Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
I reached the outskirts of Glasgow a couple of hours later and pulled into a parking space at the back of The Old Barrell pub.
This was where Declan had told me the landlord, a Bernie McKew, had given him and the rest of his band, their first series of gigs. It was situated up a cobbled lane, next to a betting shop and a small café, the kind that has Formica tables and laminated menus.
I sat there, frozen in the driver’s seat, for what seemed like ten minutes before I reached across to the passenger side and double-checked in my bag that I had my big, Jackie Onassis style sunglasses and pink, pearly bobble hat with me. With my new hair colour, the little weight I’d gained and my change of style, I was unrecognisable to people who didn’t know me well, but I’d met Bernie McKew before and I wasn’t taking any chances.
So, taking a leaf out of Ezra’s disguise handbook, I thrust on my Jackie O sunglasses and my hat, pulling it low down over my ears. I also wrapped a scarf around my neck so that it almost covered my chin and fluffed out my loose hair at the ends. If I kept all this on in there, hopefully, Bernie McKew wouldn’t recognise me.
I’d only met Bernie once, at our engagement party a couple of years ago, at Bannock House. Declan had invited him to our wedding that never was and he’d accepted.
I jumped out of the van, locked it and examined the exterior of the pub. It was one of those old-fashioned, glass-bottled windowed affairs, with a brown and gold sign swinging above the heavy, double doors of a pirate with one leg raised and his foot resting on a barrel.
Inside, the atmosphere was laidback, with Sir Tom Jones belting out one of his classics from a nearby jukebox.
The bar was set in front of what looked like a collage of bright, stained-glass shapes of more pirates and barrels. A couple of older gents were stationed at one end of the bar, cradling pints and grumbling to one another about football results, and I was sure that was Bernie McKew stood behind the bar, with his stout frame and polished, balding head.
I approached and tried to make my voice sound a little hoarser. “Mr McKew?”
Bernie snapped his head up. “Aye. Can I help you?” He eyed me in my sunglasses and bobble hat.
“I’m looking for someone I think you might know. Declan Rooney?”
Bernie set down the tea towel he’d been fiddling with. “And you are?”
“Bailey McArthur.”
“Police?”
“Oh no,” I rushed, before realising that my voice was reverting back to a higher timbre. “No,” I went on, in the deeper lilt. “He owes a friend of mine money and we need to track him down.”
Bernie squinted over at the two customers perched at the end of the bar, then swivelled his attention back to me. “You and me both, lass,” he growled. “All the help I gave that lad and he goes and throws it back in my face.”
A sliver of relief shot through me. I felt empathy for Bernie, but was also a little relieved that I didn’t seem to be the only one who’d fallen for Declan’s lies. “How did he swindle you?”
“Told me he wanted to go into the pub trade and that he’d spotted these great little premises on the West Coast. Showed me photos, spec, took me to see the place, the whole kit and kaboodle.” Bernie shook his head. “Declan said he knew his music career, such as it was, wouldn’t last forever and going into the pub trade with me would be a cushion to fall back on.”
“But it was a scam?”
Bernie’s face stung at the memory. “Aye. It was. I agreed to go into partnership with him and was looking forward to the challenge of taking on another boozer.”
“What happened?” I asked, studying him through the lenses of my smoky sunglasses. “He did a runner with my investment. Just upped and vanished. We’d organised a wee party to celebrate going into business together at the new pub, but he never showed.” Bernie scratched at his clean-shaven chin. “I was left standing there in my best suit, clutching a pair of gold scissors to cut the ribbon across the door, surrounded by my family, friends, and folks I’ve known in the pub trade for over thirty years.” Bernie looked like he wanted the sticky wooden floor to swallow him up. “Talk about feeling a dick. Oh, excuse the language.”
“Don’t worry.”
Bernie eyed me across the bar. “So, are you saying he’s come back here? To Glasgow?”
I tried not to fidget on the spot. I was supposed to be a cool, calm, and collected shady character. “So I’ve heard. You haven’t seen him?”
“No, I haven’t,” he grunted. “He’d be eating hospital food through a straw if I had.” Then a wounded look shone out of his bull-like, pale eyes. “I lent him money when he was short, gave him and his band gigs in here; I even acted as his manager for a while. Then he got himself that poor Lady Whatsit. Look what he did to her. Heartless toerag!”
I swallowed. “Yes, it was awful what he put her through.”
Bernie wiped his hands on the tea towel. “Just goes to show how some of us can be such a poor judge of character.”
His beefy shoulders straightened and he turned round to give one of the glasses a polish with another tea towel. “I’ll get onto the cops and tell them he’s been spotted. He just disappeared with my cash and that Lady Whatsit’s money too.” He breathed hard through his nose. “Bet there’s been more folks conned by that little shit than we know about.” Bernie continued to give the wine glass a good buff. “In a way, I can’t believe he’s got the cheek to rock back up to this neck of the woods after what he did. Then again, he always was a confident bugger.” Bernie started to turn around. “Now, I’m going to call the cops, so if you could give me your details… Hey, miss! miss!”
But I’d left the pub, shot round the corner and phoned the police, before streaking off back to Heather Moore.
* * *
The following morning, November was bringing its usual concoction of weather so changeable, it made the heads of the Heather Moore locals spin. Sharp, sleeting showers were replaced by gunmetal-grey skies that delivered bursts of snow. It was only about five weeks now till Christmas, so it was to be expected.
The surrounding hills were sugar spun and the country lanes glistened with bursts of holly berries.
People were gearing up for the festive season, darting from shop to shop to buy gifts and purchasing poinsettias, as well as my artificial flower and candle table arrangements.
Rowan, Amber, and I were going through each day in a hectic blur, ensuring Christmas wreath orders and bouquets were in hand.
The Heather Moore Christmas lights were now in situ, glowing down onto the slick roofs and pavements and the local shops were decked out with multicoloured tinsel, trees, and festive ornaments.
Everywhere smelled of cinnamon and the likes of Mariah Carey and Sir Elton John were already belting out their Christmas classics. Mrs Anderson, who could be relied upon for the intimate details of Mr Barr’s gallbladder operation and Mrs Daly’s penchant for t’ai chi in her front garden – “She wears skin-tight leggings, you know, and at her age! Jings!” – came bustling into Flower Power , to reveal that the “famous footballer” who had bought Duxbury Hall had apparently transformed it into a playboy mansion, with three rose-gold chandeliers, mirrored ceilings, a pole-dancing suite, and leopard-print furnishings. She was so excited; I didn’t have the heart to tell her none of it was true.
There were moments when I still felt awful about getting involved with Ezra’s family affairs. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since then and surmised I wouldn’t. He’d taken issue with me, that was clear. As soon as Zach had told me that he’d been made aware that Ezra had two daughters, I’d called them both to warn them.
Caroline and Laura confided in me that despite a couple of further attempts to contact Ezra through his agent, they’d still had no success. They’d even reached out to a few of his celebrity friends, but they’d politely dismissed their appeals for help; probably concerned about it being a potential scam. Every avenue they’d tried seemed to have resulted in a dead end.
Pessimistic about making any possible headway with the man who they believed to be their biological father, they’d both returned to their jobs and lives in England.
I realised they must be genuine. If they hadn’t been, they would’ve gone straight to the papers. Instead, they seemed to have all but accepted defeat and returned home, picking up their own lives again. I suppose there was no point in them hanging around if Ezra wasn’t interested in making contact and especially now, with the media on their tail.
My thoughts were a mash-up over my brother and Declan resurfacing. Then I thought about my own parents next and Marcus’s insistence that I tell Mum and Dad about my ex’s tentacles reaching out to me again.
Whether it was my pride hissing at me not to be cajoled by my brother, the stubborn side of me was kicking in. And even though I knew what Declan was capable of, I was inclined to handle this situation myself. Though if things did progress, if Zach found out who I was, then it would open up old wounds, and I couldn’t allow that or be responsible for it. But did I feel strong enough to gird my loins and return to Bannock House for a visit?
Marcus’s pain-seared blue eyes and his confusion about Jacob kept coming back to me. Something didn’t add up about any of this and I couldn’t stand seeing my brother heartbroken. I knew I had to find out if Mum knew more about Marcus and Jacob’s split than she’d led everyone to believe. I hoped my suspicions were wrong.
* * *
Marcus had told me Mum was away with a few of her charity fundraising cronies on a pre-Christmas shopping trip to New York. She wasn’t due back for a few more days.
I gritted my teeth. I wouldn’t voice my concerns about Jacob to Marcus, not until I’d spoken to Mum first, but his breakup with my brother smacked of my ending with one, Finn Coulter, who I’d met about eight years before at a local Farmers’ Market close to Bannock House, just after I’d graduated from uni with my English degree,
Finn had been charming the market browsers with his ready smile as he assisted his father and younger brother at their cheese stall. Finn was tall, good-looking, outdoorsy and possessed a shock of naturally sun-streaked hair that women everywhere regularly paid their hairdressers a fortune to recreate.
The Coulters were well-known in the area for being a hardworking farming family and I was flattered that day, when Finn had turned his spotlight on me and we’d begun a long, flirtatious conversation. We’d been so engrossed in each other that before we knew it the market was closing down for the day. Around us, the other stallholders were packing up after a successful Friday of trading, dismantling the steel rods, wooden benches, and flapping canvas of their stalls.
When Finn asked me out, I didn’t have to think twice about it.
We spent a happy summer together, wandering hand in hand through the bright fields, indulging in picnics and getting up close and personal in the riots of woodland that ran around Bannock House.
My father liked him and admired his work ethic and Marcus thought we made a cute couple, but as soon as my mother found out about me dating a young farmer, she became stiflingly overprotective. “You two aren’t serious, are you? It’s just a summer romance?” she once asked, making it sound more like a statement than a question. She gave me a forced smile. “I understand, darling. I really do. He’s a good-looking young man and you wanted to experiment. Try a bit of rough, as it were.”
I had stared, horrified, at her across the breakfast table. “Finn is anything but that. He has more style and substance in his little finger than most of the stuck-up sons of your friends!”
My mother had flapped her hands, exasperated. “Oh, I’m not disputing he’s a very pleasant young man, but nothing’s going to come of it, Anastasia.”
I still remember upending my cereal bowl and storming out of the dining room, with her desperate calls echoing behind me. “Darling. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just looking out for you!”
I carried on dating Finn until the night of Halloween when we were supposed to be going to a fancy-dress party that one of my friends was throwing. I stood on the steps of Bannock House waiting for him to pick me up. I was dressed as Alice in Wonderland. Finn said he was going as The Mad Hatter. But he never turned up.
Refusing to accept that he wasn’t coming, I stood there and waited – the fresh October air, tinged with the scent of burnt leaves and pumpkins – until Marcus eventually managed to coax me back inside.
I finally received a curt call from Finn later than evening, to say he’d been mulling things over and he’d decided we were “on different paths” and that it’d be best to remain friends.
But we didn’t even remain that.
Weeks later, I heard Finn had decided to move to the Lake District to head up a new organic foods business venture of his dad’s and I never saw him or heard from him again.
Despite my mother’s insistence she’d had nothing to do with Finn’s decision, I always suspected otherwise. She had comforted me and murmured words of support, but hadn’t seemed surprised when I’d sobbed into Marcus’s shoulder in front of her.
The way Finn had spoken to me on the phone that evening…
The well-rehearsed platitudes and the infuriating It’s not you, it’s me …
If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought it was my mum I was talking to and not Finn.
I was ashamed to say I’d even wondered for a dark moment whether my mum had offered him money to vanish.
I aired my suspicions to Marcus at the time, but he said he could never imagine even our mother sinking to such depths.
As I’d sat there that night in my bedraggled Alice outfit with panda eyes and a runny nose, my big brother suggested that even if Finn had been on the receiving end of Countess Tweed Muir’s machinations, he could have said no. “He could have stood up to her and refused. That’s if he really lov?—”
He had drawn himself up as he clasped my hand in his. My eyes were blurry with self-pity and tears. “You were going to say if he really loved me.”
Marcus had pulled me into a big hug and I remained there for what seemed like forever, burying my heartbroken face into the crook of his neck.
* * *
Back in Flower Power, the afternoon limped along – the terrible weather had put off locals from venturing out, even for Christmas gifts. Having despatched Rowan and Amber home, I was just putting the finishing touches to a winter bridal bouquet, while preparing my “snow” (layers of cotton wool) in the window in preparation for my ice palace and winter wonderland display.
I stood back to admire my bouquet handiwork of frosted pine cones and berries, laced around spray roses and seeded eucalyptus.
Marcus was upstairs in the flat, finishing off a Zoom call with one of his clients and had insisted he would rustle us up some dinner.
Satisfied with my work, I sighed, scooped up my coat and bag from beneath the counter, clicked off the shop spotlights and turned the sign round to CLOSED. Trudging upstairs to the flat, I knew I had to find a way to join the dots between Jacob’s volte-face on Marcus and Declan’s exit from his relationship with me…