38. Rory
RORY
“Ah, Rory.”
Brice Aaronson’s charity fundraiser is the last place on earth I want to be. It’s exactly as insufferable as I expect – crystal chandeliers, tech billionaires mingling with old money, champagne flowing like water.
“Brice.” I hold out my hand and force my face into an approximation of a smile. “Thanks again for the loan of the chopper.” I might as well get it out in the open before he does.
Brice bares his preternaturally white teeth in a grin as he shakes my hand, glancing around at the assortment of the great and the not-so-good who flock around him at these occasions in the hope that some of his billions might land their way.
“Had to help Rory with an emergency not so long ago. But that’s what neighbours are for, isn’t it? ”
I give a brief nod. If I hadn’t had to call on him, there’s no way in hell I’d have been at this fundraiser. As it is I’m counting the minutes until I can make my excuses and head back to Loch Morven. Even Theo’s spreadsheets would be preferable to this bullshit.
“Did she swoon appropriately when you arrived?” A tall, skinny woman with a face like a horse leans toward me and guffaws, her lips peeled back so her gums are showing. “Very Highland laird of you. You’re more like your father than you let on, isn’t he?”
“Quite the dramatic rescue, I gather,” says George Munro, sipping his champagne.
“It wasn’t like that at all,” I say tersely.
“The writer girl, yes?” George raises his eyebrows. “Funny little thing, according to Fenella. Although she did seem rather taken with you at the ball.”
I clamp my mouth shut and breathe very slowly through my nose. Before I can think of a response, there’s a tap on my shoulder and I turn to find Fenella herself, draped in an emerald silk confection that probably cost more than a small car.
“Rory, darling,” she purrs, air kissing me on both cheeks. “I was just telling Daddy how concerned we all are about these community housing projects you’re proposing. So… suburban.”
“Suburban?” I raise a brow and glare at her.
She puts a hand on my arm and looks up at me through lowered lashes. “You know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Oh, come on,” she continues, lounging against a pillar. “Our parents always thought we’d join forces eventually. Imagine what we could accomplish with both estates?—”
“Never going to happen,” I cut her off.
“Oh please,” she laughs. “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on that podgy writer girl. I assumed you’d fucked her out of your system.”
I take a step backwards and look at her – really look at her – for the first time.
“You know what I’ve realised? My father spent his whole life collecting power like it was some sort of game.
And for what? He died alone.” I put down the glass of champagne untouched.
“I don’t want influence for its own sake.
I want to leave something better as my legacy. ”
I walk out of the room, not looking back. I message Pippa when I get into the car.
I have a plan. We’re going to have to move quickly.
Whatever it is, I assume it’s insane, given the hour.
I need you to pull every string we have. And I’ll need to speak to Jonny at The Telegraph.
As the car winds back through the roads towards Loch Morven, I realise that even if Edie is never going to forgive me, I’m going to make things right. I owe it to her and to the estate, and to myself.
I don’t remember the house ever being this still. Even in the depths of winter when the heating pipes groan and the wind howls around the turrets. It feels hollow, like something’s been carved out of it.
I’m in the library, alone. Outside the sky is a riot of pink and orange streaks but there’s a cold summer wind and the fire is burning low. A glass of whisky sits by my side, untouched.
Edie’s manuscript is in my hands. The pages are soft at the corners now. I’ve read it so many times – the scribbled notes she’s written in the margins, the questions marked in pencil. She wasn’t trying to expose me – she was trying to protect me, and I threw her out.
I flip to one of her flagged sections, the yellow Post-it note spinning to the floor. There’s something here , she’s written.
There is something here. There always was. But I was too bloody busy guarding ghosts and thinking about the past to notice it.
I look up at the creak of the door. Jamie wanders in and hitches his hip up to sit back against the edge of the sofa, looking at me with narrowed eyes.
“What are you still doing here?”
He gives a half smile. “Just checking up on you.”
I frown and put the papers down on the table in front of me.
“You’re not sleeping,” he says.
“No.”
He nods, not pushing. He walks to the fireplace, grabs the poker, and stirs the embers the way he’s done ever since he was a child, watching the sparks rise and disappear up the chimney with a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Pippa told me Anna got in touch.”
I shake my head, still marvelling at the rhinoceros hide of the woman.
“Yeah. She’s in ‘strategic comms’, apparently. Wanted to ‘reach out and offer her support’.”
Jamie puts a hand up. “I know, I know. I can’t believe I fell for it. ”
“You can’t even blame alcohol.” I glare at him. “Anyway, Pippa told her where she could stick her crisis management bullshit.”
“Well, if you ever need someone to professionally twist the truth, I guess you know who to call.”
I grimace and reach for the whisky. “I’ve got someone better. She tells it exactly as it is. Well?—”
“You did,” Jamie finishes my sentence. “She’s not going to come back just because you feel bad,” he says after a long moment.
“I know that.”
“She’s not like them. She never was.”
“I know that too.” I rub the bridge of my nose, already regretting the sharpness in my voice.
He sinks into the leather armchair opposite me and stretches his legs out, folding his arms behind his head for a moment as he surveys me. “So, what are you doing?”
I look down at the manuscript on the table.
“I’m going to fix it.”
Jamie raises a brow and picks up the bottle of Finn’s whisky, examining the label with a frown. “Fix what?” he says eventually.
“All of it.”
He puts the bottle back on the table and wanders over to the cabinet, pulling out a glass. He tips a finger measure of whisky and brings it to his nose, inhaling for a moment before he drinks.
“Good,” he says eventually.
I don’t say anything more. We sit in silence, and the fire crackles and sighs gently as the remaining log shifts in the grate .
He finishes his drink, sets the glass down on the table with a quiet noise, and heads for the door.
“You know,” he says without turning around, “you should probably tell her that. Before it’s too late.”
He leaves. I sit there as the light fades, and the fire sighs itself to pale ash. The ghosts of my ancestors look down from the walls. I wonder how many of them have fucked up as royally as I have.