One, thought Lorna MacDonald. She was getting dressed for the dinner in her flat near the tiny school where she was headmistress and thinking about Saif, the island’s doctor, who had come as a refugee from Syria and with whom she was passionately in love, even though he had no idea if his wife was still alive. Oh, and she taught his children.
It was, frankly, an incredible mess, and now the end of the year was nearly upon them, and she was doing a mental tally and not liking in the slightest what it showed.
One night at the beginning of the year, snuck under the cover of darkness.
One night in the springtime, when the boys went camping with the Scouts.
Three nights: they had managed a long weekend in Edinburgh, when Pam and Charlie had taken the boys on an Outward Bound course they had had free places for.
Saif had been bowled over by the city’s dark, extravagant beauty, its glorious, brimming-over atmosphere, the tiny closes and cobbled steps, the hidden-away bars and vast vistas.
They had stayed in a turret of a hotel they could barely afford, climbed Calton Hill in the rain, eaten every type of food they couldn’t find on Mure, which was, frankly, pretty much all of them. They’d even found, on the corner of an ancient square, a Middle Eastern restaurant, which he pronounced “not bad,” even as Lorna laughed her head off at the sight of him absolutely stuffing his face with baba ghanoush.
She had a couple of photos of the two of them. The sun had shone down and they had grabbed an extraordinary amount of unlikely food from Valvona & Crolla and sauntered to Princes Street Gardens, and they sat out and had an actual picnic in the shadow of the castle, and she had taken a selfie of them both, his head next to hers, laughing and slightly embarrassed at the same time; guilty seeming, always.
But she took it anyway, even though she knew, a million times over, that she couldn’t post it anywhere, couldn’t put it on her social media. She sent it to Flora, who was half dead from breastfeeding and couldn’t do much more than send a weak thumbs-up. But Lorna looked at it all the time. They could be any couple in that photo. They could be normal. If they weren’t in secret. If she wasn’t his children’s teacher. If his wife wasn’t missing. If they could go public . . .
Well, there was no point in thinking about that. They couldn’t go public, they just couldn’t. Little stolen moments, occasionally when he was on call. She hated them being furtive—they both did—it felt grubby and tawdry.
It also felt wonderful, which was very much a part of the problem.
Oh, and Halloween, which really oughtn’t to have happened at all. She blushed slightly. Well, it had been very dark. There had been a lot of parties and a lot of people in and out of houses, and the boys had been away with all their school friends for hours—children could always roam freely on Mure, it was safe as houses.
Six, she counted. Six nights in a year. This couldn’t go on. She brushed out her lovely thick red hair crossly.
THE LITTLE JETTY, in contrast to the rest of the island, was absolutely festooned with lights twinkling in large jars, leading the way to where a red carpet was laid up the steps to the Rock’s front door and a piper greeted them with a lamenting air.
It was beautiful, and the people disgorging behind Joel and Flora oohed and aahed their way appreciatively up the steps, even though the cold wind was blowing straight off the sea. At either side of the door was a gas brazier jetting fire into the air, which looked incredibly impressive too, and inside all the windows glowed an inviting yellow and orange, temptingly warm and cozy, and the scents of champagne, ladies’ perfume, and woodsmoke filled the air, along with, of course, the great heavy Christmas wreaths everywhere.
Flora felt a flush of pride. It was going to be okay. The Rock was going to be fine. Several of the guests from the mainland were staying over tonight, some in the main house, others in the guest cottages dotted around the grounds, which came with underfloor heating and all the mod cons. Joel had lived in one of the cottages when they’d first began working on Mure. Even thinking about those days now gave her a little frisson. She looked at Joel to see if he was thinking the same thing, but he appeared to be texting Eck, who was babysitting and who didn’t pay any attention to his phone or know how to text, so she wasn’t sure how useful that was going to be.
Inside, Gala was standing with flutes of champagne and sparkling juice for the guests, and waitstaff recruited from the village were already circulating with canapés. The fires were burning high, and everywhere were groups of well-dressed, happy-looking people, many local but incredibly unrecognizable out of their tweeds and fleeces. Mrs. Docherty sparkled in a glittering diamanté shirt and bright fuchsia lipstick that Flora would wager (correctly) was the only lipstick she had ever owned; the farmers scrubbed up well in ancient handed-down kilts, patched and mended. Pam was wearing a bright purple satin dress with puffed sleeves. Flora thought she looked like a Quality Street candy tin, but kept it to herself as Pam swept in to see Joel.
“Come on, darling, I have to rush you away,” she said. “You don’t mind, do you, Flora? He has to meet the sponsors.”
Flora did mind, very much. This was the first night they’d had out, just the two of them, since Douglas had been born. She was hoping to say a quick hello to everyone, then grab a bottle of champagne and retire to one of the as-yet-uninhabited suites. She had been hoping for that very much. Perhaps a bit of dancing first (Joel did not dance, but he liked watching her at it), followed by an amazing dinner, then . . . well, she had quite a lot of plans for Joel Booker that evening, as it happened.
But here he was, allowing himself to be impounded by Pam. Charlie came up, smiled at her apologetically, and kissed her on both cheeks. Pam turned round and gave him a stony stare, which meant that the nice little chitchat Charlie had been very much looking forward to with Flora about baby sick—he couldn’t discuss anything tough about child-rearing with Pam, as she insisted it was all brilliant and everything was perfect at all times—was not going to be in the cards at all. So he smiled apologetically again and backed out of the entry hall. Flora eyed the big stag head over the door.
“Just you and me, kid,” she muttered, handing in her coat.
IN THE KITCHEN, Konstantin was once again despairing. He’d been supposed to practice chopping vegetables all weekend. Instead he’d spent the time hiding in the airing cupboard, the warmest place in the building when there were no guests, reading Ivanhoe and composing desperate missives to his friends back home to launch a rescue mission. He needed to buy a phone and considered stealing one.
“Can I borrow your phone?” he asked Isla brusquely.
“Please?” she suggested mildly.
He grimaced. “Please,” he said, feeling like an idiot.
She handed it over and he took it then stared at it, frowning.
“I can’t remember anyone’s number,” he said.
“I know,” said Isla. “Where’s your phone?”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t work anymore.”
“You can get credit at the shop,” said Isla, “when we get paid.”
“Credit?”
“Phone credit.”
“Will that make my phone work?”
Isla wondered if Konstantin was, in fact, educationally subnormal. “Uh, duh?”
Konstantin looked so upset she nearly laughed.
“You can log in to Facebook if you like,” said Isla finally, when he showed no sign of handing the device back.
“I’m not on Facebook,” he scoffed.
“Fine,” said Isla. “Give it back then.”
“No, no, hang on. I can sign in to Snapchat and DM.”
He fiddled with some buttons.
“Sure, use my data, you’re welcome,” said Isla, but it fell on deaf ears.
Konstantin had never paid a phone bill in his life. He tapped a few buttons. Then a few more. Then he really did swear.
“What now?” said Isla.
“I can’t remember the password.”
“Well, ask them for a new one.”
“I have,” said Konstantin. “They’ve texted it. To my phone.”
Isla couldn’t suppress a grin, which he noticed.
“It’s not funny,” he said, roughly handing back the phone.
“Noo,” said Isla. “But can I ask . . . why are you here? Without a phone or any money?”
Konstantin sighed. He was always too embarrassed to say he’d been banished. So he shrugged. “I’m meant to be learning things.”
“Well, you can start back at those potatoes.”
SO KONSTANTIN WAS in a filthy mood, because he was falling behind, and Gaspard was in a filthy mood with him, because, as he, Gaspard, never ceased to tell him, when he was seventeen years old he had learned to chop for six hours a day in order to save up for his very first set of knives, the knives he still carried today, because if you wanted to excel at something you had to practice it. Which was exactly what Konstantin had heard from his music teacher, sailing teacher, math teachers, English teachers, science teachers, and art teachers his entire life. He felt about three feet tall.
“Faster! Faster!!”
The menu was simple: pâté, followed by red wine–braised venison with Hasselback potatoes, roasted carrot and turnip, and a beautiful vegetarian haggis dish for the non–meat eaters, but the timing was crucial. There were sixty people out there, all of whom needed feeding at the same time, and if half the room had nothing and half the room had rapidly cooling plates, you could be assured that absolutely nobody would be happy.
But things, Isla was starting to notice, were coming along well. The ovens worked brilliantly and fired the potatoes in record time; the whisky sauce was smelling absolutely delicious. The starter was a selection of local pâtés, which had been made in advance and stored in the huge fridges; the mushroom, white pepper, and brandy was so very delicious Isla simply couldn’t imagine it was made from things you could find on the island, but Gaspard assured her both that this was the case and that he absolutely 100 percent wasn’t going to poison anyone this time, and Isla had stared at him for a long time and he had said, “Ees joke,” but she wasn’t 100 percent convinced.
Outside, she could hear the happy din of pleased donors, as the champagne kept coming and people readied themselves to open their checkbooks. It was nice to have something like this on the island, when everyone could get together and complain about the people who visited the island. And because it was getting into Christmas party season, there was a nice feeling of kicking everything off in style. She wished her mother would have come. She’d have got her a ticket, got her out of the house for once. Her mother had harrumphed and told her it was a completely stupid waste of time and the MacKenzies were going to ruin themselves up at that big house, everybody knew it, and Isla would be out of a job, and they’d hardly want her back at the café—it had been running much better since she left.
Iona slipped into the kitchen.
“You’re not supposed to be back here.”
“I know!” said Iona. “Hee hee. I came to laugh at you because I don’t have to work nights. Oh, and take reportage photographs.”
Isla didn’t know what those were but decided it was best to keep quiet.
“Hey, who’s that?” said Iona in, as usual, a voice that wasn’t nearly quiet enough. She meant Konstantin, who was dolefully chopping the slices in the potatoes, wearing an oven glove because Gaspard didn’t trust him enough not to cut off his own hand again. It didn’t matter that Iona was being loud, though, because Gaspard had the food processor blaring away, drowning out all sound.
“Ugh, he’s a drip,” said Isla. “Some dropout. He’s absolutely useless.”
Which would have more or less been fine, had Gaspard not chosen that exact instant to mute the food processor.
Silence fell in the kitchen apart from the radio burbling away in the background. Konstantin’s pale skin suddenly flushed bright pink, right to the tips of his ears. He concentrated on chopping, the knife sounding clumsy and unruly on the board, and very loud in the quiet kitchen. Isla went bright red too, not helped by Iona bursting out laughing.
There was no time to dwell, however, as Gaspard batted his hands at Iona to get her to leave his kitchen, then rallied them to go faster and faster. The potatoes were beautifully crispy, like tiny toast racks, roasted in local duck fat and sprinkled with rosemary and crystals of sea salt—he used, Isla noticed, quite an alarming amount of salt in almost everything. Perhaps that was a chef secret she was previously unaware of.
“Okay!” shouted Gaspard. “Are we ready? To go? Thees is our first big night of service, so we are ready, table one, you go, table eight!”
The young waiters nodded, looking serious. Isla and Konstantin were plating up together. She sidled up, face flaming.
“Uh, sorry about . . .”
He gave her an extremely imperious look. “What would I care what you think?” he said, blinking.
Stung, Isla went bright red once more, hating him, and back to plating up. The waiters moved at lightning speed as Gaspard looked at the big clock on the kitchen wall and shouted, “Three, two, one, let’s go!”
In the dining room there was a pleasant hum of conversation. The pâté had been cleared away, and people were spreading napkins and refilling glasses, ready for the new course. There was a pleasant clink of conversation, dominated by Pam, who was also going to be starting the speeches afterward, as she kept telling everyone, and about how this was about the children really, which Flora knew already, and how amazing it was that Christabel was sleeping through the night so they could easily leave her with a sitter. Flora narrowed her eyes at this last bit. It couldn’t be true, could it? Well, maybe it was true, she thought, but Pam was following one of those evil regimented baby care techniques that involved them being left to cry themselves exhausted for hours on end. Flora decided this absolutely had to be it.
“Yes, they’re just so much happier in a lovely structure,” said Pam.
“I thought you never put the baby down,” said Flora, in a voice that came out much more accusatory than she’d intended. Pam blinked at her.
“Well, yes,” she said. “For the first few months. It made her happy and secure enough to be left whenever and however.”
She smiled beatifically as Flora ignored her phone, which was bleeping, almost certainly a message complaining that Douglas was yelling blue murder and Agot was joining in.
Flora headed over to speak to her friend Lorna, who was looking beautiful in a new green dress, earrings sparkling.
“Wow, look at you,” she said.
“I know,” said Lorna. “Too much?”
“Mrs. Docherty is wearing a diamanté fascinator and a jeweled comb.”
“Okay, compare me to somebody else.”
Flora gave her a hug. Lorna didn’t even pretend to hide what she was feeling; Flora was her only confidante.
“So he’s not coming.”
“I’m not sure he’s really a posh dinner kind of a person.”
“You don’t know what kind of a person he is,” said Lorna, too quickly, then bit her tongue. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” said Flora. “Don’t think I’m not sympathetic, because I am. Do you want me to fake a medical emergency so we can call him? Nothing disgusting, just a fainting fit or something?”
“No, don’t,” said Lorna, pointing at Mrs. Laird, Saif’s babysitter, who was wearing a gold dress with batwing sleeves from the 1980s and cackling wholeheartedly with her mates over a gin. “If we ruin Mrs. Laird’s night, she’ll start spitting in the flour.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t,” said Flora, watching Mrs. Laird cackle once again. “But yeah, let’s not take the risk.”
“I wish . . .” said Lorna. “I wish I could give him up.”
“There are men here,” said Flora.
“There are men everywhere,” said Lorna. “Have you seen the Highlands Tinder?”
Flora allowed that she had not.
“Loggers. Fishermen. Farmers. Renewable power analysts. Rig workers. Ferrymen. The Highlands has about ninety percent of Britain’s available men and a lot of them are fit.”
“But . . .” said Flora softly.
“But none of them are him.”
“You do look beautiful,” said Flora again.
“Thanks,” said Lorna, reminding herself not to drink too much. The temptation to go over to his house would be huge, and the repercussions potentially disastrous. The idea of waking the boys was so unutterably traumatic and disgusting she couldn’t bear it.
“More fizz?” said Flora eagerly.
“No,” said Lorna regretfully, covering the top of her glass with her freshly manicured hand. “No, thank you.”
The doors to the kitchen were suddenly flung open, and Flora turned her head interestedly to watch the food come out. Instead, she was greeted with absolute mayhem.
IN BJÅRK’S DEFENSE, he had been cooped up in Konstantin’s bedroom a lot, and even when he was taken out, it was for gloomy walks around the small headland north of the hotel, as Konstantin looked out at the wind farms across the water and felt terribly sorry for himself.
It wasn’t entirely his fault that he needed some exercise, plus he was desperate for company. Back at the palace it was considered perfectly normal for Bjårk to wander the hallways, almost always ending up in the kitchen, where the staff spoiled Bjårk as much as they spoiled Konstantin; there was always a tidbit or two for them, as he obligingly accepted treats, hugs, and confidences.
“Let’s go!” a voice shouted loudly, which sounded very much like what they called out—“La oss gå!”—in Norway when they were chasing stags through the woods, or racing their horses across a crisp snowy field, just for the fun of it, as the low winter sun made everything sparkle like diamonds. “Let’s go” was a call to arms, a call to run.
And Bjårk, lonely, bored, on his way to the kitchen to see what smelled so absolutely wonderful, couldn’t help but respond to it.
Like a big furry bullet, he shot straight through the kitchen and through the door, bang, straight into one of the waitresses, who shrieked and toppled the artful collection of plates on the wide tin tray. The noise it made was unbelievable. Someone in the room screamed as well, so surprised by the sudden cacophony. This startled Bjårk so badly he plowed headlong into the nearest table, knocking it straight over, drenching several white shirts with bright red wine. Someone else started yelling. Now there was a rampage.
Gaspard appeared at the door.
“Mon dieu! The dog! The dog!! Breeng heem to me! I shall keel him and serve him as delicious next course!!”
Konstantin appeared next, white-faced. “Bjårk! Bjårk! Heel! Come here! Heel!!”
But Bjårk was cavorting now, having discovered some cracker bits he’d upturned on the floor, and was eating and dashing about, unable to see beyond the tables and badly confused.
He was so big and hairy—and an unknown—that people were unwilling to lay a hand on him in case he bit it off. Some old farmers made a grab for him, but he was still bucking about, tail waving madly now, having a fabulous time as he caused absolute havoc. It didn’t help that at that point the piper thought it was his cue to come in from the outside (where his fingers were freezing off), immediately starting up a noise incredibly loud even in the big room, startling the most hardened bagpipe listeners, never mind poor old Bjårk, who immediately leaped even harder and started barking, trying to join in.
“Bjårk!! Kom hit!”
“I will keel your dog and then you! It shall be a bouillabaisse and you may both float!” said Gaspard, waving a meat mallet—the closest object he had to hand—in the air and going straight after Konstantin, who ducked straight under him to get on his way. The entire room was havoc and chaos, between people genuinely upset at losing their dinner in this way and everyone else, who were doubled up in helpless laughter as the entire kitchen staff chased a bouncing dog round and round the tables.
“Och, everyone, be quiet!” shouted Flora finally, and grabbed a piece of the venison off the nearest broken plate. This was all so awful, but she couldn’t let herself think like that right now. Instead she knelt down and opened her hand to the dog. “Come here, sweetie.” She spoke in the soft voice that worked incredibly well with Bramble, Douglas, and, as it happened, Joel.
She held her hand out steadily as Bjårk paused in his bounding for a second.
“There we are, come and try this,” she said softly and soothingly. The dog paused and she didn’t move, so he stealthily made his way toward her.
Just as he opened his mouth to take the meat, Konstantin pounced on him from behind with a makeshift lead made from two tea towels hastily tied together and managed to restrain him for long enough to pick him up, whereupon Bjårk immediately wrestled his way out of Konstantin’s arms and knocked over another table. As if as a final word, the table hit the wall, hard, and the huge stag head that was hanging on a nail fell off, striking the ground with a clang. Bjårk, confronted with what he thought was a stag, instantly went absolutely berserk and started growling and advancing on the stag in a menacing fashion, belly to the floor. Konstantin clapped his hand over his eyes, then threw himself on the floor behind Bjårk and dragged himself along on his own belly until he got close enough to grab the dog’s back legs. Front paws struggling mercilessly, Bjårk complained vociferously all the way backward through the swinging kitchen doors as they slammed behind them.
Iona put her phone down. She might, she thought, finally have her Instagram story.
There was a moment’s stunned silence. Then Hector McLinn, who ran the large, unrewarding farm that covered the western side of the hill range, grinned with his big ruddy face and started clapping. Flabbergasted, Flora turned toward him, already wishing the floor would swallow her up. But the whole thing had been such a disaster, so very awful, that there was really, in the end, nothing to do but laugh about it. Pam looked like she was about to go ballistic, but just as she did so, the waiters quietly opened the kitchen doors again and started beavering away, serving people food, and Flora ordered free wine from the cellar, which put everyone in an absolutely tremendous mood, and by the time everyone was seated again, there was the sense—particularly as it had been so very dreadful, as Fintan carefully picked up the stag head, and Hector, who was six foot four in his stockinged feet, went over to help him rehang it—that actually it had been quite the adventure.
INSIDE THE KITCHEN, however, it was a different matter. Bjårk had been sent outside the kitchen door—“He can jump in the sea, I do not care”—and was trying to keep out of the cold and howling wind and whining and yipping loudly, occasionally scratching dolefully at the door, adding a strange punctuation to the righteous bollocking they were getting from Gaspard, who was managing to simultaneously scream his head off at Konstantin—and Isla for not helping, which Isla felt was extremely unfair—while also finishing off the dishes that were now going out like clockwork from the kitchen and, very shortly afterward, coming back scraped clean, so delicious was the food. Every time the kitchen doors swung open, they could hear the noise of happy diners rising, the conversation and laughter becoming more pronounced, even as Gaspard continued to hector them with how utterly useless they all were.
Finally, furious, spent, he turned round to finish the preparations on the marmalade tart pudding—being French, Gaspard thought marmalade was an incredibly exotic and rare ingredient and used it in everything—and Isla and Konstantin were left together alone in the middle of the kitchen. Isla risked a glance at Konstantin, who was staring at the floor.
A second later, Konstantin risked a glance at her. This time, she was looking up and caught his eye. And the oddest thing happened. They both smiled; they couldn’t help it.
“Get on! Clean!” spat Gaspard from the other side of the kitchen, and they hurried back to their roles immediately. But neither of them felt quite so bad.