Authors: Rachael Lucas
‘There’s always time,’ said Isla. She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, looking directly at him.
He looked back into her brown eyes. Kindness and compassion shone back at him.
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘I usually am.’ With a flash of a smile, Isla turned away and headed back up the beach towards home.
‘Oh my God, this place is
massive
,’ Jinny hissed under her breath at Isla as they made their way into Duntarvie House. Isla, who made a rule of trying to
stay cool in situations like this, mouthed ‘I know’, aware she was just as wide-eyed as Jinny. Even Shannon’s habitual cool had been replaced with jittery nerves. She’d
insisted on checking their kit bags about five times before they’d loaded everything they needed and driven to the far end of the island and through the wide stone gateposts that marked the
entrance to the Duntarvie Estate.
‘Oh great, you’re here. The bride’s had her make-up done already. She’s in here.’
Kate was wearing a pale grey dress that set off the colour of her eyes. She led them through into a beautiful little drawing room decorated with hand-tied posies of wildflowers and foliage
– all, as she told Isla whilst munching on a celery stick (‘Sorry, I can’t stop eating them – it must be a craving, or I’m missing some vital celery nutrient’),
sourced from the estate and put together by Helen, the florist from town. She lived in one of the pretty little estate cottages they’d driven past on the way into the castle itself, and had
done an amazing job. If this was just the room they were getting ready in, the wedding room itself must be breathtaking.
Isla looked up. The ceilings were unbelievably high, the walls decorated with a pale eau-de-nil wallpaper that gave the room a calm air, and—
‘She’s made me look like a bloody china doll!’
There was a crash as the door was shoved open and a furious woman burst in, wrapped in a white satin robe.
Isla, who had plenty of experience of exactly what weddings did to people, stood well back. Kate – who, she noticed, had a packet of celery hidden on a bookshelf – stepped
forward.
‘Rose, this is Isla, who is our stylist, and Shannon, who’ll be—’
‘Shannon is our head stylist,’ said Isla, filling in quickly. ‘She’s here to make sure you get exactly what you want, Rose, so if you just pop yourself down there,
perhaps Jinny can get you a drink?’ Isla motioned to Jinny, who darted over to a table on which a tray of freshly poured Mimosas stood waiting. She reached out to get one, but her hand was
knocked out of the way by a photographer, who held out a warning finger. ‘Two seconds,’ he whispered, pulling back out of the way and disappearing out of sight.
Shannon was in her element. Rose, who’d been hatchet-faced and furious just a second ago, was now cooing with amazement over Shannon’s mermaid tattoo. Shannon, meanwhile, had already
begun curling and pinning Rose’s hair in front of the ornate, beautifully scrolled mirrors that had been arranged in front of matching Louis XIV chairs.
‘Is there a bridesmaid?’ Isla stepped back and whispered to Kate. ‘I thought we were doing her hair, too?’
Kate widened her eyes. ‘Long story.’ She bit into a piece of celery. ‘It
was
her best friend, but they had a falling out, and then she decided on her sister, who is
still upstairs getting ready –’
Isla looked up at the clock. She wasn’t leaving much time.
‘– but then she decided it would be the best friend, after all.’
‘So where is she?’ Isla’s bag was sitting beside the second, empty, ornate chair. Jinny, meanwhile, was doing the worst ever job of being unobtrusive. She was hovering around
Shannon like a gnat, offering her hairpins and combs, whilst Shannon, displaying an admirable level of patience and professionalism, was swatting her away discreetly.
‘Jinny, do me a favour? Check and tell me how many rollers I’ve brought?’ Isla felt a bit guilty at setting her a pointless mission, but with tensions already running high and
the bridesmaid nowhere to be seen, the last thing she needed was Shannon turning round and shoving Jinny into the expensive satin curtains.
Kate lowered her voice again. ‘Well, the bridesmaid’s upstairs. She’s not – well, she doesn’t exactly need much hair styling.’
Isla raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘When they fell out, she went off and had her hair shaved off for charity.’
Isla had to hide her giggles beneath a hand. ‘I don’t know how you do this.’ She waved a hand around. ‘Wedding stuff would send me mad. How d’you cope with all the
Bridezilla stuff?’
‘Bridezillas?’ Kate scoffed. ‘I tell you what, after a couple of years at this, I can tell you the Groomzillas are a million times worse.’
‘I didn’t even know that was a thing.’ Isla shrugged.
‘Oh God, neither did I. And I speak as someone who behaved as a complete arse at my own wedding.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘I’ll tell you about it sometime.’ Kate smiled. ‘It all worked out in the end –’ she ran a hand over the small bump which was emphasized by the empire line
cut of her dress – ‘but God, I was hideous.’
‘Tea.’ A tall, stately-looking woman entered the room, bearing a huge pot on a silver tray.
‘I knew I’d timed that right,’ said a voice behind her.
‘Mum, there you are! Look at Shannon’s tattoos, aren’t they amazing?’ Rose, now as pliant as a kitten, turned to her mother, beaming.
‘Lovely, darling. Is this seat for me?’
‘Looks like I’m on,’ Isla said to Kate, positioning herself behind the mother of the bride.
As soon as Isla missed the first boat off the island on Monday morning, she had a sneaking suspicion that everything that could go wrong on her day off was about to.
Rolling off the next boat, she turned left, making her way through the little harbour town on the mainland and onto the comforting familiarity of the dual carriageway. She put her foot down.
Feeling the little car take off, its engine roaring in relief at being able to hit above forty miles an hour for the first time in weeks, she tried to shake off the feeling that surprising her dad
with a trip home was a bad idea. Lily, no doubt, would waffle on about the power of instinct; Isla just thought she’d gotten out of bed on the wrong side. It took a certain amount of bad luck
to sleep through two alarm clocks and miss a boat that sailed past your own sitting room window several times a day. But Isla had been exhausted – she’d been flat out for days.
Why she’d taken it into her head to go home for the day when she was so tired was beyond her, but something about the cosy environment of Duntarvie House, and the fact that everyone else
was surrounded by people they loved, had brought on a wave of homesickness.
She made it to Edinburgh just in time to get snarled up in a snail-like queue of tourist traffic, and tried to remain calm as she edged the car forward, managing five miles in half an hour. When
she finally turned the corner down the A-road that led down to her dad’s place she was desperate for the loo, dying for a cup of tea, and cursing herself for being spontaneous.
She pulled up outside the house, realizing as she did so that she’d made a mistake. Within two seconds, out of nowhere, a crowd of small boys on bikes had appeared and were circling the
car, eyes wide with admiration.
‘That your car, missus?’
The bravest of the gang looked up at her through a mouthful of crisps. ‘Gonnae gies a shot in it?’
‘I don’t think so, no.’ Isla set the alarm and strode up the front path to the door, opening it with her own key when there was no reply to her knock. ‘Dad?’
The house was empty – surprisingly tidy, considering her dad hadn’t been expecting her – but there was definitely nobody home. Out of habit, she opened the fridge; inside, to
her amazement, were both vegetables
and
fruit, and the milk was skimmed. Maybe her lectures were finally sinking in.
‘Oi!’ Coming out of the house, relieved that at least she was no longer desperate for the loo, she found the car had been invaded. She’d been right to suspect that the moment
her back was turned, they’d be all over it. ‘Hands off.’
‘Awww,’ said the crisp eater, removing his backside from the bonnet, where he’d perched to take a selfie.
Isla tried her dad’s mobile, but it went straight to voicemail. Next stop was the flat. Maybe Hattie would be around. They could go for a late lunch. Isla was dying for sushi . . .
‘Hi, honey, I’m home,’ she called, echoing Hattie’s familiar cry as she opened the door to the flat. It felt like a lifetime ago that she’d packed her bags and left
Edinburgh, but it was only weeks. Island time seemed to operate differently. It was amazing to be back here in the chaos and the bustle, and yet – Isla bit back a gasp of horror as she took
in the state of the place. Without her there to keep Hattie’s chaos under control, the sitting room looked like a bomb had exploded. Last night’s curry takeaway cartons were open on the
table – Isla sniffed cautiously, hoping they were from last night – and the kitchen counters were a sea of spilt milk with cereal-bowl boats floating on top.
At least she knew that her bedroom wasn’t going to be—
Stepping into the room she’d left immaculate, Isla realized that she’d been foolishly optimistic.
The spotless white sheets she’d saved for and bought from the White Company, the fluffy afghan throw that lay across the end of the bed . . . they were thrown to one side, hanging
drunkenly off the edge of a bed that had clearly been recently slept in. The dressing table where her candles and silver jewellery bowls sat in a tribute to minimalism was stained with something
sticky, which was spilt across the top and had dripped down one leg of the table, and – Isla closed her eyes, stepped backwards out of the room, and pulled the door shut behind her.
It’s only stuff
, she repeated to herself. It could all be replaced. And it’s Hattie’s house, and if she wants to live like a
disgusting spoilt repellent stinking bloody
pig
(Isla took another calming breath, ineffectually), that was fine. BLOODY HELL.
She shut the front door of the flat behind her with such force that the bang echoed through the stone hallway. Still no reply from her dad.
It was late evening when he returned home. He was definitely looking healthier – wearing a freshly pressed shirt, and tidier than she’d seen him in a long time.
‘You should’ve given me more notice,’ he said, enfolding her in a hug. ‘I’d have been here.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Isla, who’d spent an enjoyable few hours re-watching her favourite old John Hughes films, texting Helen about what they were going to wear to the
reunion (which was now a terrifying few days away) and eating the apparently neglected chocolate biscuits from her dad’s biscuit tin.
‘But you’re back on Saturday for that school reunion thing, aren’t you?’ said her dad, loosening his tie.
‘Where did you say you’d been?’ Isla looked at him shrewdly.
He waggled his eyebrows at her, teasing. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Oh, come on, what’ve you been up to? A night out with the boys?’
He gave a vague nod, and pinched a biscuit.
‘Get your feet off that table, young man. You’re no’ too old to go over my knee.’
Finn ducked his head as Jean, housekeeper and
grande dame
of Duntarvie House, slapped him jokingly over the head with a newspaper. She was lovely, but bloody terrifying. He could remember
Roddy getting a cuff round the ear more than once as a young boy. You didn’t mess with Jean. Roddy might’ve grown up without his mum, but Jean had more than made up for it with her
mixture of stern discipline and love.
The house hadn’t changed that much since Roddy and Kate had started hiring it out as a venue for posh weddings. OK, there were parts that looked a lot more spruced-up than they had done
when they’d messed around there as teenagers; and where the huge dining hall had once stood full of disused furniture, the wood floor now shone with wax polish. There were now whole areas of
the big house from which the pack of mud-covered dogs – Roddy’s black Labradors and Kate’s spaniel, Willow – were completely banned.
But in the kitchen, the huge table remained the heart of the house, and Jean still bustled about by the Aga, and Roddy still took himself off to sit by the fire in the book-lined study, where
Kate would curl up on the sofa and snooze. She was exhausted at the moment.
‘Right, Finn, make yourself useful. Set the table for me. Roddy, can you nip out to the greenhouse and get me a lettuce and a handful of cherry tomatoes for the salad?’
Kate made to stand up. Dressed in jeans and a loose-fitting shirt, she still wasn’t really showing. She looked utterly radiant, though – her cheeks flushed pink beneath the
ever-present freckles, dark hair knotted back in a ponytail.
‘So.’ She looked at Finn with an expression he recognized all too well. ‘What’s this I hear about you spending last Sunday up at the retreat place with a certain
glamorous new hairdresser?’
‘Oh God,’ Finn rolled his eyes. Every time the island gossip mill churned out the latest news, he was amazed by how quickly things got round. ‘I was delivering a load of
carvings.’
‘Carvings, my foot,’ snorted Jean, sliding a warm quiche onto the table, oven gloves in hand. ‘That’s no’ what I heard. Fertility dances with huge big
wooden—’
‘Is that right?’ Kate snorted with laughter. ‘Going for the subtle approach, are we, Finn?’
Finn found himself protesting. ‘She’s not that sort of girl.’ He wasn’t in the mood for being teased about Isla being another potential notch on his highly decorated
bedpost. She wasn’t like that; she was different.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Roddy, coming back into the kitchen. He ran the lettuce under the tap, shaking it in a colander before turning to look at Finn with amusement. ‘Where have we
heard that before?’
Finn shook his head good-naturedly. He could take a bit of piss-taking, fair enough. He deserved it.
‘Ah,’ Kate turned to Roddy, laughing. ‘Finn’s losing his touch. Time was, you’d have worked your magic on her and she’d be up here having lunch with us before
you sloped off to bed for the afternoon.’