Chapter 18 Tilda
TILDA
We leave for the boat after heading back to Loch Morven to grab our things.
I dither for a good five minutes, not sure if I should strip the bedsheets to be helpful or if I’m supposed to leave them for someone else to deal with, like a hotel.
I pull the sheets up and make it look respectable as a compromise.
I’d hoped to see Edie again – she seemed nice – but they’d been called away unexpectedly on some estate matter.
Somehow, it underlined I wasn’t one of them, but part of the machinery that lies underneath the surface, keeping things going.
Finn’s brooding silence fills the car, and I stare out of the window as we drive along the coast road towards the island ferry. We make it with moments to spare, the boatman giving me a grin as he ducks his head in through the window to tease Finn about his timekeeping.
“No wedding dress today?” He slaps a palm on the roof of the Land Rover, tickled by his own joke. “You’ll be disappointing us all.”
I feel the heat rising in my cheeks and give a polite attempt at a smile. Finn’s mouth twitches in amusement but it doesn’t tip over into a smile.
We unload the dogs and take them up onto the deck, Flora pressed against my legs as the boat shudders on the turn out of the harbour.
The wind tangles my hair and whips it into my eyes as I try to hold onto Flora and tie it back one handed, failing miserably.
The air smells of diesel and cold iron while the deck shudders.
Finn takes her lead without speaking, his hand brushing against mine in the handover. The contact is brief, but I feel it all the way up my arm.
I pull my hair back in a knot, looping it through the band so it’s held out of my face, and we head downstairs to the sitting area.
“Coffee?”
I nod gratefully. I’m hit by a wave of tiredness, but there’s still time this afternoon to get some work done, if I can find the energy.
Finn returns a few minutes later with two paper cups and hands one to me, sitting down opposite me on the uncomfortable plastic seat.
He braces a boot against the bench, his leg close to mine.
I’m acutely aware of the warmth radiating from him, the solid bulk of his presence across from me.
“It’s foul,” he says, taking a mouthful. “Just a warning.”
“It’s caffeine,” I say, and sip experimentally. “Barely.”
He gives a half smile. “It’s not quite a cruise ship, the Maid of the Isles.”
“I can’t think of anything worse than a cruise.”
Finn groans. “Nor me. Trapped in the middle of the ocean having to make polite conversation with people I don’t like.”
“You might like them?” I take another sip of coffee to make sure it really is as disgusting as it seems. My face scrunches up in revulsion.
“Unlikely. There are very few people I like, some I can tolerate. The rest—” He shrugs a broad shoulder.
“Have you decided which category I come under?” The words slip out before I realise what I’ve said.
His dark eyes twinkle as they meet mine, a smirk ghosting his face. “Stop fishing.”
“Noted,” I say, studying the lid of my cup as if it’s fascinating, my cheeks warm. I shouldn’t have said that, but when I look up, the way he’s looking at me – amused, and almost fond – makes it hard to regret.
We drive from the slipway straight up the road to the cottage, in the opposite direction to Benruar House. Scaffolding still frames the roof, and slates are stacked in neat piles. Finn pulls the car up outside Susan’s house.
“It’s looking good,” she says, appearing in the doorway as if by magic. “How are you, Finn?”
He gives her a nod and a warm smile. “Not bad. Glad to be back on the island.”
“Aye, it has that effect.” She stoops to pick up a stray leaf from her otherwise spotless garden path. “I gave your planters a little drink when I was doing mine earlier. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” I get the feeling that Susan might even have missed our occasional chats over the garden wall. She’d warmed up after a chilly start, and now she was almost welcoming. “I should be back soon, roof permitting. I might need to sell a kidney to pay for the repairs.”
“I told you not to worry,” says Finn, and Susan gives an approving nod.
I shift from one foot to the other, feeling awkward. Finn has a brief chat with one of the roofers, and then we head back in the car towards Benruar after I promise that I’ll pop in for a cup of tea with Susan later in the week.
I steal a glance at Finn as he’s driving. The late afternoon light catches the line of his jaw, and the strong column of his throat. Something twists in my chest and I’m not sure if it’s gratitude or guilt or something else altogether. Something I’m not ready to name.
He says nothing, lost in thought as we climb the hill up to the house.
“I must get those gates sorted,” he mutters as we drive past the peeling green wooden entrance. “And talking of paint, I’ve got some gloss and emulsion in the back for you. Picked it up from the store at Loch Morven.”
“Oh,” I say, flustered. “I need to give you some money or you could take it off my pay or—”
He shakes his head. “It’s a few tins. The estate won’t notice a few tins. I’ll offer to pay Rory, and he’ll tell me where to stick the money.”
“I could try,” I volunteer, hopefully.
He gives a snort of laughter. “You could. You’ll get nowhere.”
I turn to give Flora a pat.
“Oh, for fucks sake,” Finn growls and the temperature in the car drops about ten degrees in an instant.
I turn back to see the courtyard is unexpectedly busy. Malcolm’s battered white van is parked in its usual spot, but there’s a red Volkswagen sitting parallel to it in Finn’s usual parking space and Georgia’s motioning at us, red-faced and wild haired.
Finn stops the car dead and climbs out with me following a split second later.
“What the fuck?” he hisses.
“I have no idea.” Georgia tucks a flying strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “She just turned up. She’s round the front with Malcolm.”
The red car has a row of stuffed animals balanced on the parcel shelf, staring out at us like tiny fluffy prisoners from behind an array of stickers issuing dire threats.
“If you can read this, you’re tailgating me,” I read aloud. “What sort of person puts a sticker like that on their car?”
“The sort of person who’s in charge of the tourist office,” says Finn grimly.
I open my mouth to reply but before I do, Jennifer Ross presents herself and the answer to my question.
She’s short and square with a helmet of hair in an unnatural shade of burgundy which matches her shoes.
Despite the fact we’re in a muddy courtyard she’s dressed in a fake Chanel boucle suit, with shiny gold buttons which sit in a rather unfortunate position on her chest. She looks like she’s got bulletproof nipples.
I have to put a hand over my mouth and pretend to scratch my nose to stop myself from giggling at the thought.
“Oh, you’ve turned up at last,” she says, looking Finn up and down as if he’s something her cat’s brought in from the garden. “I was saying to your distillery manager that it’s not really ideal for you to be off site when the distillery is open.” She notices me. “I assume you are open?”
She surveys the mud-splattered sides of the Land Rover and the dogs who’ve sneaked out through the front door of the car and are now milling about our feet. Finn’s rigid by my side.
Jennifer clicks her tongue disapprovingly.
“Still rather rough around the edges, isn’t it?
Oh dear.” She glances around the yard. All I can see is the things we’ve missed, as if I’m seeing it through her disapproving lens instead of our own optimistic one.
“It might be a start if you considered first impressions,” she adds, folding her arms over her bulletproof nipples and looking at Finn with her mouth pursed in a very good impression of a cat’s arse.
“If you consider first impressions, I’d say our gold medal winning malt does a pretty good job.”
“I mean the front gates,” Jennifer says primly, unfolding her arms and reaching into her padded leather bag for her car keys. “But let’s hope you can scrub yourselves up rather better for next week.”
“Next week?” Finn still hasn’t moved.
She smiles brightly, baring her teeth like an angry terrier. “Of course. You’ll be attending Glen Mhor for the Highland Innovation for Tourism Award presentation. Invitations went out months ago. You’d be… unwise to miss it.”
The way she lingers on the word makes me feel a bit sick. My stomach clenches and I steal a glance in Georgia’s direction. She’s looped an arm through Malcolm’s elbow and the two of them are standing shoulder to shoulder as if they’re armed for combat.
Silence hangs in the courtyard for a long moment and then Finn inclines his head.
“We will be there, naturally.”
Jennifer beams, looking pleased with herself, and sweeps past us into her car, her perfume hanging in the air like some sort of invisible cloud.
It’s only as we watch the row of furry animals disappearing out of view that I realise my hands are balled into fists. If she wants a fight, she’s got one. Glen Mhor haven’t reckoned with us.
Ten minutes later we’re assembled in the kitchen. Georgia’s clattering around washing mugs and I’ve found a tin of shortbread on the shelf by the Aga.
“That woman is unspeakable,” she says, fetching milk from the fridge and picking up the teapot. She gives it such a vicious shake that tea shoots out of the spout, narrowly missing Malcolm’s arm. He pulls it away with a chuckle.
“If you nobble me, we’ll be in more trouble than we already are, lassie.”
“I’m so sorry, Malcolm.” Georgia arranges the mugs in a line and starts pouring tea. “I’m so cross. She’s like a-a—”
“Toad,” says Finn grimly, looking up from the screen of his MacBook. “Found it.”
He spins the laptop around so we can all see.
“She’s sent three emails.” He pushes his hands through his dark hair, and it flops stubbornly back over his forehead. “I forgot I’d set up a rule to send her into the junk folder. For my blood pressure,” he adds with a grim half-smile.
Malcolm flaps a pile of papers into a vague semblance of a pile.
“Guerilla inspection, that’s what that was.
And she’ll be off to Glen Mhor now telling tales about how useless we are – disorganised and not up to scratch.
The committee will have heard the whole story by the time we’ve finished these cups of tea. ” He gives a disconsolate slurp.
Georgia’s pacing back and forth with a line furrowed between her brows. “Well, let her think,” she says eventually. “We’ll turn up at the event looking shit hot and knock Glen Mhor into a cocked hat.” She looks at Finn. “Is your kilt ready?”
“Ready for what?” He glances up from the screen for a second, his eyes meeting mine. The look holds a beat too long, long enough for my stomach to flip before Georgia barrels on.
“Your kilt. You’re not turning up there in jeans and with a hole in the elbow of your plaid shirt. Please tell me it’s not lying in a heap somewhere.” She glances over at the pile of discarded seal rescue waterproofs on the armchair.
Finn’s mouth twitches. “Cleaned and put away after Edie and Rory’s wedding.”
Georgia exhales. “Thank god.”
“You did it,” he adds, shaking his head in bemusement.
“And Tilda, have you got something nice to wear? Please say yes.” She looks at my jeans and sweater and her brows steeple upwards.
I blink, thinking on the hop. I threw everything in the car when I left Poppy’s place. This might be the one time that my chaos-forward approach to packing works in my favour.
“I think I’ve probably got a dress at the cottage. The roofers should be done tomorrow, so I can get back and have a proper look when I move back in.”
There’s a silence before Finn puts down his mug with deliberate care.
“If you’re planning to paint the whole place,” he says, his voice gruff but steady, “now might not be the best time. You’re welcome to stay. It’ll make life easier.”
My pulse kicks up. More time here at Benruar. More mornings waking up in the rose-papered room. More dinners across the table from Finn Kinnaird.
Georgia looks at me expectantly and nods, her eyes wide. “Way easier to redecorate when you’re not actually living in the place. And you’re going to have to work out what to do about furniture and stuff when you sell it, anyway.”
I feel a little wave of something I can’t quite put a finger on. The idea of selling the cottage and leaving Benruar, is a reminder that my time here is limited. I give myself a shake and smile back at Finn a little too brightly.
“That would be great, thanks,” I say, hiding my face as I take a sip from my mug. Gratitude sits awkwardly alongside the reminder that this is temporary.
Georgia’s face lifts in a relieved smile and Malcolm gives a brief nod, which is effusive by his standards. For the first time I feel it – the sense of being part of a team, even if it’s only for a little while. We might be bruised by Jennifer’s scorn, but we’re not knocked down.
We’re pulling together now, and Glen Mhor won’t know what’s hit them.
I catch Finn’s eye across the table, and he gives me a brief nod – approval, maybe, or acknowledgement. Something passes between us in that look, something I can’t quite define. Whatever it is, I’m not ready to let it go.