What the hell are you two doing?” he screamed, as Konstantin, surprised, pulled the baggage cart to a halt, causing Isla to stumble backward.
Instinctively, he caught her, and she found herself equally surprised to be in his arms. He held her tight, just for an instant, and she felt her face grow even hotter, if that were possible. He was tall and lean; not skinny, just slender. They are all like that, those Scandis, aren’t they? she found herself thinking, then blushed even harder as his long hand brushed her waist as they both squirmed to stand upright in front of Fintan’s undeniable fury.
“What the fuck is this supposed to be? A crèche? Toytown?!”
Both of them stared at the floor.
“You know we’re an international laughingstock?”
“Oh, it can’t be that bad, man,” said Konstantin.
Konstantin still didn’t have a phone. Even though he’d been there a month and had earned enough to get one sent from the mainland, now something strange had happened: he’d found himself not actively minding too much.
Funnily enough, even though he thought of himself as someone who could take or leave social media, he realized just how much he’d used it, been on it. And, conversely, how relaxing it was not to be on it. He was, he’d noticed, sleeping better since he’d come here. Something to do with hard work, he supposed, and getting up early, and no booze (unless Gaspard was feeling generous), and somehow being away from everything, including the fun, also kept him away from the other things too: the empty echoing corridors of the palace, the constant sense of someone missing, the wasted mornings and pointless days, the bored indulgences, the rooms where his mother had used to walk.
It was the first time, truly, that he had distance from everything and he had a little time and space to himself. Not to be online, not to be playing with his friends or tearing things up. Just a little time to contemplate the world and a little discipline. He had found an old book in the library about wintering in the South Pole and was engrossed in it, feeling, sometimes, that the person’s experience wasn’t massively different from his own. Peace, quiet, dark, and contemplation.
So he wasn’t really taking in what Fintan was saying.
Meanwhile Isla—how pretty she had looked, he thought again, when she laughed. How soft she had felt in his arms. Isla was looking absolutely terrified at the prospect of getting into trouble. It made her seem very young.
Fintan pulled out his iPad and set it up on reception, then showed them the news headlines.
Isla’s knees trembled. This was awful.
Konstantin threw back his head and burst out laughing. She looked at him.
“Oh, come on,” he said. “This will be great for business.”
“Being the worst hotel in Britain?”
“Having a very handsome dog!” He frowned suddenly.
“What?”
“How many shares?”
It was, he had just realized, not impossible that someone he knew had seen it. Seen him. Oh well. That wouldn’t mean anything, would it? Would it?
“Forty thousand,” said Isla in awe. “Oh my God.”
“Don’t plug the phone back in,” said Fintan. “But bloody well start behaving like professionals.”
“We’re pot washers,” said Konstantin.
“I’m junior kitchen manager!” gasped Isla, suddenly aware she sounded exactly like her mother.
Fintan ignored her. “Well, professional pot washers then, for Christ’s sake. It’s not difficult. Where’s Gaspard?”
It was the first time Konstantin realized there was no telltale smell of something delicious—slowly caramelizing onions, fresh roasted garlic—emanating from the kitchen.
“Did you even think to look for him?” stormed Fintan. If he had been disenchanted and sad and fed up with the hotel before all this, well, now he outright hated the entire enterprise.
As the two of them shrugged sheepishly, he ordered them into the kitchen to clean up and stormed off in search of his chef.
Gaspard wasn’t in his room or the library or any of the rooms of the hotel at all. Fintan sighed. Oh God, he couldn’t lose his temperamental chef. Not with the grand opening coming up and, now, with the eyes of the world on them. He couldn’t get over what a stupid idea the Instagram post was and couldn’t believe anyone had signed off on it.
He pulled on his hat and headed out into a wild, windy day, utterly despondent. All of Colton’s dreams, all of everything he’d invested in this land he loved so much. He’d entrusted it to Fintan and he’d mooched around being depressed and ignoring the business, and now it was all going to be ruined because he’d just been too damn sad to do it properly.
Which made him feel even worse than he did before.
Outside, he was fully at the mercy of the elements, and the weather reflected his mood. There was absolutely no difference between sky and sea at all; everything was a tempest in gray and steely blue, the line in the horizon merely a suggestion. No ships were to be seen, just a simple single spiraling world of ferocious North Atlantic fury, the hills and the crags equally gray as the spray hitting them. Gulls and terns huddled together against the tempestuous fury. As Fintan walked over to the tiny pier, seals splashed around in the shallow water, barking like dogs and looking excited at the influx of new creatures and fish the storm would land them.
Fintan ignored them. Where would Gaspard be? Propping up a corner of the Harbour’s Rest bar was entirely possible, if Inge-Britt was even awake.
Burying his hands in his arctic overcoat, Fintan headed slowly against the wind in the direction of the Endless Beach. Nobody would be crazy enough to go out on a day like this, surely. But then who could predict Gaspard’s mood? Fintan decided to take the long way round, try to work out a little of his panic and bad temper, and hopefully by the time he reached the Harbour’s Rest he would have calmed down sufficiently not to carry on yelling at everyone: he was so tired—so very, very, very tired—of being so angry, of being so sad, of being so lonely.
FINTAN MADE OUT the figure from afar; it was the only black shape on the white sand, the gray sky and sea, the heavy hail and rain, swirling around it—it was as filthy a day as could be imagined. He stepped forward a little, then a little more. The figure was trying to light a cigarette, an absurdly futile task on a day like this, or in fact on quite a lot of days on the Endless Beach. He was cowering behind a sandy dune, but it didn’t seem to be doing much good. Fintan watched him. He was absolutely furious—it was clear, even from a distance—flicking angrily at his Zippo and kicking the sand in dismay.
He moved forward. As soon as Gaspard spotted him he started screaming at him, first in French, then, as he grew closer, in English.
“What the hell have you done? What is this nonsense! You breeng me here, you breeng me to this place in the meedle of nowhere, and I cook for you and want to make things nice for you, and you make me look eediot, eediot in front of whole world. Thees is funny for you? Thees is a joke with all your friends, watch Gaspard, he fall over now, ees this funny? Ees it?”
“It’s not at all funny!” shouted Fintan back, cross with himself. “You think I wanted this shit to happen?” He kicked furiously at the dancing sand around his shoes. “You think I wanted any of this shit to happen? None of this! I didn’t want any of this! I don’t want any of this.”
Both of them at this time were panting from the exertion of shouting over the pouring rain and howling gale and crashing waves on the shore of the Endless Beach.
“I don’t want any of this.”
“Any of this?” echoed Gaspard suddenly, a taut, strained look on his face, his wiry body long and braced against the wind.
And the next second they were kissing fiercely, passionately, the turmoil of the storm’s hysteria reflecting their own.