Tall, Dark and Kilted Page 2

  ‘I’m a little tired, that’s all …’ Fliss felt a pang at keeping secrets from Becky, but much as she loved her, she couldn’t allow Becky’s unscheduled arrival to jeopardise her chances tonight. However, she needn’t have worried, because Becky had already moved on to her favourite subject: Men.

  ‘Let’s go and find those two fit blokes I clocked earlier. I told them to wait in the kitchen for us. Blokes on tap! Save us a lot of time - how cool is that?’

  ‘Decidedly un-cool. You’re complete rubbish when it comes to finding me a decent man. I’m not interested, Bex - even if they’re a cross between Johnny Depp and Brad Pitt, with Lady Gaga for a mother.’

  ‘You’re way too picky, know that? Come on, lighten up and get laid, girlfriend. You’re only young once. We’ll probably never get invited to another party like this.’

  ‘We?’ Fliss gave her a severe look.

  ‘Okay, me. Where’s the harm?’ Becky asked and then skidded to a halt in front of a brass Buddha sitting in the lotus position on a pier table. The scent from joss sticks stuck into the pierced fretwork of his robes didn’t quite mask the pungent sweetness of cannabis permeating the house.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Skunk!’ She sniffed the air knowledgeably. ‘I might not know about shabby chic and posh porn, but I recognise Moroccan Woodbines when I smell them. Bring it on, baby.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘This is definitely my kind of party - and Cat and Isla have just become my new best friends.’

  Fliss groaned. Now she’d have to keep an eye on her all night and make sure she stayed out of trouble. That would seriously derail her plans for a one-to-one with Isla. She sighed resignedly; nothing was going according to plan. The words of the horoscope she’d downloaded onto her mobile that morning now seemed doubly prophetic: Friends will make or break your weekend. Have an escape plan at the ready.

  But which friends was the horoscope referring to, and how was she supposed to come up with an escape plan when she had no idea what - or who - she’d be escaping from? Touching Buddha for good karma, she guided Becky towards the back of the house where screams, the sound of crockery being smashed and the insistent thump, thump of garage music announced that the party was well under way.

  Chapter Three

  They entered the kitchen in the middle of a food fight. Cat Urquhart hurtled past them with an armful of tomatoes, cannoned into a Welsh dresser and then straight into the kitchen table.

  ‘Oops,’ she giggled as Fliss reached out to steady her. ‘That could’ve been expensive. Mitzi - our Mumma, loves this junk.’ She nodded towards a collection of Emma Bridgewater pottery on the dresser as she lobbed tomatoes at her friends. Her eyes were crossed like a Siamese’s - the effect of too much drink or drugs, Fliss assumed - and the tomatoes missed their mark, splattering the walls and kitchen cupboards instead.

  ‘You guys wanna a drink?’ she slurred, waving towards an ice filled Belfast sink where a spectacular range of booze was chilling.

  ‘Thanks, we’ll help ourselves,’ Fliss remarked, doubting Cat’s ability to pour wine into a glass. Ducking to avoid some low flying bread rolls, Fliss walked over to the draining board where monogrammed napkins and solid silver cutlery had been dumped next to antique Waterford goblets. She poured two glasses of Pimms from a heavy jug that looked remarkably like one she’d seen on Cash in the Attic recently - a Lalique worth several thousand pounds.

  As if suddenly remembering her duties as hostess, Cat gestured towards the buffet abandoned on the table like supper on the Marie Celeste. ‘Help yourselves, guys,’ she hiccupped. Then someone shook a bottle of champagne and sprayed it over her, like it was the end of the Grand Prix. ‘Hey - mind me bleedin’ cloves, will ya?’ she squawked in a faux cockney accent.

  The forsaken buffet and the casualness with which the sisters treated family heirlooms was a testament to their belief that life was too short to spend it stuffing mushrooms. Ever practical, Fliss thought of the mammoth cleaning operation that would be required when the party was over. Then a sobering thought struck her - what if she’d been invited to the party to take charge of their shambolic attempt at entertaining? Would Isla march through the door, give her a pair of Marigolds and tell her to get down to it, lickety-spit. Like a latter day Mary Poppins?

  If so, then she’d be told exactly where to stick her Marigolds.

  As Becky said, it was time she chilled, forgot the day-to-day struggle and lived for the moment. Then she reminded herself that she wasn’t free to act like Cat and Isla, she lacked the necessary clout, connections and money to get out of trouble. When the brown stuff hit the fan, girls like her had to rely on nous, a fast pair of heels and a bomb proof exit strategy.

  A death-like groan drew her back to Cat who was bent over the edge of the Belfast sink and had turned a nasty shade of green. Acting instinctively, Fliss put down the two glasses of Pimms she’d just poured and dragged Cat into the garden where she was violently sick in a flowerbed.

  ‘My bloody shoes,’ a woman complained as her black suede high heels took a light splattering of vomit. ‘They’re fucking Laboutins,’ she shrieked in a voice capable of waking all the dogs in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea.

  ‘That’d be Charlie Laboutin, would it?’ Isla strolled up to inspect the shoes and her drunken sister. ‘They’re fakes darling,’ she pronounced with obvious satisfaction.

  ‘They’re soooo not fakes … they’ve got red soles; and cost me over five hundred pounds in Harvey Nick’s,’ she said, disappearing indoors to clean them.

  Isla bent down until she was level with her sister’s pallid face and gave her a vigorous shake. ‘Snap out of it, Cat, you’re spoiling Fliss’s fun. No one’s going to spend the whole night looking after you.’ Fliss took that to mean that she wasn’t, but hoped that Fliss might. Cat gave another groan, her head rolled sideways and she was sick again. Feeling rather sorry for her, Fliss helped Cat to her feet and then wiped her face with a tissue she’d found in her jeans pocket.

  ‘You appear to have it all under control, Fliss,’ Isla said with the brisk air of a WRVS organiser sending out troops to a battle zone. ‘You’ll look after her, won’t you? You’ve been trained for this sort of thing, after all.’ Fliss wondered how on earth Isla had made the giant leap from her being a member of St John’s Ambulance Brigade (lapsed), to ward sister at Holby General.

  ‘I think you’d be a better choice. But shouldn’t we call a doctor?’

  ‘No. No, she’ll be fine. Besides, we don’t want the Plods sniffing round, do we? There’s a padded couch in the summerhouse, put her in there. Let her sleep it off. Yeah? Oh, hang on - better check her pockets.’ She rummaged through Cat’s skirt and found an iPhone, a half-smoked spliff and a wrap of cocaine. She gave the phone and the drugs to Fliss. ‘I thought as much … cheeky little cow’s been at my stash.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do with them?’ Fliss had no intention of spending the party in possession of class A drugs or playing Super Nanny to Cat Urquhart.

  ‘Keep them, for helping,’ Isla said magnanimously. ‘Yeah? There’s plenty more where they came from. Although, not the iPhone. Obviously.’

  ‘Obviously.’ But Fliss’s sarcasm went right over Isla’s head.

  ‘Hey, you guys …’ Isla shouted at some friends who’d draped a life-sized statue of Venus de Milo in next door’s garden in what appeared to be her best Agent Provocateur underwear. Shaking Fliss off, she signalled for the music to be jacked up to ear bleeding level and went over to join them.

  ‘I’ll look after your sister then, shall I? No, of course it’s not too much trouble, Thanks for asking.’ But Isla had already disappeared into the May twilight and Fliss’s ironic curtsey went unnoticed.

  Resigned to her role as babysitter, Fliss wondered briefly where Becky was and then headed towards an Edwardian summerhouse framed in fairy lights. Guiding Cat onto a padded couch, she put her into the recovery position with a pillow at her back and left her to sleep o
ff her excesses. Looking round the summerhouse, with its broken toy box and old doll’s house crammed in the corner, she could imagine the sisters playing here in more innocent times.

  Then she glanced down at the drugs in her hand and serious second thoughts began to crowd in. Was it wise to hitch her wagon to Isla’s wayward star? Stake everything on a vague promise which she’d most probably forgotten? Feeling disenchanted with the evening Fliss slipped the drugs and iPhone into her pocket. She checked on Cat one last time and then walked further into the garden where the air was sweet with the scent of tobacco plants and regale lilies.

  Lights in the shape of red chilli peppers had been threaded through the branches of old fruit trees to mark the boundary. And citronella flares - lit to keep the bugs at bay, mingled with the smell of crushed grass, creating a heady cocktail which was balm to her senses. She shivered despite the warmth of the evening and wrapped her arms around herself, beset by restlessness, a longing for something just out of reach. Something she wanted but couldn’t give a name to, a feeling that she couldn’t express in words.

  Isla’s friends, obviously tiring of the food fight in the kitchen, spilled onto the lawn and started dancing to a Ministry of Sound track like this was a beach in Ibiza, not a garden in W11. They were soon joined by Isla and her posse of girlfriends and Fliss’s whimsical mood was killed, stone dead.

  ‘Buggery bollocks; bloody neighbours. Turn off the music,’ Isla ordered. ‘We’ve had another visit from Mr and Mrs Plod and they’ve issued a formal warning. Jeez-us, you’d think they’d have something better to do on a Saturday night than break up a harmless little farewell party - wouldn’t you? Isn’t it punishment enough that Himself’s ordered us home to fuckin’ Scotland to die from an overdose of tartan, Gaelic and midges?’

  Fliss was startled to realise that Isla was addressing her - like they were best friends or something. Clearly, Isla did want something from her. Fliss eyed her suspiciously; best friends? She hardly thought so … the contrast between them as they faced each other in the flickering light of the citronella flares couldn’t have been more marked. Her Top Shop combo of white skinny jeans, filmy kaftan and gladiator sandals when measured against Isla’s vintage Indian waistcoat, voile shorts, ripped fishnets and leather biker boots - made it clear that she came from a galaxy far, far away.

  Far away from Notting Hill, that is.

  ‘Well, I’m going to make this a night to remember,’ Isla assured her. ‘Come on guys; grab a couple of bottles each - we’re moving into the garden square. Party on, dudes; woo - hoo.’

  The stirring speech reawakened the restiveness in Fliss. She looked longingly towards the well-tended communal garden beyond the archway of roses, then back at the kitchen door. The window of opportunity for finding Becky and leaving before the real trouble kicked off was disappearing - fast. Then she thought - why not? She might never get another chance to walk in this exclusive communal garden and gaze into the million pound properties that surrounded it. How many Brazilians, eyebrow threading and reflexology sessions would it take to earn that kind of money, she wondered?

  She took a glass of champagne from one of the trays being passed round and walked through the gates. She drained the glass in several thirsty gulps and her eyes widened - this wasn’t the usual cheap prosecco on offer at Tesco’s, but something rarer. Vintage Krug, perhaps; not that she knew what Krug tasted like, but she’d read about it in salon copies of Tatler and Vogue. She held her glass out for a top up, but this time she sipped the champagne more slowly and savoured the taste.

  As she walked round exploring the garden square, a brass plaque on the back of a teak bench gleamed dully beneath the security light and caught her attention. Moving closer, she read the inscription using her mobile phone’s display as a torch.

  For Mairi Urquhart who loved this garden.

  Erected in her memory by Hamish and Rhuairidh,

  who loved her.

  Fliss had heard stories of Lady Urquhart who’d died shortly before her thirty fifth birthday and how her husband, Hamish, had married soon after. Too quickly and too conveniently some said, with Isla being born six months after the honeymoon and Cat two years later. Now, having the seen this poignant inscription, Fliss wished she’d listened more attentively when Isla had talked about her family whilst on the therapy couch. She was curious to learn more about Ruairi Urquhart; how he’d coped with an estate encumbered by death duties. His reaction when he’d been forced to abandon his university studies, take over the lairdship of his estate and responsibility for two wayward stepsisters and an eccentric stepmother.

  But, most of all - how he’d come by his nickname: The Wolf.

  Running her fingers over the tarnished plaque, Fliss was drawn back to her recent bereavement and felt an immediate connection with him. She knew how it felt to lose the people one loved. She took another sip of the champagne and this time a real buzz of pleasure reverberated through her. She smiled at her foolishness when she realised that the buzz was coming from Cat’s iPhone in her pocket. She drew it out, read the caller display and her smile faded, replaced by a chill of presentiment.

  Call it Fate, synchronicity or a moment of pure happenstance. But, one thing was indisputable … Ruairi Urquhart, The Wolf of the Highlands was phoning home.

  Chapter Four

  She dropped the phone on the bench as if it was too hot to handle and watched it vibrate and turn through one hundred and eighty degrees - like an angry beetle flipped on its back. She reached out for it and then drew her hand back - much better to let it ring until the battery went flat or Urquhart hung up. If he wanted to know what was happening in his house and what his sisters were up to, he’d have to find out from someone else.

  Glancing back at the phone she noticed that ringtone and vibrating had stopped. She let out a sigh of relief, blew her fringe out of her eyes and pressed the back of her hand against her hot cheek. Her relief was short lived, however, as the phone burst into noisy life again. She had no intention of answering it - she really didn’t - but then her conscience and her vivid imagination kicked in.

  What if there was a genuine emergency and he was stranded half way up a rock face in Wester Ross calling for help? Help that only she could summon. She pictured the mountain rescue helicopter hovering over a precipice, the paramedic being winched down to rescue him. Being interviewed on the Ten O’clock News. The family thanking her for saving his life.

  She answered the call.

  ‘Hello …’

  ‘Catriona …’

  That was the last word she understood. The rest of the conversation appeared to be conducted in Klingon. Or some other language she hadn’t studied at school or picked up on holiday in Ayia Napa last summer with Becky and the girls from Pimlico Pamperers. Unaware that she’d actually said Klingon, she gave a start when Ruairi Urquhart repeated it.

  ‘Klingon? What the f-. Who is this?’ His voice poured into her ear like posh treacle - deep, well-modulated and with a faint trace of an unfamiliar accent. It made a shiver run down her spine, in spite of it being the hottest day of the summer.

  ‘A friend of Cat and Isla’s,’ she said, thinking fast.

  ‘Okay, friend of Cat and Isla, why are you answering my sister’s phone?’

  ‘Because … she’s busy.’

  ‘That’ll be a first.’ He laughed sarcastically as if the idea of Cat doing anything useful was extremely unlikely. ‘Busy doing what?’ His peremptory tone dissipated Fliss’s pleasant champagne buzz. ‘Hello, are you still there?’

  ‘Y-es,’ she responded after a long pause. ‘Cat’s - well, she’s busy doing - stuff, you know?’

  ‘Stuff?’ he repeated as though talking to a half-wit. ‘No, strangely enough, I don’t know what constitutes stuff in the surreal world you and my sisters inhabit. I don’t know who you are and I care even less, but there’s a party going on in my house and I want to know who’s responsible for it. Take Cat’s phone to her - immediately - and tell Isla to switc
h hers on.’ His barked instructions made it clear he was used to issuing orders and having them obeyed.

  ‘I really don’t think …’

  ‘You aren’t required to think,’ he said, as though that was beyond her capabilities. ‘Just put one foot in front of the other, repeat the action several times and take this phone to one of my sisters. You can do that - walk, I mean? You aren’t so drunk that you can’t stand up, for example?’

  ‘Of course I’m not drunk, but …’

  ‘Can’t you do anything without arguing about it first? I’ve just been woken up by my next door neighbour Mr Shipstone, and I’m not best pleased. So I’ll make this easy for you. Take. The. Phone. To. Cat.’

  ‘Just woken up? But it’s only eleven o’clock.’

  Who in their right mind drew the curtains and went to bed on a glorious evening like this? Just how old was this stepbrother of theirs? He sounded about a hundred and ten and dry as dust.

  ‘Not that it’s any business of yours, I’m in Hong Kong where it’s six o’clock in the morning. I’m jet lagged, got an important meeting in a couple of hours and really don’t appreciate exchanging inanities with one of my sisters’ idiot friends. So, if you wouldn’t mind?’

  She did mind; she minded very much that he thought he could talk to her like … like she was a minion and he was the master.

  ‘Hong Kong? I thought you were in Scotland … was that Mandarin you were speaking earlier? No wonder I couldn’t understand a word.’ She was curious and wanted to find out more about him. Needed to see if he was as she’d pictured him: tall, dark - and as it now turned out - bad tempered. Or if he was some middle aged man who needed his full eight hours of sleep. She heard his jaw splitting yawn and knew she should hang up. But a devil of mischief made her want to her drag out the conversation long enough to make her point that no man had mastery over her.

  ‘Look. I don’t know who you are. Why you’ve got Catriona’s phone or why - for one minute - you’d think I’d be speaking Mandarin or any other Chinese dialect to my sister. I was speaking Gaelic, if you must know; Scots Gaelic. You’re clearly out of your mind on drugs so I’ll make this easy for you: tell - Isla - to - ring - me. And if you have any sense of what’s good for you, you’ll get out of my house, PDQ.’ He paused as if he was going to say more but had changed his mind. ‘Is that in plain enough English for you?’ and with that, he hung up