The village descended on the scones and cakes and sandwiches like a plague of happy locusts. Hot mulled cider sat in pots on the oven, and people opened bottles and passed around whisky while the children ran riot over the farm, barely disturbing the beautiful sleepy cows, who eyed them without interest and went back to nosing about the snowy grass.
Flora took one look at Lorna, who came in late, as ever, after closing up the school, and instantly poured her a very large drink and dragged her into Flora’s old childhood bedroom, now full of coats and scarves.
“Tell me everything,” she said, and unable to help herself, Lorna told her everything.
“Oh my God,” said Flora when she’d finished.
“I know,” said Lorna.
“I mean that’s just . . .”
“I know.”
“On the other hand,” said Flora, “it means you haven’t done anything . . . technically wrong.”
“Apart from sleep with a bigamist,” said Lorna gloomily.
“You don’t suppose it means . . . Does it mean he’s free?”
“I don’t think . . .” said Lorna. “I don’t think he can ever be free.”
And her voice cracked.
KONSTANTIN GRABBED ANOTHER two mugsful of the delicious hot cider and went and found Isla in a quiet corner of the kitchen. It wasn’t exactly private, but people were more or less heavily involved with eating and drinking and discussing whether the weather would keep the boats away, deliveries being increasingly important this time of year, as were trips to the mainland for everything you couldn’t necessarily get on Mure, which was, to be entirely fair, quite a lot of things. But Gaspard didn’t like them hanging about for too long and soon sent them into the little lean-to pantry at the back to start washing up, and they rolled their eyes at each other but somehow, even washing up was kind of exciting, Isla thought, when it was with someone you desperately wanted to wash up next to.
Isla thought it was a good chance to ask him more about himself, but he skillfully deflected every question.
“No—tell me about you.”
She shrugged. “There is nothing to tell about me. Well, I was born here. In the house my father was born in and his father and so on.” She smiled.
“And is your father still there?”
Her face changed immediately. “No,” she said. “He died. When I was small.”
Suddenly she had his full attention. “How small?”
“Eight,” she said, the very memory of it making her want to roll up in a ball all over again. It had lessened, of course, a bit. But one of the massive benefits of living on Mure was that everyone knew her, and everyone had known Roddy too and liked him very much. And she never had to tell anyone why she was so quiet—she didn’t used to be—and she didn’t have to explain how her world had been torn apart, because everyone understood.
She hid her face a little, carried on drying in silence. She didn’t want to see his pitying face.
But when she looked up, his face wasn’t pitying at all. He was nodding.
“I was fourteen,” he said, his voice sounding slightly strangulated.
“Your dad?” said Isla.
“My mum. Cancer.”
Isla nodded. They were both quiet for a little while. It was, somehow, oddly relaxing to be able to tell people who understood. Because most people went, “Oh, I’m so sorry, that must have been terrible,” which of course was true, but they didn’t feel it, didn’t really know what it was like to have your world cracked in two.
“How was your mum?” said Konstantin.
Isla bit her lip. She had to defend her mother. She knew other people had harsh words for how bitter Vera Donnelly had turned and how she’d taken it out on the wee lass. She wasn’t stupid. And she would never ever have spoken to anyone on Mure about it, not even Iona.
But somehow, in the presence of someone from somewhere else—someone who understood, someone who, for all his annoying ways, was clearly and very simply kind—she felt something she hadn’t felt for many years.
She wanted to talk. She wanted to speak.
“Very . . . very difficult,” she stammered.
Konstantin nodded and didn’t say anything, waiting for her to go on.
“I think,” she said, “she was so very angry at him for dying. He died young, didn’t leave us with much. And it was just me. I think she might have taken it out on me. I don’t think she meant to,” she added.
“Do you look like him?”
“Apparently yes,” said Isla dryly. “But not in a way she likes.”
Konstantin nodded again, adding more hot water to the suds. “Yeah,” he said. “Your looks come out in all the ways they hate. It hardly seems fair, does it?”
“I can’t help my stupid dad’s face,” said Isla, then laughed suddenly. “Sorry, that sounded so furious.”
“I get it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I like your face. Very much.”
There was a very long pause after that, as a flustered Isla dried and redried a cup because she had forgotten what she should do with it.
Konstantin found himself staring at the suds. “My dad sent me away,” he said.
“You’re kidding.”
“I think he got sick of looking at me. I think I was quite annoying.”
“He sent you here?”
“Well, I had to go somewhere. First away to school, then, when I still wouldn’t be what he wanted . . . he sent me here . . .”
“He turned you out?”
Konstantin shrugged.
“Oh God,” said Isla. This was her worst fear, that her mother would just tell her to go, because where would she go?
“Well, it could be worse,” said Konstantin. “You know, I like the mince pies you have here.”
“Oh my God,” said Isla. “I can’t believe . . . No wonder you were miserable.”
“I sometimes think,” said Konstantin, “that my mother was my only protector . . .”
“Yes! My dad, he just thought . . . he thought I was great. He thought everything I did was kind of cute and funny . . .”
“. . . even when I was naughty . . .”
“Sometimes I think he liked it when I was naughty. Like we were ganging up against my mum . . .”
“Yes! We were a gang and then . . .”
There was a silence and Isla looked at the hurt and the pain in his eyes, and suddenly, without realizing it, he slammed his hand down hard, and it splashed into the water and sent white soapy bubbles everywhere, including onto Isla’s nose. She looked at the mess for a second and he looked at her, worried about her reaction.
The next second, she too had splashed in the water, her hand sending a great big gout of foam up onto his hair.
Surprised, he laughed and immediately splashed back, and in two seconds they had gone from feeling miserable to laughing almost hysterically and having a massive foam fight.
As he rubbed some off her nose while trying to get some more of the foam down her neck, she found herself suddenly, willingly, drawn closer and closer to him, and she reached up a finger to wipe the big daub of suds off the tip of his nose, and suddenly he took her hand, gently this time, and put it on his cheek, looking at her, his blue eyes full of intent, his hand large and soft and warm. Color flooded to her cheeks, but she did not turn away, and instead turned and looked up at him, eyes wide.
He looked at her trusting face, eyes wide open, and got such a start. He brought his other hand up—still damp, but that didn’t matter—took her little heart-shaped face in it, tilted it up toward him as she moved toward him, a little closer, a little closer, without either of them taking their eyes off of each other. There was noise, of course, outside from the party—fiddles and Nollaig songs—but here in the little back utility, it felt quiet suddenly, and everybody else seemed very far away.
Infinitely slowly, Konstantin bent his head toward her, while she found herself, almost involuntarily, creeping up on her tiptoes to meet him; the space between them grew smaller and smaller, and she found her eyes closing as she bent herself into him . . .
“Konstantin? Konstantin?”
The voice was loud, harsh, and English, and they both immediately, guiltily, jumped apart.
Squeezing her hand tightly, Konstantin turned and vanished into the kitchen, not wanting whoever it was to spot them together, put two and two together, and make . . .
. . . well, four, he supposed. He smiled to himself and glanced back. Isla was still staring at him, a smile playing round her lips, those huge eyes staring at him. Christ, she gave him such a charge.
In the bright kitchen, full of people singing and carousing and flirting and eating their food, he was pleased to see, he came upon the young woman he’d met before at the statue. She leaned over to Isla—“You don’t mind if I borrow him, do you?”—smiling and showing very white teeth.
Taken aback, Isla frowned. “Uhm, no, why would I?” she said, her voice a bit shaky.
“Oh, just looked like you were getting cozy! Not surprised, such a handsome chap!”
Candace couldn’t help pushing buttons, and she was pleased to see Isla’s face fall at the thought of being obvious.
“Oh, I’m only teasing you,” she added meanly. “It’s clearly nothing. Now come with me, you gorgeous hunk.”
She threaded her arm through Konstantin’s.
“Lovely to see you again.”
Konstantin frowned. They were hardly friends. He turned round to look at Isla, but she was busying herself at the sink, desperately trying to hide her blushes had he but known it. Meanwhile, Candace was holding out her iPhone as if she was taping something.
“Listen, I just wondered how you felt about all the controversy about the statue?”
“What controversy?”
“From the council? They want it pulled down? Don’t you think it looks like another calamity for Mure?”
“They want to pull it down?!”
INDEED, IT HADN’T taken Candace much time to talk to the people around the statue who were complaining, and she certainly didn’t encourage them, no, not at all. But she might have asked them a little bit about whether they didn’t feel very let down that nobody had properly consulted the council, and didn’t this rather overrun planning, and well, what were they going to do about it, and wasn’t it a disgrace?
“It is a disgrace.” Malcy had nodded solemnly, being slightly bewitched by how pretty Candace was and failing to notice three of his granddaughters were running round the statue cheering and dancing.
And were they going to have a special committee meeting to figure out what they were going to do about it? They were, of course. The men in particular liked to look tough and decisive in front of the exceptionally pretty young woman from London. Candace was amazed. This couldn’t be going any better. Had none of them had any media training whatsoever?
But she still suspected she had a bigger prize on her hands. For a fishing expedition, Mure was certainly turning out to be absolutely chock-full of useful things.
“So,” she said, turning all her attention toward Konstantin, who still looked worryingly distracted. Perhaps he was gay; there were a lot of gay men up here. On the other hand, if he was who she thought he was, then that wasn’t it at all.
“So you must miss Norway living here.”
Konstantin squinted. Why was she asking him all this stuff?
“Oh sure,” he said. “But it has its compensations.”
“It looks like you’re cutting quite the swathe through the local girls!”
Konstantin eyed her suspiciously. “What?”
This reminded him, he should get back to speak to Isla.
“How long are you thinking of staying in this life?”
It was an oddly worded question, and if Konstantin had been paying closer attention he would have asked for clarification or had his suspicions about what, exactly, she was after. But he was desperate to get back to Isla, finish what he started. A smile played across his lips.
“Not long then?” said Candace pushily.
“What? No,” said Konstantin, just as they both turned round at a commotion at the door.
“Where is that Scandi fellow?” someone was shouting.
The room turned round. Flora barreled up, cross that people were making a commotion at what was meant to be, excuse me, a children’s party.
It was Malcy.
“We’re having an emergency council meeting,” he said. “You need to come and explain yourself.”
“It’s eight o’clock at night,” said Flora, furious.
“That’s why it’s called an emergency meeting.”
“Also I don’t want to go,” said Konstantin.
“Well . . .” The man hadn’t really been anticipating this. “You have to.”
“I don’t. You’re not the police.”
“You have to come and explain yourself.”
Konstantin waved his hands. “Yeah, no thank you.”
Joel stepped forward, along with Ed, the young police officer who rarely had anything more to do than direct lost tourists and was looking slightly nervous.
“Excuse me?” said Joel. “I’m this man’s lawyer.”
“I don’t need a lawyer!” said Konstantin.
“I’m the lawyer for the money spent by the Colton Foundation,” Joel went on smoothly. “This is something you’ll have to take up with me in the morning.”
“Yeah, also you can’t walk into people’s houses like that,” said policeman Ed. “I think.” He screwed up his face. It had been a while since Tulliallan Police College, after all.
Malcy looked about in consternation. He was used to being pretty much a big man on Mure, and he wasn’t used to being spoken to like this.
“Well, we’ll sort it out tomorrow then.”
“I’m afraid we got permission from the council,” said Joel, “so it’s going to be a bit of a fight.”
“You have to take it down.”
“We have to do nothing of the sort,” said Joel.
“And it’s beautiful,” said Konstantin crossly. “You just have absolutely no taste, which is why you are wearing those trousers.”
This was a bad move. Malcy was very proud of his tartan trews and wore them proudly to every smart occasion, which included the nativity play as far as he was concerned. He turned a very dark red, turned on his heel, and walked out, leaving the party slightly giggly and hysterical, the children running about wondering what had happened and Candace, who had filmed the entire thing, absolutely delighted.
There was a bit of quiet. Konstantin turned to Joel. “Seriously, I don’t think . . . we need a lawyer?”
Joel shrugged. “I don’t think the council budget could afford me. So hopefully they’ll just have to let it go.”
Around them the party was clearly winding down, and Flora was quite happy to see everyone go.
“Allez allez!” Gaspard was shouting, hurrying Isla out to the van with great trays of pans, empty except for the odd spare crumb. Everything had patently been an absolutely massive success.
“Still, you should probably go to a meeting,” said Joel, unaware he was taking up valuable time Konstantin would much rather be using to chase Isla. She glanced back at him. “We could offer them a—”
“Allez!!” Gaspard was shouting. “Let’s go, Konstantin! Isla, you can go home, chérie.”
Everyone had gone.
With a desperate look at Konstantin, then at a beaming Candace, Isla slowly started pulling on her coat. Konstantin badly wanted to go to her, but how could he in a slowly emptying room with everyone looking at them both?
“Uhm, see you tomorrow,” Isla said, feeling her voice pathetically weak.
KONSTANTIN DASHED OUT the back door of the farm and round to the front, where Isla was tramping away down the hill through the low-lying snow. The stars were gleaming overhead and it was absolutely freezing.
There were, to his utmost frustration, too many other people all heading the same way back into the village, sleepy children being carried piggyback, nodding over their parents’ shoulders; buggies with babies wrapped up tighter than parcels; some people singing and breath everywhere showing on the frosty air. From up the hill, the statue was lighting all their way back home, a kindly glow over the moonlit road. Konstantin’s brow furrowed again. How could they say it was horrible?
But he had to catch up to Isla. Normally in day-to-day life it would be nothing to shout at her, seeing as they worked together and knew each other. Nobody would think anything of it. Already she’d been engulfed in a crowd of people she knew.
But somehow now, everything had changed. He felt if he said her name—even worse, shouted it—the entire village would stand and stare and he could not, absolutely would not, be able to do what he wanted to do, which was take her in his arms and kiss her till he couldn’t kiss her any more.
Meanwhile, Gaspard was calling his name from behind him. He thought about it for a second, then thought, To hell with it, it’s only a pot-washing job, and, feeling faintly sinister for a moment, ran off down the hill behind her.