Isla tended to keep her makeup out of sight at home, as her mother would always have something to say about the cost and about it being a little tarty. Vera wasn’t anything like old enough to have been to the dinner, Isla thought, but even there you could see groups of friends: ladies chatting with each other and having a laugh and even discussing a party as the group had carried on into the bar. She wished so dearly her mum had people like that.
But tonight, having cycled at top speed down the hill from the Rock into the village, then jumped into the shower, she was in too much of a hurry to be too bothered about what her mother thought. Even though they’d agreed to meet at Harbour’s Rest following her shift, and even though he still had to mop the floor, and after all, where else was he going to go? what else was he going to do?—she still, nonetheless, felt slightly that if she were late she’d get there and he’d be gone. Ridiculous. But still.
Like he was something out of a fairy tale, a puff of smoke. She put on her prettiest dress that she’d bought for dancing at Colton’s wedding the year before and never gotten to use. It was palest pink satin, pretty as anything and far too thin for the weather.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to meet a friend for a drink.”
“Who?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just a friend.” Isla felt daring and nervous.
“That lipstick looks tarty.”
“Good,” said Isla.
Her mother looked stunned. “Don’t answer me back,” she said.
Isla rolled her eyes.
“And don’t you roll your eyes at me. Are you going out to see some lad?”
“Maybe,” said Isla.
“Is he good enough for you?”
“For once,” said Isla. “For once would you let me be the judge of what is good enough for me?!”
There was silence. Isla felt terrified. But for once she wasn’t going to be the conciliatory one, the one who tried to make everything better.
And she went straight back out the door and onto her bicycle, her hands trembling, before she even turned around and saw her mother’s face, her hand still holding that damn teapot.
There weren’t really hours at the Harbour’s Rest. Inge-Britt generally closed up when everyone was done, which could be very early in the winter, and January, she closed altogether and went to Iceland to sit in volcanic hot pools. More than once the people of Mure had suggested clubbing together to fumigate the place while she wasn’t around—she normally left at least one fire exit propped open by mistake, it wouldn’t be a problem to get in—but it hadn’t happened so far.
In the summer, by contrast, when it didn’t get dark, often people got rather carried away and could be found carousing until the early hours, which were also broad daylight, so everything could get a touch confusing.
So ten P.M. on a December night found the cozy bar warm and welcoming, full of jolly locals celebrating Christmas or farmers having a quiet pint, this being their quieter time of year before the havoc of spring and lambing. As usual they were talking about the disastrous work of farming, but nobody minded so much, as there had never been a year ever when farmers hadn’t been talking about the disastrous work of farming.
Isla felt incredibly self-conscious as she walked in in her best dress. What if he wasn’t there? What if he’d changed his mind? What if the bar was full of everyone she knew and they all had to watch her being stood up? Why couldn’t there be at least one place to go where she didn’t know every single person on earth? Normally she’d found that such a nice, comforting thing about living in a small community. Tonight it was utterly unbearable.
She had texted Iona en route, particularly to tell her her big news—that she was thinking of moving out! Iona had been on her to do this for ages, had visions of them sharing a flat together, but she’d known Isla would never leave that awful mother of hers. Iona’s own mother was a riot, they would happily share a bottle of prosecco on a Saturday night watching Strictly together.
Isla glanced around the room and her heart leaped, as she suddenly forgot everyone else looking at her and saying hello, for there wasn’t a soul on Mure who hadn’t known Isla since she was a shy, wide-eyed bairn and barely a heart that hadn’t broken for her when good, gentle Roddy had passed and left that mainland harridan to mother her.
But in the corner, looking more handsome than ever—he needed a haircut, and his blond hair was looking floppy and falling over his eyes, which, it turned out, was exactly how Isla liked it—Konstantin was already getting up, patently absolutely delighted to see her. A few of the older farmers smiled wryly at each other. Young love.
But Isla and Konstantin only had eyes for each other. They came toward each other and stopped just as he was about to grasp her hands, both giggly, each pink from rushed showers, the wintry chill, the excitement.
“Uhm, hello,” said Konstantin, his eyes dancing. He glanced toward the bar, and winking broadly, Inge-Britt went to the slightly iced-up freezer and removed one of Mure’s very few bottles of actual vintage champagne. Isla’s eyes widened.
“How can you afford . . .”
“I have saved all my pot-boy wages,” said Konstantin, shushing her, “and this is the only thing I could find to buy on the entire island.”
He ushered her to the corner table, specially wiped down for the occasion with an almost new cloth, and Inge-Britt, smirking only very slightly, which was good of her under the circumstances, brought over the bottle and two glasses with some ceremony.
Konstantin was used to being watched pretty much everywhere he went, so he was completely oblivious to Isla’s blushing awkwardness, but once they’d had a little fizz, everything seemed to settle down, and they were in the very darkest corner of the room, and finally they could talk.
“What’s happening with the statue?” asked Isla anxiously. She’d passed it on the way down and thought it beautiful as ever.
“I don’t know,” said Konstantin, pensive. “The council is really cross, I don’t know why.”
“But people will come to see it! It’ll be like the Angel of the North!”
“I think so. I think they’re just cross we didn’t ask them first and it didn’t take five and a half years to get through nine committees and we didn’t have a big ceremony and let them all make a very boring speech each.”
Isla thought for a moment. “Well, couldn’t we?”
“What do you mean?”
“Couldn’t you name it after them?”
Konstantin blinked.
“You could call it the Malcom Marsali Aoghas Fraser William Bert Effie Angel,” said Isla, tidily ticking off the committee members on her hand. “Put Malcy at the front; he’s the biggest arsehole so he’s the most likely to be happy if he’s first. And let them all make a speech. Isn’t that how Joel got it through in the first place?”
She smiled suddenly.
“They could do it at the Loony Dook!”
“In front of everyone naked?”
“They’re not going to be naked, Konstantin! That’s your stupid country! Here everyone is wearing swimming trunks.”
“Getting in the sea wearing wet clothing on a winter’s day is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” grumbled Konstantin.
“No, you’re right, nothing better on a small island than everyone being familiar with everyone else’s genitals,” said Isla, rolling her eyes. “Trunks are fine.”
Konstantin looked pensive. “Well . . . I mean . . . it might be worth a shot . . .”
“Have a grand opening. They’ll have to make the speeches short, otherwise everyone will freeze to death.”
Konstantin grinned. “Actually, Joel wants me to meet them all. That might not be a bad idea.”
“I think it’s a very good idea.”
“Yeah,” said Konstantin. “Making people feel important.”
Isla looked at him mistily. “You . . . make me feel important.”
“Well, because you are,” said Konstantin. “You’re the most important person I’ve met here. You’ve saved me loads of times.”
Suddenly she was very conscious of his hand on the table and found hers moving toward his, just a little. Once again she had that oddest sense she only had when she was with him, that nothing else in her life mattered in the slightest.
Konstantin looked toward her, smiling. She was just so very lovely.
“We could . . .” she said, amazed at how bold she was about to be. But she suddenly, and very fiercely, did not want to do some of the things she very strongly now wanted to do in the full glare of the Harbour’s Rest. “You know, we could maybe take that champagne up to the Rock,” she said, rather quietly.
“Are you kidding?” said Konstantin, smiling. “If you’d told me that, we could have just stolen some of theirs.”
But he saw from her face that she was very serious, and he stopped talking and gravely proffered her his arm. She emptied her glass for Dutch courage, then took it.
Just as they stood up, there was a commotion at the door.
CANDACE HAD BUMPED her expensive bag crossly back up the black-painted steps of the Harbour’s Rest. This was absurd. She needed to get back and she was trapped here. It was cruel and unusual, like a punishment for breaking a fantastic story. Ridiculous. And Christ, here she was, trapped in this hellhole.
She left her bag in reception in the mistaken belief that there would be someone else to take it up for her and stared at the empty reception (although she noted there were keys hanging up behind it, so hopefully she’d get a bed for the night—the possibility of that not happening was just too awful to contemplate).
She would head into the bar, she decided, order a large GnT, check if the story was up yet, and then and only then decide what to type to Dan. Oh God. It had taken ten months to even get him to this point, of inviting her to have Christmas with his mother. And now she was going to not make their Christmas, and if there was a way that could be interpreted as not an actual snub, she had absolutely no idea what it was.
On the other hand, she was nothing if not goal-oriented. She clopped over to the bar in her heels, her feet absolutely freezing from standing in that ridiculous barn they called an airport. She pushed open the doors of the bar, feeling the not-unwelcome whoosh of warm, slightly fuggy air hit her, and strode inside. Oh good, Isla and Konstantin were right there. She wandered up to join them, her face taking on a curl that might pass for a smile.
“Hel-looo!” she said, sitting next to Isla. “So, how does it feel, I have to ask . . . to be dating the runaway prince?”
“The what?” said Isla, completely and utterly confused.
In answer Candace took out her phone, beaming. “I’m just going to tape your reactions,” she said, and watched as Isla called up the link, stared at Konstantin, then back at the web page in disbelief.
Playboy Prince Slumming It in Britain’s Worst Hotel
She blinked. There was a huge photo of Konstantin wearing some kind of weird military uniform with medals on it, next to the pic of Gaspard falling over with Bjårk.
Britain’s Worst Hotel, the Rock, on the tiny island of Mure, will be further “rocked” by the revelation today that their kitchen junior is none other than the playboy son of one of Norway’s richest and most aristocratic families . . .
Beneath this there was a picture of Konstantin looking drunk and frazzled at a party, surrounded by scantily clad models.
Isla’s hand flew to her mouth. What on earth was happening? She scanned the following paragraphs, as phrases leaped out at her: “not going to stay long in this life . . . really misses Norway,” and “Mure is a dark, cold, miserable place . . . ‘it needs brightening up.’”
It made reference to his illegal “eyesore” (a direct quote from a “senior council source” who spoke of planning to “pull it down as soon as they had the chance”) and talked about how he had been banished from Norway for his appalling behavior: “Close friends have been asking when he’s coming back from his time with the ‘little people,’ so they can all have fun again.”
So what is next for the Island of Calamity when the Prince finishes his little session of “slumming it” with the locals?—he’s been reported as cutting quite a swathe.
And to her horror, there was a picture of him with Isla, taken on Candace’s traitorous iPhone, Konstantin looking handsome, her wearing the ridiculous kitchen hat, looking pathetic and hungry and utterly stupid.
Isla jumped up, just as someone burst through the bar doors. It was Iona.
“Have you seen this shite?” She pointed at Konstantin. “You bloody bastard! You leave my friend alone. And you!”
It struck Candace forcibly that she’d have much rather been circling into Heathrow about now. “Just doing my job,” she said smoothly.
Isla came up to stand next to her friend Iona, who put a supportive arm around her.
“Look at the two of you,” said Iona. “Well suited. Come on, Isla. Let’s leave them to it.”
And she helped her speechless friend out the door as the rest of the bar looked on. They hadn’t had quite such an entertaining evening since Wullie Stevenson had gotten his false teeth stuck bobbing for apples at Halloween and scared the living death out of all the children by taking them out, apple and all.