Chapter Three
The rugby club bar was full, the crowd spilling outside onto the paved area that overlooked the pitch.
A DJ was diligently working his way through the standard list of classic hits, guaranteed to appeal to most of the guests at a fortieth birthday party; Maura suspected ‘Sweet Caroline’ and ‘Come On Eileen’ were in her imminent future.
But it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet – a little early for the dance floor to be filling up.
It was currently occupied by various clusters of cavorting children, some of whom were starting to flag, if Maura was any judge.
She watched them for a few seconds, smiling at their antics, and then turned back to Polly, who was seated next to her.
‘So how is Matt coping with the big four-O?’ she asked.
‘Jamie says he’s been in denial about it for the past year. ’
The other woman rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t. You’d think he’s turning seventy, to hear him go on about it.’
Maura grimaced in sympathy. ‘It doesn’t really mean anything, though. It’s just a number.’
‘You know that and I know that,’ Polly said dryly. ‘But Matt doesn’t agree. I caught him googling convertibles the other day – can you imagine? He says he doesn’t want to wake up one morning and find he’s turned into his dad.’
Maura couldn’t help glancing at Jamie, who was roaring with laughter on the other side of the bar.
He was still three years away from his fortieth birthday but had started to make noises about trading in their perfectly blameless Volvo for something faster, despite the fact it could comfortably accommodate all Maura’s pots and accessories when she went to pottery shows.
When viewed alongside his newfound interest in penthouse apartments, Maura wondered whether Jamie was contemplating the approach of middle age with every bit as much trepidation as Matt.
‘He still wanted a party, though,’ she observed to Polly, who snorted.
‘Of course he did. He’s been planning this since his last birthday. Any excuse for a session, right?’
But her tone was indulgent, if a little resigned, and Maura understood where she was coming from.
Inverleith Warriors had three squads, all of which played hard and partied equally fiercely.
Anyone who fell in love with one of their players quickly learned not to get in the way of that.
‘You’re only forty once,’ she said. ‘Even if Matt would rather stick with thirty-nine.’
‘He’ll get over it,’ Polly said, with the easy dismissiveness of someone who was still five or so years away from that particular milestone birthday. ‘Like you say, it’s just a number.’
Time seemed to speed up after the buffet had been consumed and cleared away. The number of children dropped, as parents took their sleepy-eyed little ones home. The dancefloor filled up as the DJ moved seamlessly into higher tempo crowd pleasers.
Maura found herself in among the dancers more often than usual, pulled into the throng first by Zoe and later by Jamie, who was clearly the worse for wear but on good form.
As the bar staff served the final drinks and the DJ finished his set with The Killers, a bright-eyed but slightly unsteady Zoe appeared before Maura. ‘Some of us are going into town. Say you’ll come!’
She’d barely finished the last sentence before Maura was shaking her head. ‘Absolutely not,’ she said. ‘Apart from anything else, my feet are killing me. They’re not used to all this dancing.’
Zoe pouted, as though ‘no’ was a word she didn’t hear often. ‘Oh, go on. It’ll be fun. Jamie wants you to.’
Maura glanced across at her boyfriend, who was lustily singing a famously unsuitable rugby song with his teammates. ‘Jamie knows very well how boring I am,’ she replied. ‘But thank you for asking. Tell him I’ll see him when he gets home.’
It wasn’t unusual for Maura to wake up and find Jamie’s side of the bed empty after a night out. Occasionally, she’d discovered him asleep on the sofa or, once or twice, on the floor beside the sofa.
The morning after Matt’s party, however, he was not snoring in the living room. He was not at home at all. Instead, he materialised at one-thirty that afternoon, rumpled and bleary-eyed and smelling like an explosion in a tequila distillery.
‘There you are,’ Maura exclaimed, caught between relief that he was okay and exasperation that he hadn’t bothered to respond to her text messages. ‘Where have you been?’
He ran a hand over his chin. ‘At Liam’s. It got a bit messy once we hit the town.’
‘So I see,’ Maura said, unsure whether to laugh or feel aggrieved. ‘Is his shower broken?’
‘Someone threw up in it,’ Jamie admitted, and paused. ‘I think it might have been me.’
‘Lovely,’ Maura said faintly, when it became clear he wasn’t making a joke.
Liam was in his twenties – she expected such things from the younger members of the rugby club.
But surely Jamie should know better. Perhaps she should have gone along, if only to curb the worst of his excesses. ‘And how do you feel now?’
‘Tired,’ he said. ‘Hungover. And not in the mood for one of your lectures.’
That stung, because she had no intention of lecturing him. Apart from anything else, it looked as though he was suffering enough. ‘I was worried. You could have let me know where you were.’
Jamie’s expression darkened. ‘Like I said, it got messy. Bloody hell, Maura, lighten up a bit.’
She stared at him. ‘Lighten up? I don’t think it’s unreasonable of me to expect a message when you haven’t come home after a night out.’
He scowled. ‘Of course you don’t think you’re being unreasonable. You’re Saint Maura, after all.’
The words hung between them for a moment, as brittle as shattered glass. She cleared her throat. ‘I assume you’ve forgotten we’re due at my parents’ house for lunch in thirty minutes. I’ll make your excuses, shall I?’
It was clear from the startled look on his face that he had indeed forgotten. ‘Shit.’
For some reason, that was the thing that annoyed her the most. ‘If you’re planning on going to bed, can I suggest you take a shower first?’ she said, reaching for her bag. ‘Try not to be sick in this one.’
It was Kirsty who met Maura at the door of their parents’ house. ‘You’re late,’ she grumbled, as she stood back to let her sister into the hallway.
‘I know,’ Maura said with a sigh. The journey to the village on the north side of the Firth of Forth should have taken forty minutes. ‘There was an accident just after the bridge. Nobody moved for an hour.’
Kirsty peered over her shoulder. ‘No Jamie?’
Maura fought to keep her tone light. ‘Nope. He’s sleeping off a heavy night.’
‘Ah,’ Kirsty said, and adopted an innocent expression. ‘Another one?’
Maura’s first instinct was to spring to Jamie’s defence and gloss over the fact that he hadn’t managed to make it home.
But Kirsty had a point – last night was the latest in a long line of heavy nights and Maura was beginning to feel weary of making excuses.
Even so, she wasn’t sure she was ready to share all the details of Jamie’s behaviour with her sister.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ she said. ‘Let me go and say hello to Mum and Dad first.’
If her parents were surprised at Jamie’s absence, they didn’t show it, and Maura was glad of their unquestioning acceptance.
Lunch around the crowded kitchen table was the usual comforting mix of good food, laughter and mild chaos.
Kirsty’s husband, Dougal, was on cheerful form and their two children, Ciara and Teddy, endeavoured to outdo each other in their efforts to impress their grandparents and Aunt Maura.
Conversation ranged from the up and down fortunes of the local football club to an intricate but mysterious collection of knitted decorations that had sprung up around the village.
‘No one knows who made them,’ Maura’s mum Judith said, her expression intrigued.
‘The one on top of the postbox appeared in the dead of night last Tuesday and there’s knitted bunting wrapped around the doorposts of the pub too.
They left a woollen poppy wreath at the war memorial, even though it’s only April. ’
‘Maybe there’s a secret society of yarn bombers in the village, communicating through the medium of knitting,’ Kirsty suggested. ‘You should investigate.’
Dougal sat forward, his eyes twinkling. ‘This has all the makings of a smash hit Netflix series. I’d watch it.’
‘Maybe Fraser could star in it,’ Kirsty said, turning to Maura. ‘I know you said he’s taking a break from acting but I bet he’d come back for something like this.’
‘Fraser?’ Maura’s mum repeated. ‘Who’s he?’
Maura opened her mouth to answer but Kirsty beat her to it. ‘Maura’s new friend.’
‘My new business partner,’ Maura corrected. ‘I told you about this ages ago, Mum. We were in the same year at St Ignatius. I’ve been making a few ceramics for him.’
‘You didn’t tell me he was an actor,’ Judith grumbled. ‘Is he one of those pretty types or does he do characters?’
‘His name is Fraser Bell,’ Kirsty supplied, once again before Maura could speak. ‘And he’s definitely pretty.’
Dougal threw her a mildly affronted look. ‘Oh, aye? You kept that quiet when you came home after the ghost tour.’
Maura’s father, Grant, who had been following the conversation like a tennis match, looked confused. ‘I thought you said he’s an actor. Was he dressed up as a ghost?’
‘Woooooo!’ Ciara intoned around a mouthful of roast potato, wiggling her fingers to emphasise her spookiness. Teddy joined in, several decibels louder, sending a spoonful of carrot flying through the air.
‘No, he runs the tour,’ Maura said over the din, wishing Kirsty hadn’t mentioned Fraser at all. ‘He’s a really gifted storyteller. The business is doing well.’
‘I’m not surprised, if he’s good looking,’ Judith said. ‘How exciting. I’ll have to look him up – find out if he’s been in anything I’ve seen.’