It couldn’t be. He dropped Isla’s hand immediately even as she turned to look at him, puzzled. Then he stepped forward.
The short man at the table stepped forward also, beaming.
“Pappa?” said Konstantin in a very small voice.
He looked at the rest of the table. It wasn’t just his father: his aunts, his friends, omg, even Anders, his dreaded nemesis. He felt like he was sleepwalking. Isla’s face suddenly dropped as she realized who was there.
“We thought we’d surprise you,” said his father in Norwegian. “But you have surprised us. And I am so proud of you.”
“But . . . in the papers . . . I looked like such an idiot.”
“That is when we decided to come!” said his father. “When we saw you with the dog! We did not think idiot. We thought . . . Look at my boy. He is working! And we are so proud of you. Your chef said you were doing so well.”
“I deed not, you are eediot!” came a voice from far off, but Gaspard couldn’t possibly understand Norwegian, so they both ignored it.
And, completely in opposition to everything he had once thought he would do when he saw his father again—the harsh truths he would unveil; the cold, disdainful words he would give to the family who had banished him—Konstantin found himself burying himself in his father’s arms, like a child again.
“And he makes ice rinks,” announced a small voice loudly. “Are you the king? When I am bigger I am going to marry him. Maybe next year.”
The older Konstantin looked faintly perplexed. “Well, thank you for the advance warning, miss,” he answered formally, as Konstantin buried his head in his father’s shoulder in order to hide his tears.
GASPARD LED THE rest of them back to the kitchen as the waitstaff was pouring back in with crockery, and there was still much to be done as the tables were cleared for dancing.
Isla, stony-faced, stood by the sink alone. It was ridiculous; two hours before she had been building castles in the air, fantasizing about the two of them, just the two of them, going out properly, making a life together, working in the hotel, enjoying the spring that lay ahead and the long summer months, celebrating Hogmanae and Burns Night.
And now it was all over. His rich family—she had seen the way they were all dressed—his rich family was back and of course he was going to want to go with them, off to where all his bloody trees were and all his great fun and sleigh bells and skiing and parties and all those skinny rich blondes.
And she’d be left behind, as she’d always been.
She scrubbed a pot particularly hard. Kerry came over.
“They’re not worth it,” she said dully.
Isla looked up at her, wondering if there was more wisdom coming.
“Men,” said Kerry slowly, “are all minky-manky spinky-spanking copper-bottomed bollock-wobbling fucking dickheads.”
Then she shut her mouth, turned round, and went back to tidying up her station and helping with the mountain of plates coming through.
Isla put her ugly hat back on, got her elbows soaking wet in the suds. She should be wearing her gloves, but who even cared now if her hands got red and chapped working in the water and with knives all day? What did it matter if she grew careworn and old back here, hidden away—well, yes, just like a scullery maid, while the young dukes and princes lorded it around outside, just as it had always been, just as it was always ordered to be.
“Only at Christmastime” came on the radio, which was just what she didn’t need right now, and she was very close to tears by the time the kitchen swing door banged open once more.
One of the waiters yelped. “A dog in the kitchen!” he howled, as Bjårk immediately turned round, stupid doggie eyes shining brightly as he smelled the many delicious scents of the forbidden area, and he jumped up with two paws on the kitchen unit and started licking down the dirty plates.
“Oh, Bjårk,” said Isla, then she looked at him. “Well, I suppose you’re being helpful for once.” She caressed the stupid animal’s big pointy ears as he panted appreciatively.
“Bjårk!” came another voice, rushing in. “I brought you down to say hello to your family, not eat the kitchen.”
He stopped at Isla.
“And you too,” he said. “Aren’t you coming to say hello?”
Isla looked at him. “Not like this,” she pleaded. Her apron was dirty, her hands filthy and soaking wet.
Konstantin came over, unpinned her cap, then carefully pulled the pins out of her hair, which came tumbling down. She looked up at him, scared.
“Let me kiss your mouth rosy,” he said, then proceeded to do so. “Okay. Now you’re perfect. Come on.”
And he tossed the cap to the side and led her out through the swinging doors.
Bjårk stayed behind and dealt very efficiently with the gravy.
The dancing was in full swing in the dining room, with an energetic Strip the Willow going on. The usual lines of four or eight couples appeared to have morphed into all sorts of numbers, and Agot and Ash were racing hand in hand through every archway whether it was their turn or not, so it was pretty much business as usual.
Isla could never have known how delighted Konstantin Senior was to meet, for the first ever time, a friend of Konstantin’s, properly introduced, who didn’t look like an overindulged party girl or behave like a spoiled brat. Someone sweet, pretty, normal, kind. She was just conscious, still, of her apron and her damp hands.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” said the old man genuinely, and, feeling slightly ridiculous to be meeting a strange white-bearded man with rosy cheeks and a Scandinavian accent on Christmas Day, Isla smiled back and managed not to accidentally curtsy.
“Ahem.”
There was a clearing of throat behind them, and Isla turned round. There sat her mother, refusing to get up, clutching her handbag.
“Ah,” said Isla. “And this is my mother.”
“Enchanted,” said Konstantin with all the charm he could muster.
Please don’t be rude to them, thought Isla with all her might. Please don’t be off with them.
Vera stood up to her full height, extending a hand as if she herself were royalty. “I see your son has had the very good fortune to meet my daughter,” she said calmly.