Well, Isla couldn’t say she was surprised to find him gone. Heartsore, sick, and tired. But not surprised. She didn’t even know where Bjårk was. So. He didn’t care. It was all true. He was probably in his room, back to his long lie-ins, planning his return to Norway, famous once again, and doing media interviews and talking about his terrible banishment. They’d probably sent for him.
On Christmas morning, Isla had scampered back to her mother’s, leaving Iona looking forward to a full day of her and her mother drinking prosecco, eating sausage sandwiches and Quality Street, and watching TV in their pajamas.
Isla had come down to a silent kitchen and her wounded-looking mother being passive aggressive, hoarding the teapot at her end of the table and making her disgruntlement very clear.
“Happy Christmas,” she’d tried, and her mother had harrumphed.
“For you maybe,” she’d said inaccurately. There were presents under the tree, but for once, neither of them was interested in looking at them. It was heartbreaking.
“Well,” said Isla finally. “I’ll see you at lunchtime? I think Flora’s put you next to Mrs. Laird and that nice Dr. Saif.”
“Will he eat the food? They eat weird stuff.”
“Uhm, he’s fine, Mum.”
Vera sniffed. Although the doctor might enjoy hearing about her rare symptoms. That might be something. Other people had common or garden-variety complaints, but she was a medical mystery.
“Mum,” said Isla. “I need to talk. I think I’m going to move out after the New Year. In with Iona.”
Her mother’s hand went to her throat. “You’re moving?”
“I don’t think . . . I don’t think we’re making each other very happy.”
“You’re getting a flat! You’re growing up! That’s wonderful!”
Isla was completely and utterly taken aback.
“I don’t need you here fussing round me!” said Vera. “That’s just . . . I’m so pleased for you, my darling. Your life needs to move on.”
Isla was slightly astounded as they hugged.
GASPARD CAME DOWN to the kitchen looking uncharacteristically happy for once and, even more surprisingly, kissed them and handed out large tins of mystery duck, which made no sense to anyone, and announced, “Today will be huge success. And those who hope it will be poor success will be so wrong they shall cry into their steam horse pudding thing you like.”
Gaspard had never gotten the point of mincemeat, and he wasn’t about to start now.
“Where is the young prince?”
“He’s not a prince,” said Isla automatically, then wondered why she was defending him. “I don’t know. He might be gone.”
“He is not gone. There are no planes, no boats, nothing. He is lazy. Go wake him up.”
Isla flushed. “I don’t think—”
“Allez! Allez! Now! We have much to do! Go!!”
Isla slinked out of the kitchen, despondent, and mounted the beautiful stairs. Everything looked even more spotless than usual. Gala on the desk was already busy, checking in the very first customers with a broad smile. It was actually happening! After three years, the doors of the Rock were finally open! Bertie the boatman was bringing people round from the village. There was a mix of people who were genuinely interested, people who were there for an ironic break, and, after all the fuss in the papers, some Norwegian star spotters, locals, and even, which would have surprised Joel, some of his old party friends, who were tiring themselves of the London lifestyle and wanted to see what the big draw was up here. The ferry had come in—a special service—but, to Candace’s pure annoyance, wasn’t going back again. The captain was staying for his Christmas lunch too. There was a small group of old friends of Colton’s: graying, fit-looking men who smiled ruefully at one another and traded sad anecdotes. And there was Candace, standing crossly in the middle of the foyer, her plans in ruins. The fact that she had had an unbelievably comfortable bed last night was just irritating.
The waitstaff was already fetching coffee and shortbread for the drawing room as people waited to get checked in to brand-new rooms. There was a palpable air of excitement.
All the way up in the eaves, everything was quiet, the rooms empty. Isla remembered the very first morning she had come here, how shocking she had found him. Well, now it all made sense, she supposed. She hadn’t liked him then. She shouldn’t like him now.
But even so. She remembered his face as the statue went up, the boyish enthusiasm he’d allowed to run riot. Even how nifty he’d gotten with a knife. The look of concentration when his too-long hair flopped over his face. The way his hand had felt in hers . . .
She almost let out a groan. The room was empty. Of course it was. He had gone.
And she was alone, but it was worse than before. Because before, she hadn’t known what she was missing, hadn’t realized there was something bigger out there, hadn’t ever—she hated to admit it to herself—hadn’t ever fallen in love, even if it was with a cad.
Almost out of habit, she glanced at her social media, even though she was terrified of seeing anything about herself in it. Konstantin was in loads of papers, but she ignored it all.
Then she saw one thing, on Eilidh’s Facebook account. It looked impossible, but it was true. A picture of two blonds: Konstantin holding Agot’s hand as they . . . Were they skating? The clear winter light was hitting their hair; it was beautiful.
Underneath Eilidh had written, The prince built us an ice rink!
Isla stared at it for a long time. He had really gone and made an ice rink. He had really gone and done something for someone else, no thought to himself, just so that Agot would be happy on Christmas Day. This wasn’t something she would ever have thought him capable of before. She blinked, stared at the photograph for a long time.
As she finally turned away from his door, suddenly she heard boots. It couldn’t be. She steeled herself. He was coming back to pick up his stuff, that was all.
He walked slowly: after the excitement of seeing Agot, all his miseries were back. His face was sad, his back stooped, as he got to the top of the stairs. Even Bjårk looked disconsolate next to him. Then he glanced up and saw her, and his face changed completely.
“Were you . . . looking for me?” he asked.
There was a long pause.
“Gaspard was—was wondering where you are,” stuttered Isla.
“But not you.”
Isla shrugged. “I thought you’d be heading back.”
“Where?” said Konstantin instantly. “Where? You know the truth about me. I got thrown out of my own country. Thrown out. And I have heard nothing. Not from my dad, not from anyone. They were more than happy to see the back of me. And now everybody here thinks the same. You’ll all be happy to see the back of me too. So it hardly matters where I go, does it?”
He walked straight past her.
“But you have loads of friends! Everyone knows you,” Isla found herself saying.
“Everyone knows me,” came the voice heading into the room, “and nobody gives a damn.”
And he pushed the door shut behind him.
“I do,” said Isla in a very small voice. “I give a damn.”
There was a squeak as the door pulled open again.
“What?” said Konstantin. “What did you just say?”
Isla was flushed.
“Tell me!”
“I said I give a damn,” she said very quietly.
“You didn’t when you stormed off.”
“I didn’t say I don’t think you’re a jerk.”
He looked deep into her eyes. “But you make me not want to be a jerk,” he said.
“Well, I’m not sure it’s working.”
In response he took her face in his hands.
“I need to ask you,” he said gently, as the mood instantly changed. “I need to check and I need to tell you that my intentions with you . . . are not exactly pure. But. Can I say good? Or at least better. But you make me want to be—”
Before he got to the end of the sentence, she grabbed him and kissed him, hard.
Of course Gaspard was yelling for them before thirty seconds were up, and no, it couldn’t possibly be, but—was that a smile? A tiny hint of a smile on his face as they catapulted down the back stairs. Surely not.
Isla pulled Konstantin back just as they were preparing to enter the kitchen, flushed.
“I—I just wanted to say I don’t care. If you’re here forever or if you’re just passing through or . . . well. I’ve decided. I don’t care.”
He turned to her, hands outstretched. “Darling, I have nowhere else to go. I’m here.”
She looked back at him. “That’s not very flattering.”
He leaned over and kissed her. “And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Happy Christmas.”
She watched him go into the kitchen, put on the freshly laundered whites, and pick up his knife and swish it round, cheerfully and confidently, and her heart blossomed suddenly, full of excitement and thoughts and plans. Maybe . . . Could this happen? She scuttled after him into the kitchen.
FLORA ARRIVED IN her best red dress, the diamond bracelet, and the brand-new ring and with a smile the size of the Endless Beach, because after all it wasn’t every day you got engaged and became the manager of the loveliest hotel for miles around and stood in the foyer smiling and welcoming everyone in.
She’d tell the kitchen later. And also have some quite strong words with them about how they spoke on the record about the business.
There was an empty table vacated by the councilors, led by Malcy, with Pam and Charlie out in solidarity, but she’d managed to fill it, so the boycott was hardly going to cause them too much trouble.
Because otherwise it was such an interesting group of people: hipsters, possibly looking for a giggle; proper, serious-looking foodies with guidebooks, including one or two who followed Gaspard wherever he went; locals, of course; some older people from the mainland who had seen past the daftness of the videos and into the loveliness of the remote surroundings; and, she even noticed, some old flames of Konstantin’s, looking around for the “prince.”
She smiled. He may not be a prince, and he may have done some pretty questionable things, but she couldn’t help smiling, thinking about how happy Agot had been that morning.
At 12:45 P.M., all the MacKenzies turned up, Douglas resplendent in a ridiculous baby-shaped full tartan outfit, courtesy of Marsha and Mark, of course, but gurgling happily in his increasingly heavy car seat. Fintan had changed back into a paisley shirt and soft jumper, and his face looked a decade younger. He shot straight off into the kitchen, for possibly the first time ever. Joel and Flora looked after him, confused.
“Okay, what’s going on?”
Joel laughed.
“What??” said Flora.
He shrugged. “It’s just . . . we always thought I was the type A in this relationship, Mrs. Booker.”
“People change,” she said, kissing him and closing her eyes with happiness just being near him, as she always did, because she always was.
“NO FALLING DOWN,” Gaspard was saying severely. Bjårk Bjårkensson was imprisoned upstairs just in case, which he was dealing with by steadily ripping apart every single one of Konstantin’s socks, which was going to make it slightly ironic that he wouldn’t be able to complain about getting socks for Christmas this year, because he wasn’t getting anything that year. Everyone was lined up ready to go. Kerry was looking more furious than ever as Fintan came into the kitchen.
“Hello, stranger,” said Konstantin, but Fintan didn’t look the same at all. He looked exuberant if anything.
“Happy Christmas, everyone,” he said jovially. “I know you’ll be wonderful today.”
They glanced at one another.
“But also . . . I wanted to announce that Flora is taking over as the proprietor of the Rock!”
They looked at one another.
“What, she wasn’t?” said Konstantin.
“She recruited me,” said Isla. “I thought she was.”
“Who are you?” said Kerry.
In response, Fintan went up and kissed Gaspard in front of everyone.
“I’m just some guy,” he said. “I might have some cheese to sell you.”
Gaspard beamed. Only Isla saw Kerry’s face fall even further and realized, finally, why the silent, stolid girl had followed the mercurial chef when all those around him had tired of it, and her heart went out to her.
“Okay, allez allez allez,” said Gaspard finally, glancing at the clock. “Starters, please.”
AT ONE P.M. precisely, everyone was seated in the dining room, drinks in hand, canapés circulating, and finally the blessed lutefisk (with smoked salmon, if you’d rather) starter was plated up, and there was a moment, just before service, when Gaspard got them all together and held their hands.
“Well,” he said finally.
Isla was acutely conscious of Konstantin’s hand in hers. She waited for some inspirational words.
“You’ve all been completely, my God, so very, very not useful for so long. But now! Please let us say this will not be another terreeble deesaster. Bless you all!”
And no one said anything, then Konstantin kind of said, “Uh . . . amen?”
And they laughed, and Gaspard rang the bell, and service began.
EVERYWHERE WERE HAPPY faces, thought Flora, looking around as the courses came out, seamlessly and delicious. There were, miraculously, vegan options for the fussy people from London, but good hearty dishes for the older people too: a splendid local beef; goose, of course, delicious; an absolutely stunning lutefisk made in Konstantin’s honor; a chestnut soup of glorious lightness.
The cellar was cheerfully emptied; the new young waitstaff, if not always immaculate, cheerful and sweet. Flora kept looking fairly ferociously at Candace, who rolled her eyes at her. Yes, it was amazing. Yes, she was being chatted up by two frankly incredibly hot men to either side of her, Ed the policeman and Fionn the fisherman, neither of whom she could understand a word of, but really, did it matter when there was this much good food and laughter and quiet music and jollity? Dan had sent a couple of very strangulated, passive-aggressive text messages that had very much made her wonder if someone so uptight was quite right for her, and for God’s sake, she had barely meant to upset his mother. What, she thought, about all the times when she would deliberately want to irritate her in the future? That would be awful. And yes, okay, so she was going to have to file something—that irritating flea Iona was already taking pictures of her. And she didn’t normally eat carbs of any sort, of course, but was that why the roasted potatoes were so good? And “World’s Worst Hotel Comes Up Trumps” wasn’t a bad headline anyway.
BY THE TIME the Christmas pudding had been served, and they were on to coffee and liqueurs, and the band was setting up for a ceilidh, Flora couldn’t have been happier. The Rock was alive, brimming with cheery, well-fed people, and you could hear it in the buzz of noise and laughter; the children running around the huge tree, brandishing their best new toys; the women giggling in the lovely bathrooms, reapplying lipstick and glancing at their hair. For the first time ever the place felt fully lived in, properly doing what it was supposed to do. She wished so very much Colton were here to see it. She looked over at Fintan and realized that of course he felt exactly the same. She got up and squeezed his shoulders.
“He’d love it.”
“He’d wish I’d done it.”
“He wouldn’t give a rat’s ass,” she said, using one of Colton’s favorite expressions, which made him smile.
“I think he liked quite a lot of MacKenzies.”
She passed on, thanking the waitstaff and heading into the kitchen.
“I think people want to see you,” she said to Gaspard, who had disappeared outside for a cigarette.
“Vraiment?” said Gaspard, but he wasn’t unused to this. He’d always known he could cook. He just hadn’t thought there’d be a kitchen that could hold him.
GASPARD DRAGGED THEM all out in front of the room, which erupted into a loud round of applause (drink had been taken at this point).
Konstantin, to his surprise, found himself a little overcome. Service had been fast and intense, and he’d amazed himself by how hard he could work, how much he could do when he tried, when he really tried. He found himself turning a little pink as he faced the clapping, even though it was silly, it was only lunch.
Then one table stood up, and he froze.