17. Rory
RORY
I’ve arrived to a heatwave, and it’s baking, even by California standards.
I squint up at the almost-finished building.
Despite my father’s best efforts to derail the project, we’ve managed to push this one over the line.
In just a few months, the first students will walk through the doors of the Kinnaird Academy and Community Centre, and we’ll have fulfilled a promise made over a century ago by my great-great-grandfather.
We stand in silence, watching as the scaffolding comes down and the final cladding panels are installed. It’s everything the foundation stands for – tackling the root causes of deprivation and social disadvantage, levelling the playing field where we can.
I’m painfully aware of the irony, of course, but my job is to make something of the role I was born into.
With a metallic clatter the final pieces slide down, and two burly workmen lift them onto the waiting flatbed.
“Sorry you’ve come at the unglamorous part,” says Phoebe, our PR director, in her gruff Yorkshire accent. “If the shit hadn’t hit the fan with this journalist I’d have waited until the ribbon cutting.”
I groan inwardly at the prospect and Phoebe shoots me a sideways look.
“I know you hate it,” she says, smiling and shaking her head.
“I didn’t say a word.” I feel the sweat trickling down the back of my shirt. It’s far too hot for a suit.
“You don’t need to.” She turns to look at me, hands on her hips. “How’s the book going? I forgot to ask earlier.”
“Book?”
“Memoir. Record. Whatever we’re calling it today.” She’s no-nonsense, Phoebe, which is why I like her. Direct.
“Well, as far as I could tell in passing. All of this” – I gesture towards the building – “meant I’ve had to leave her to it, which is less than ideal.”
“You’re not happy with the ghostwriter?”
Theo beckons us from the other side of the site, and we walk over, taking off our standard issue construction helmets and high-vis vests as we go.
I look at her briefly. She’s textbook pretty, Phoebe – highlighted blonde hair and a neat figure encased in an expensive suit despite the thirty-degree heat.
She picks her way across the unmade pavement in her suede heels.
An image of Edie in those horrifically awful boots pops unbidden into my head.
“Rory?”
“Sorry, yes. I’m sure she’s fine,” I say, trying to sound offhand.
We arrive at the site office, where Theo’s bent over a laptop having a Zoom call with a screen full of faces. I keep myself well out of sight. There’s duty, and there’s getting dragged into never-ending corporate bullshit with jet lag.
“Excellent. She’s tied up in a cast iron NDA so whatever comes out won’t be a problem.”
It’s an unfortunate image, one which leads my mind down a path that’s not entirely appropriate for a work setting. The idea of Edie tied up?—
I press my fingers to my temples. A fleeting image of Edie, naked and tied to the antique iron bedframe flickers into view, that long tumble of red hair spilling out on the sheets and her curves?—
I suppress a groan.
“Rory? You okay? Headache?” Phoebe’s voice drags me back to reality as we head for the car. “Is it the heat?” She slides into the back seat and looks at me quizzically, a concerned expression on her face.
Fuck knows what she’d say if I told her what I was actually thinking.
Four hours in, and crashing feels inevitable. Jet lag has sunk its teeth in, and the only option is to push through.
The walk across the office reveals everything expected – sleek, modern, sustainability-certified, with precisely manicured landscaping and spotless stone walkways.
Outside, electric cars line up beside rows of bike racks.
Inside, each room is nearly identical, differing only in size: open-plan spaces filled with dark wood furniture and muted green walls breaking up the uniformity.
A mug is taken and filled with more coffee, though even Columbia’s finest is barely working on my tiredness right now. It’s best not to think about what time it might be in Loch Morven. Here, it’s edging past five-thirty.
“So, we’re just waiting for the final permits for the daycare and the co-working spaces. Hopefully your presence might help kick some arses into gear. We’ve had some pushback from locals, worrying about traffic.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Yes, I know, the irony wasn’t lost on me either.
If they left their Priuses at home and walked to their breathwork class we’d have nothing to worry about.
” Phoebe snorts. “Anyway, we’ve got a lot of good buzz from community leaders, and they’re the ones that matter.
Once again, you’ll be able to make a difference there. ”
“I’m beginning to feel like some sort of good luck mascot.”
Phoebe shoots me a look. “Don’t knock it if it gets us across the line.”
Theo pulls up a final report on the massive digital display.
“Last one, you’ll be pleased to hear. So this is a list of everyone involved – investors, politicians, philanthropists. These are the great and the good who’ll be expecting to see you on Wednesday for the gala dinner.”
I chug the coffee and put the mug back on the counter. “And after that?”
“After that, we’ve got the community meeting. It’s going to make a massive difference having you here for that, so really, we owe that interfering bastard of a journalist one.”
I groan.
“Oh yes, and we’ve pencilled you in for lunch with him on Monday. We’re going to give him an exclusive behind the scenes, sweeten him up with some fascinating facts and then hand you over as the piece de resistance.”
“Nice to know my value. ”
I pinch the bridge of my nose for a moment, trying to focus.
“You know what I mean. God knows it’s a hell of a lot easier doing this job now you’re officially in charge, not trying to run the ship while your father?—”
Theo shoots Phoebe a look.
“Sorry, excuse my Northern lack of tact.” Phoebe grins.
I smirk briefly. “Don’t apologise to me. That’s why we hired you. I’ve no time for corporate bullshit.”
Theo presses a button, and the display screen goes blank. “And even less so after a night on the red eye, I should imagine. Did you get much sleep?”
“Enough.”
“Well fuck off and get some more. I’m going to take advantage of you while you’re here, and much as you hate it, we need to play the game.”
The driver stops outside the Rosewood Sand Hotel three quarters of an hour later, reminding me that there are some advantages to living and working at Loch Morven.
An effusive receptionist goes through a well-rehearsed spiel as he hands over my key and I bat away a concierge, taking my bag and heading for the elevator unattended.
Much as I hate to admit it, I know Theo’s right. After everything my father did to try and destabilise the foundation, it’s my job to pull it back into line, not for my sake, but for the sake of everyone else that’s relying on everything it stands for.
I’ve done ten days of corporate box ticking and it’s with a sense of relief that I shake Theo’s hand outside the door of the hotel. By anyone’s standards, that’s been quite enough schmoozing. And for someone who’s allergic to bullshit, well?—
“I’d say that was a win, wouldn’t you?” Theo loosens his tie slightly as he speaks.
“I hope so.”
I shift out of the way so the driver can lift my bag into the back of the car.
All I want right now is to get on a flight back to Scotland, head up to the Highlands and see what’s happening at Loch Morven.
Instead, I’ve got another ten days of the same in New York, where there will be less of the yoga and green juice and a bit more no-bullshit and cut the crap.
“One more thing before you go.” Theo pulls out his phone and scrolls.
The driver looks at his watch in a discreet but pointed manner. Even with priority we’re going to be pushed for time if the traffic’s not on our side.
“Can it wait?” I have my hand on the door, ready to climb in. Theo – determined to get his pound of flesh – is still going.
“Just had word from Rhona. The charity’s given the houses the nod, so when you get back, we need to arrange a meeting with the construction company and start getting things moving.”
“Excellent. Okay, I’ll get that sorted from my end. Email Pippa for me and tell her to sort out some meetings.”
“If only you were as enthusiastic about board meetings,” Theo says, shaking my hand. “Safe flight.”
Fortunately, the driver takes no prisoners, and we sail through to the private passport control with time to spare.
“Can I get you anything, Your Grace?”
I look up into the blue eyes of a flight attendant who smiles at me expectantly. She leans over to place a napkin on my tray, angling herself carefully so I get a prime view of her impressive cleavage.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“I’m Sophie. Anything you want—” She smiles seductively and pauses a beat longer than necessary. “Anything. Just shout.”
The woman in the seat opposite cranes her neck to take a look at me.
It’s the honorific. I need to work out a way to make it clear that there’s absolutely no need for it, but it’s the first time I’ve flown since my father died.
He loved all that stuff, being waited on hand and foot and people tugging their forelock. It’s my idea of hell on earth.
The flight takes off and I watch San Francisco disappear beneath me as we soar upwards. As soon as the seatbelt lights flash off Sophie’s making a beeline in my direction with an expectant look on her face.
“I’ll have a whisky, please,” I say, heading her off at the pass.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
I open my laptop to take a look at the plans which Theo’s sent through already.
Building five safe houses on the estate in conjunction with a women’s refuge charity in Inverness is something close to home, not only physically but emotionally.
After what happened to Janey it seemed like the obvious way to try and make a difference, and the reports pay testimony to that.
“Rural poverty has reached record levels in the Highlands, and with it an increase in domestic violence…” I’m reading the report when the flight attendant returns, hovering a beat too long after handing me my drink.
“You must be very busy,” she says, smiling .
“I am, yes. No rest for the wicked, and all that.”
She seems to get the hint. She’s a pretty girl. I’m sure there are plenty other red-blooded men who’d take advantage when they landed in New York, invite her out for a drink and something to eat on the pretence of seeing where the evening took them when they both knew exactly what was on the cards.
“No more surprises, no scandals.” I can hear Phoebe’s brisk tones echoing in my ears.
I’ve been discreet and careful for years now.
Until Edie came along and blew it all out of the water.
Phoebe’s new – only half joking – PR strategy is great in theory, but right now I’ve got exactly the sort of “messy entanglement” she insists we’re cutting out.
Maybe I’ve got more of my father in me than I realise.
Except, of course – I down my drink in one, remembering the words that have echoed round my head for years – it’s not that simple.
I turn it over in my head as we fly across the country, the movie on the screen playing without a single moment registering in my head.
My father had been drunk, which wasn’t unusual, a half-full tumbler of malt whisky sitting on his desk when he called me in.
The study had been strewn with papers, and the bottle was close by his hand.
The fake bonhomie that drew people towards him had faded with my mother’s death after their divorce.
I always thought of that night as the moment that something changed in him, that last glimmer of kindness was replaced with a twisted need to entertain himself with the discomfort of others.
“Of course,” he’d said, his tone casual. “It was her fault.”
“What was?”
“Her fault you’re not the true heir. Not that I ever gave a shit. But you know what they’d say if they found out…” He’d tapped the side of his nose with a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll keep that as our little secret, won’t we?”
That was fifteen years ago.
Phoebe’s words play over in my head. “Don’t worry, she’s tied up with an iron-clad NDA.”
My hand tightens on the glass. This time there’s no inappropriate image of Edie in my head, only a picture of the whole foundation dragged into scandal and turmoil.
Everything we’ve worked to try and repair blown apart.
Fuck knows what she’s going to find in those papers and journals.
He liked to hint at things so he could watch people squirm.
What if half of it is bullshit and the other half is worse?
Fuck knows what she’s found in the last two weeks.
But there was no way I could have turned around and told Theo that no, I couldn’t come and put out fires in San Francisco because I had my own to deal with.
Whatever the truth is, we’re past that now. Edie’s silence is bought and paid for, and my duty is to hold this generation of the Kinnaird family together. Perhaps bloodlines matter less than noblesse oblige.
At the end of the day, there’s nobody else going to step up.
Finn’s opted out completely, and Jamie’s a bloody liability more concerned with getting his end away.
By the time I get back Edie will be mired in the very depths of the lies and bullshit that my father’s left behind, and there’s nothing I can do about it.