Chapter 2
Top down, music on, singing along with Lemmy on ‘Ace of Spades’.
Couldn’t get much better than that, could you?
She stuck her foot down.
Hills crowded in on either side, then the road twisted around to the left and the whole thing opened up.
A valley, guarded by regimented ranks of Forestry Commission pines, all standing to attention in the sunshine.
And smack bang in the middle of it: Skirivour Castle, just visible over the treetops.
OK, so it wasn’t the prettiest castle – more Frankenstein than Disney – but they’d painted it a pinky-gold colour that looked jaunty among all that verdant greenery.
The road wound down the valley side, to a high-arched bridge spanning a deep gully and a swollen river. All very picturesque as Roberta wheeched over it and into the woods. Following the signs, music belting out.
A set of huge stone pillars rose on either side of the narrow road, with ‘SKIRIVOUR CASTLE HOTEL’ picked out in wrought-iron letters across the top.
To be honest, the castle wasn’t any prettier up close.
It sulked at the end of its wide gravel driveway, a drooping fountain splashing out the kind of feeble stream that implied it needed a visit to the doctor’s, where someone barely out of medical school would snap on a rubber glove and stick a finger up its bum.
Union flags fluttered from poles, flanking a pillared portico that was big enough for an eightsome reel.
Someone had draped the thing in a whole heap of red-white-and-blue bunting, and clusters of gold balloons bobbed in the air – above weights wrapped like wedding presents.
Bet there were doves somewhere. Places like this loved doves.
A sign pointed to a gap in the hedge: ‘RESIDENT AND GUEST PARKING’.
Course, the temptation was just to abandon her MX-5 in front of the main doors, but that wasn’t really in the spirit of the thing, was it?
So she parked in the far corner of the designated spaces, like a good little girl, next to a very expensive-looking Jag and a couple of Porsches.
Stuck the roof up.
Popped the boot and grabbed her luggage.
Sauntered back to the castle’s entrance.
Pushed through the ornate carved double doors, and into a massive lobby.
It was at least three-storeys tall, the floor covered in a red-and-yellow tartan carpet that probably seemed like a good idea at the time.
But the thing that really stood out was the huge metal stag that dominated the space.
Thing had to be twice the size of a real stag, if not more, looming over everything from its six-foot-tall plinth in full Monarch of the Glen pose.
It wasn’t alone in here either. Every wall and flat surface in the place was crowded with stuffed boars’ heads and stags’ heads and pheasants and grouse and hares and all the rest. As if someone had gone out and slaughtered every animal on the estate then carted it off wholesale to the nearest taxidermist.
Whole heap of oil paintings too – the kind that got printed onto coasters and sold in museum gift shops.
Couple of tapestries. A bunch of claymores and shields and halberds.
Twin suits of armour stood guard at the bottom of a sweeping wooden staircase that curled away to the balconies running along both sides of the lobby.
Like . . . Like Hollywood’s idea of how Scotland was meant to look. Brigadoon, with even more kitsch.
A wee man appeared at her elbow, done up in full Highland regalia, complete with pointy bunnet that had feathers poking out of it.
Not the best outfit for someone who looked as if they were made of wrinkles, bones, and string.
His voice trembled more than his hands as he pointed at a silver tray with a bottle and some cut-crystal tumblers on it.
‘Would you care for a complimentary welcome dram? It’s a twelve-year-old Glenfeòrag, made just down the road. ’
Now, that was more like it.
Roberta rubbed her hands together. ‘Ho, ho, don’t mind if I—’
A voice cut across The Lobby That Brigadoon Forgot. ‘Roberta?’ Sounding a bit shocked.
She pivoted around and there was Susan, marching towards her, in jeans and a floral shirt, hair up in a ‘do’ that was far too fancy for what she was wearing. Voice a sharp-edged whisper. ‘What are you doing here?’
Roberta preened a little. ‘Decided to surprise you. Wee romantic gesture, and all that.’ Threw in a little swagger and a dig in the ribs for good measure. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘You said you weren’t coming! You’re not on the guest . . .’ Her eyes bugged as one of those strapping athletic types wandered into the room.
Now, being a professional police officer, you notice certain wee details that would probably pass your ordinary punter by, but to a trained eye, one with decades of experience in law enforcement – going by the big white meringue-style dress she was wearing – Little Miss Athletic was probably getting married today.
It was an off-the-shoulder job, exposing a delicious amount of cleavage that swelled and wobbled as she breathed.
Attractive, in a broad-shouldered-could-snap-you-in-two kind of way, even with her hair still in rollers.
Probably liked being spanked. The bossy ones always did.
Susan grabbed Roberta’s hand. ‘Don’t you dare embarrass me!’ Then raised her voice to a more normal and cheery volume, waving at the bride-to-be. ‘Adriana!’
Athletic Adriana turned and beamed at her, sweeping in for a hug.
‘Susan!’ She pulled a constipated-frog face, arms out.
‘What do you think of the dress, is it too froofie-meringue-bums? I think it’s a bit froofie, but it’s my wedding day and if you can’t be froofie on your wedding day, when can you? ’
The two of them shared a mwah-mwah air kiss.
Then Athletic Adriana finally noticed Roberta. Stared for a moment, then went back to Susan. ‘Oh. But I thought you . . .?’
‘Adriana, you remember my wife, Roberta Steel?’ Pulling on a smile that looked a bit pained.
‘She decided it would be romantic to surprise me and come after all. After telling me she had to be at a training conference all weekend.’ Was that a note of disapproval in her voice? ‘And couldn’t make it.’
Nah, course it wasn’t. That was the problem with big romantic gestures, some people took a while to get over the shock.
Roberta treated Athletic Adriana to a swaggery head wobble too. ‘Wee white lie. You know, for romantic purposes.’
And for some reason, Susan mouthed ‘Sorry!’ at the bride-to-be.
Weird.
There was a pause, then Adriana had a bash at a none-too-convincing smile of her own. ‘I see. How . . . lovely.’
‘Nothing’s too good for my main squeeze.’ And to prove the point, Roberta grabbed a handful of Susan’s bum and gave it a squeezing.
Which made her go bright pink and mouth, ‘Sorry!’ again.
A couple of blinks and Adriana seemed to get it together. ‘Oh, yah, you’re the police officer, right? We met . . . at the work’s Christmas bash? Yes. Glad you could join us after all.’ Then went in for one of those ridiculous mwah-mwah kisses.
Yeah, not playing that game.
But it did give Roberta a really good look down the front of her dress.
Magnificent boobage.
The mwah-mwahs over, she turned back to Susan.
‘Nobody told me getting married was a total organisational nightmarefest! The wedding planner’s broken her leg, Mummy’s gone complete meltdown because of the centrepieces, Daddy’s disappeared, and I’m supposed to be having a nice relaxing bath, instead of stomping about like an absolute Bridezilla in my dress!
But there’s a million things to do,’ sideways glance in Roberta’s direction, ‘like reorganise the seating plan. And I haven’t even had my hair styled yet. Disasterama!’
Susan took both of her hands. ‘I’m here to help. What needs doing?’
‘Oh, you’re just the best boss ever!’ She actually welled up a bit at that.
‘Robbie, why don’t you go check in and freshen up?’ Susan stuck her chin in the air. ‘I’ve got some bottom to kick.’
And with that, the pair of them swept off, laughing, leaving Roberta alone with Captain String-and-Bones.
He cleared his throat and held out one of those crystal tumblers, a teeny finger of molten amber sloshing about at the bottom of the trembling glass. ‘Madam?’
‘Better make it a double . . .’
Well, that wasn’t a sight to inspire confidence, was it?
A fat, wrinkly, half-naked horror stared back at her from the hotel-room mirror.
It wasn’t even a proper bra, just a set of twin black lace-and-netting hammocks with teeny wee straps.
Not an underwire to its name. And the pants!
Brazilians were meant to be when you got a butch woman called Helga to rip the hairs off your undercarriage, so you didn’t look like you were smuggling a sasquatch down the front of your bikini – Brazilians weren’t meant to be pants.
Oh, yeah, they looked like decent-sized pants, but that didn’t stop the middle bit from disappearing right up your bumcrack.
Roberta hauled it out again.
And the state of her . . .
Black lace against fish-belly skin. So much fish-belly skin.
She gave her fancy new underwear a shoogle, setting up a sympathetic sine wave in her not-so-taut areas. Wobble, wobble, wobble, wobble, wobble.
No doubt about it: she looked ridiculous in this get-up. Mutton dressed as spam.
Urgh . . .
Roberta took a double handful of pasty stomach, pulled it up, and let it thump-wobble down again. Grimacing as the ripples subsided.
She let loose a big, heavy sigh, making the lacy hammocks sag.
‘Fat. Wrinkly. Old. And horrible . . .’
The pants were bad enough, but the bra? What the hell had Susan been thinking?
You’d have to be a flat-chested stick insect to fit into the damned thing.
Roberta wriggled out of it and hurled the lacy disaster into her open suitcase, where it could bloody well stay.
She’d be wearing Old Faithful for the duration, thank you very much.
She checked her watch: half one.
Urgh . . .
Better get dressed quick, before Susan appeared and discovered there wasn’t going to be any black-lacy-boob-hammock-horror going on.
Don’t want to spoil the mystery, after all.
The queue of guests snaked ahead of Roberta and Susan, heading for the on-site chapel, all the way through the hotel lobby and out the front door. The men a mixture of starchy Highland dress and clashing kilts, the women in weird cocktail-dress/ball-gown hybrids topped off with ridiculous hats.
Susan had opted for the nice purple dress that made her bum and boobs look eminently nibbleable.
Roberta squeezed herself into the bright-blue suit that Susan always said she liked, but kinda felt a bit like wearing the TARDIS.
While those rotten Brazilian pants embarked on their fifteenth attempt at a lacy colonoscopy in the last four minutes.
Should have swapped the bloody things for a nice comfy pair of massive pants when she’d ditched their horrible-hammock friend, but it was too late now.
‘Could I no’ have worn jeans and T-shirt?’
‘You look lovely.’
The queue shuffled forwards.
Roberta dug the Brazilian out of her crack again. ‘Feel like a right prick in this.’
‘Will you leave your undercarriage alone?’
‘All right for you, your pants aren’t trying to disappear up your bumhole.’
They passed a perky wee thing in a very low-cut dress.
Lovely tanned cleavage, hair swept up in a wobbly tower of blonde.
Not bad looking either, if you liked them early-twenties and clarted in YouTube-make-up-tutorial slap.
Pacing up and down the tartan carpet, checking her watch, hurling angry glances at front door.
Roberta leaned in close to Susan’s ear, eyebrows jigging up and down. ‘Corrrrr . . . I would, wouldn’t you?’
Face dead ahead, not even looking at Little Miss Perky. ‘Behave yourself!’
‘Bet she wriggles like an eel on a washing machine if you do her right.’
‘Robbie!’
A grin. ‘Could eat cottage cheese off that pert wee arse all night long.’ Not the stuff with pineapple in it, though, that would just be perverse. ‘Think she’s a screamer? I think she’s a screamer.’
Susan’s voice dropped to an angry whisper. ‘I have to work with these people!’
Another young woman rocked up to them: ginger hair, freckles, and a tartan miniskirt – proffering glasses of sparkly drinks on a big silver tray. She was probably going for a welcoming smile, but it came off a bit serial-killery. ‘Champagne or Buck’s Fizz?’
Roberta helped herself to two glasses of pale-golden fizz. ‘Ta.’ Then nodded at Susan. ‘You want one too?’
‘You are not to get drunk and humiliate me, Robbie. I swear, if you do . . .’
‘Ah well, all the more for me.’ She scoofed half of the first glass, stifling the resulting belch because this was clearly meant to be a classy do.
Up ahead, the queue parted as a lanky PC, wearing the full Police Scotland uniform, stumbled in through the doors, against the flow of people.
‘Pardon me, scuse me . . .’ He’d accessorised the black T-shirt, peaked cap, and itchy trousers with this season’s must-haves – a utility belt, stabproof vest, and high-vis waistcoat.
A suit carrier draped over one shoulder, a rucksack held in the other hand.
Thin, and Adam’s appley, with a close-cropped head of ginger hair. Like Irn-Bru-coloured suede.
‘Barbara!’ He lankied over to Miss Perky-Cleavage, all hangdog and puppy-eyed. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .’
‘Where the hell have you been?’ She jabbed a finger at the queue. ‘It’s starting!’
‘It’s all the rain. Bob Ronnach’s farm’s flooded, we had to rescue his sheep. They’re talking about the reservoir bursting and—’
Her finger came around and poked him instead. ‘If you make me late for my brother’s wedding, Michael McKinnon, I’m going to skin you alive and make you eat the bits!’
‘Sorry, sorry, I’ll be a flash, I swear!’ And with that, he scurried off up the big wooden staircase, taking it two steps at a time.
Miss Perky-Cleavage scowled after him. ‘Men!’
Aha.
Roberta gave her a wave, throwing in a wee leer for good luck. ‘Serve him right if you join the Sapphic Sisterhood, Babs. We’ve got very good introductory offers and an excellent mentoring programme.’
Susan’s elbow jabbed into Roberta’s ribs. ‘I said, don’t embarrass me!’
‘Ask us about our First-Time-Lesbian Starter-Pack specials!’
Barbara, AKA: Miss Perky, stuck her nose in the air and flounced off after her lanky PC.
Ah well, couldn’t convert them all. Not on the first go.
Roberta grinned. ‘I like ’em feisty.’
Susan just glared at her.