27. Edie #2
He’s bone dry, towering over me with a disapproving expression. “You’re soaked,” he says flatly, as if I’ve done it on purpose.
“Well observed,” I say, pushing wet hair off my face.
He doesn’t move but stands there looking down at me like I’m yet another problem to deal with. “Should I ask?”
“I had to go to the village,” I say, breathless and feeling like an idiot. “Anna needed—” I waggle the bottle in the air as explanation.
“I see.”
For a moment I think he’s going to say something else. There’s a fleeting change in his expression, as if it crosses his mind to, and then he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. I can’t quite work out if he’s furious with me, or with himself for caring .
“I’ll let you get on.” His expression is completely neutral again, but his eyes scan me up and down as if he can’t quite believe that I’m dripping over his priceless parquet flooring. “I’m sure you are very busy with your… guest.”
Great. Not only am I running around after Anna who shouldn’t even be here, but I’m doing it on his dime.
“Yes.” I nod. “Lots to do… lots of… work.”
But he’s already turning and stalking off across the hall.
I realise the door to my room is open as soon as I turn the corner at the top of the landing. Light spills into the normally gloomy corridor and I feel a chill down my spine as I walk towards it, my feet leaden. I know it was locked – I checked twice, as usual, before I left.
The door is wide open and Anna’s sitting cross legged on my bed as if she’s booked it on Expedia. My heart sinks.
She’s got a laptop on her lap – my laptop – and she doesn’t even look up at first. I always thought it was hyperbole when people said my blood ran cold but right now, I realise it’s a real thing. I can’t seem to form a sentence.
“Oh hi,” Anna says, looking up at me with a half-smile playing on her lips.
She’s all practised innocence. “There you are. My god, Ede, I can’t believe this shit.
It’s gold. Old Dickie Kinnaird knew how to move money around, didn’t he?
He’s like a cross between a Bond villain and a pervy old uncle. ”
My heart does something weird in my chest and I cross the room in three strides, grabbing the laptop and clutching it protectively to my chest.
“Why are you in my room?” My voice is low and controlled, the shock giving way to white-hot anger.
“Oh,” Anna waves dismissively, stretching like a cat. “I needed some conditioner, and I know you had that nice almond oil stuff.” She picks up the bottle sitting by her hip. “ Anyway, I told one of the cleaning ladies I needed to get something from your room, and she let me in.”
There’s no way that Claire would have done that.
“Cleaning ladies?”
“Yeah, a girl – about twenty or so? Apparently, she’s only here for the weekend of the ball. Her mum works here. Lauren or Laura or something. I wasn’t really paying attention.”
“Laura,” I say flatly, remembering. Claire’s daughter was excited to make some money for her summer trip to Spain.
“You’re looking at confidential documents,” I say, my voice shaking. “Documents covered by a legally binding NDA that could cost me my career if they’re breached.”
Anna rolls her eyes “Don’t be so dramatic. I’m not going to tell anyone.”
“That’s not the point.” I set the laptop on my desk, my fingers trembling. “You had no right.”
Anna looks at me with a curious expression.
“Come on Ede, it’s not like it’s state secrets.
” She flops back on the pillows. “Though I have to say, that bit about the land grab from the farmers was pretty juicy. And the fake company he set up to funnel money from the charitable trust? Classic rich person tax dodge.”
I freeze. Those were exactly the sections I was most worried about – the evidence of Dickie Kinnaird’s most questionable financial dealings.
“That’s not meant for anyone’s eyes,” I say quietly. “Especially a journalist.”
Something flickers across Anna’s face – surprise, perhaps, that I’ve caught on to her motives.
“Oh come on Ede,” she says, her voice wheedling. “I’m not here as a journalist. I’m here as your friend. ”
But I recognise that look in her eyes. I’ve seen it before.
“You’ve been asking questions and taking mental notes since you arrived. You’ve grilled me about the estate finances and the foundation. You’re exactly what Rory was afraid of –someone looking to exploit the family’s history for a headline.”
She’s a cuckoo, and I’ve invited her into the nest for a mini break.
Anna sits up, her casual demeanour hardening. “Oh, please. Like they don’t deserve it. These aristos sitting around on mountains of money and land while regular people can barely make rent.”
The barb is pointed, and it stings.
“I’m not buying into any of it. I’m talking about basic respect and professional ethics,” I counter, my voice steadying. “Which apparently you don’t have.”
“Don’t be na?ve,” Anna says, rolling off the bed to a stand and brushing imaginary lint from her shirt.
“I did you a favour. You’ve been locked up in this mausoleum for months playing secretary to a dead man.
You’ve got a way out here, we could co-write it.
The Dark Secrets of the Kinnaird Foundation would sell way better than any romance novel. ”
I can’t even speak. I just look at her with my mouth hanging open for a long moment before she bursts out laughing and shakes her head.
“For fucks sake, Edie, lighten up.” She rolls her eyes. “Although I tell you what, if this ever came out, someone would need help managing the fallout. A whole team managing the narrative…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead, she swipes the two bottles, flipping them in the air with a flourish. “Cheers for this. And you don’t mind if I borrow the conditioner? Don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me.”
Dinner that night is tense, not that Anna seems to notice.
We’re in a different dining room – not the huge one, off limits as Gregor organises everything for tomorrow’s ball.
This one still has two fireplaces and a chandelier that could knock someone out cold if it landed on their head.
It feels like we’re all in some sort of holding pattern for tomorrow, and I’m beginning to see why Rory isn’t a fan of the whole ball thing.
Talking of whom, I’m sitting at his right hand, which is exactly where I don’t want to be and exactly where I want to be at the same time.
He’s distracted – checking his phone and raking his hair back from his head with an irritable expression, the sleeves of the dark shirt he’s wearing rolled back so I can see the dark lines of the tattoo on muscle of his forearm.
Across from me, Anna is the picture of untroubled elegance. Her hair is freshly blow-dried, and she’s in a crisp white shirt with her sleeves rolled with an enviably French-style chic. She looks like she’s perfectly at home here. I’m still not convinced I do.
I’m doing my best to act normal, but it feels like my brain’s on fire.
I smile as Gregor comes in to detail the food we’ll be eating, and nod as Jamie pours drinks and chats casually about his busy day with the community project leaders from the Highland Council.
The whole time all I can see is Anna sitting on my bed with that slow cheshire cat smile, pawing through my work as if she had editorial control. My NDA might as well be confetti.
Jamie is all smiles and generous glasses of wine, either oblivious to Rory’s mood or performing obliviousness, I can’t tell which.
“Oh yeah,” He spears a piece of asparagus and pauses with it in mid-air, his tone casual.
“I had a call from someone at the Telegraph Magazine wanting to do a feature on the rewilding project.” He grins before popping the asparagus into his mouth then carries on with his mouth full. “They want to send a photographer.”
There’s a beat of silence. Rory is preternaturally still, like a lion waiting to pounce.
“I said no press.”
It’s as if someone turned the thermostat down by twenty degrees. I glance at Anna, whose expression doesn’t change but I see the flicker, she’s noticed it.
“Journalism’s a dying art, anyway,” she says, and I shoot her a narrow-eyed glance. “The power is in helping people control their narrative.”
My fingers tighten on the stem of my glass.
Jamie barrels on. “I think it’s a really good opportunity. We’ve got some amazing plans—in fact I wanted to talk to you about it, Edie. They were talking about a community storytelling role. You’d be amazing at that.”
I know he’s trying to help, but it’s like someone turned a full power search light right in my eyes. I want to crawl under the table and hide. The hairs at the back of my neck prickle.
Anna cuts a slice from her steak, her knife moving elegantly as she pauses for a moment, her chin raising slightly as she smiles. “Edie? She can’t even sell her own book.”
The silence is immediate.
“I—” I open my mouth and nothing comes out.
I want to say something, anything. Something sharp and self-deprecating. All I manage is a small sound, like air escaping a balloon.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rory’s voice is low and commanding and the words land like a gavel on the table.
Anna’s back straightens. I curl my fingers around the rim of my wine glass, clutching it too tightly.
“Edie is an excellent writer,” he says, almost too lightly, as he picks up a priceless bottle of red. He tips some into my glass, and then into his. The silence lengthens. “We selected her based on her experience, her academic background, and my personal enjoyment of her previous work.”
I have to hope he’s talking about my ghost-writing of Annabel’s memoir and not Tarot Cards for Beginners or A Cat for all Seasons .