door along with all the other posh totty and blended right in.’

  Fliss gave Becky’s thigh-skimming skirt, killer heels, low cut top, jacked up breasts and fake Mulberry handbag a doubtful look. ‘I’d have said that your look owe
d more to Katie Price than Kate Middleton.’

  ‘Think you’re soooo funny. Don’t cha?’

  ‘Knicker-wettingly amusing, most people say.’

  ‘Well, I’m not most people,’ Becky responded, giving her a playful shove.

  This banter was a well-established routine and the very essence of their friendship which went back to the first day in nursery school. They’d pretty much lived as sisters since the death of Fliss’s parents six years earlier when Becky’s parents had assumed legal responsibility for her until she reached eighteen. And, much as she owed them a debt of gratitude, Fliss knew it was time for her to leave Pimlico and make something of her life.

  There was a fundamental difference - of ambition and aspiration, mainly - that marked her out from Becky and the other therapists at the salon. She guessed the Urquhart sisters had noticed it, too, and that’s why they’d asked her along tonight. She needed a passport out of Pimlico, the chance of something better in life; maybe the sisters and their circle of upper class girlfriends could provide it.

  ‘Come on, let’s touch up our war paint and hit the party,’ she suggested.

  Becky was only too happy to oblige. She made room so they could share the mirror above the pier table, sprayed a throat clogging mist of perfume around them and arranged her blonde hair extensions to best advantage. Fliss regarded her own reflection with some dissatisfaction. Her grey-flecked green eyes beneath a straight cut fringe held a whimsical, far-away look, but her lips were set in a firm line. Maybe it was this combination of vulnerability and determination that attracted men in the first instance, but scared them off when they encountered her stubborn streak and independent nature. Whatever the reason, she hadn’t been out on a second date in a long time or had a serious relationship in years.

  Perhaps all that would change tonight.

  ‘You, okay?’ Becky asked, clearly sensing Fliss’s anxiety but misinterpreting the cause of it. ‘You look drop dead gaw - jus and you don’t need me to tell you that.’ Reaching out, she fluffed up Fliss’s shoulder length auburn hair and tenderly straightened her floaty top.