Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
‘Bloody men!’ I fumed under my breath. ‘Boy, can I pick ’em!’
‘Things not going well?’
Jenny Aston, one of our cleaners, hovered in the office doorway.
I eyed her. ‘I take it the gossip grapevine in Port Starr is in overdrive about Alex Lapley’s wild claims.’
Jenny’s powdered, jowly complexion blanched. ‘You could say that.’ She walked towards me.
‘I’m not sure how I’m going to do it, but I will stop Alex Lapley from ruining this business. Even if I have to do it on my own.’
‘Och lass, you’re not on your own,’ argued Jenny, placing an age-spotted hand on my arm.
She pulled a piece of paper from her floral apron pocket.
‘Sorry I didn’t deliver this to you earlier, but I had to give the shower screen in Capercaillie a right good going over.
’ She narrowed her annoyed sixty-something pale-green eyes.
‘Honestly, some people splash their shower gel around as though it were confetti.’
My attention fell on the piece of paper in her hand that she was offering me. ‘Someone delivered a letter for me?’
‘Yes, when you were out at breakfast.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Only a teenage monosyllabic grunt.’
I took the folded white note from her and scanned its contents. It was typed as normal and in the centre of the paper a sentence read:
Might they be on the list? A historic question worth asking.
There was a phone number I didn’t recognise underneath it.
I entered the phone number into the search engine and after a few moments, it came up as belonging to Historic Heritage. My excitement ramped up. ‘Could White Willow Cottages be on a Listed Building site? Is that what this could mean?’
Jenny’s mouth, dashed in frosted pink, lifted a little at the corners. ‘I’m no expert on these things, love, but if it was, doesn’t that mean it has to be protected?’
‘I believe so.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘All I know is that we have to explore every avenue to protect this business.’
Jenny’s eyes crinkled. ‘Then in that case, I think you should ring that phone number.’
I knew Jenny was right. I rang it straightaway, but no one answered, except for a pre-recorded voicemail message.
‘Historic Heritage don’t open on weekends,’ I said to Jenny, hanging up.
‘But they do open again at nine tomorrow morning, I take it?’
‘Yes, they do. Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll be ringing them first thing.’
‘I’m sorry, Ms Summers, but I can confirm that your cottages aren’t currently under Listed Building status.’
I slid my pen up and down the page in my notebook, making erratic patterns. ‘Oh, I see.’ I didn’t really but I didn’t know what else to say. Why had someone provided me with their telephone number, in that case?
The Historic Heritage official, whose name was David, gave an empathetic sigh into my ear as I spoke to him on our business line.
‘Say you were to discover some concrete evidence that your business did have a link to someone like the Scarlet Highwayman. I can’t give you a categoric promise that your application for Listed Building status would be granted, but… ’
I wriggled in my chair. The pearly July rain was shifting inland through the knitted shreds of clouds. Drops zigzagged down the office window as though taking part in some frenzied race.
I was still reeling from my FaceTime conversation with Mum and Dad an hour earlier, when I’d told them about Alex Lapley’s revelation that he owned our business.
My parents had gone from stunned silence to bubbling disbelief and then rage.
‘We’ve got to do something,’ struggled Dad. ‘I won’t accept this. How the hell…?’
I’d assured Dad that I had things in hand and keep them informed. I hoped I’d sounded calm and confident. Inside, I was anything but, frightened that we’d lose what we’d worked so hard to build.
I refocused on my phone call to Historic Heritage. ‘Please go on,’ I urged, desperate for any shred of positivity.
‘Well, if you were able to find something that did have a viable connection to him and the cottages or the land they’re situated on, then, put it this way, your application would be of interest.’
I ran one agitated hand down the length of my plait. ‘What would that mean if someone wanted to tamper with my business?’
I could almost hear a smile lift his face. ‘Ms Summers, if you found that your land was, say, the site of the birthplace of someone like the Scarlet Highwayman, it would virtually guarantee protection of your business.’
‘If only that were true.’ I smiled ruefully down the line.
At that moment, Katie arrived, dashing droplets of rain from her halo of curls and white hooded jacket.
‘Thank you for your help, David. I appreciate it.’
‘Oh, no worries at all. Good luck.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Something like that would be a real coup for us, too. The Scarlet Highwayman’s a bit of an enigma, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘All the best to you, Ms Summers, and if you have any more questions, please don’t hesitate to get back in touch with us.’
‘Thank you for all your help.’ I rang off and gave the desk a frustrated thump.
Katie offered me one of her sympathetic smiles. ‘I take it that was Historic Heritage you were talking to?’ I had called Katie and Caleb last night to tell them the latest.
‘Yes. They were very helpful. Turns out this place isn’t listed. The only chance we would have is if there was irrefutable evidence linking the cottages or the land in some way to the Scarlet Highwayman.’
‘But there must be something about this place,’ said Katie, undeterred. ‘Otherwise, why would someone suggest we contact Historic Heritage in the first place? They must think there’s some sort of link.’
‘That’s true.’
She set down a small cardboard box containing two freshly baked scones. ‘I picked these up on the way in. One of those, dripping with warm butter, will bring a smile to your face.’
‘Oh, go on, then.’
Katie eagerly picked one up. ‘It’s raining, it’s Monday and if they aren’t two reasonable enough justifications to eat a buttered scone, I don’t know what is.’
Once we’d devoured our scones, the morning seemed to speed past in a flurry of phone calls and email enquiries, including one from an advertising agency in Edinburgh, who were keen to make a block booking for the cottages for the following April, as part of a staff team-building weekend.
The two of us were fussing around at the rear of the office and failed to hear the door edge open. The bell must have given the faintest ding, but Katie and I were making too much noise, clattering mugs and spoons, to hear it.
A stern-looking woman in a Barbour jacket coughed. Katie dived to the front of the office.
‘Can you imagine Alex Lapley’s waxy face if this area were to become Listed?’ I murmured to Katie as the lady examined one of my A5-sized textiles of the beach.
‘Oh, I would pay to see that.’
Once Katie had given the Barbour-wearing lady a copy of our brochure and she’d departed, Katie glanced at her watch. ‘Tell you what, you give me your order of what sandwiches you’d like for lunch and I’ll pop down to town and get them.’
I passed my sandwich request onto her and she returned fifteen minutes later with our lunch. ‘I just saw your Hottie Historian.’ Katie grinned, clutching one tomato-and-mozzarella sandwich for me and a salmon-and-cream-cheese bagel for herself.
I made a grunting noise. ‘Would you please stop with this Hottie Historian thing? And anyway, he’s not mine.
’ I fiddled needlessly with the mouse of the PC.
I didn’t want to ask the question. I wasn’t bothered either way, but I couldn’t help myself.
‘Where was he?’ As soon as I asked Katie, I got frustrated with myself.
She frowned. ‘I just saw him in his car, heading out of Port Starr. He looked like he was in a hurry.’
‘Oh. Right.’
I fought to summon up indifference. Where was he going? He had said his parents were leaving and that he was heading out of town for a few days.
Katie gave me a gentle smile. ‘This isn’t just about the highwayman, though, is it?’
‘What is?’
‘The way you’re feeling right now about the cottages; that creep Lapley; Blake Summers possibly being the Scarlet Highwayman; not to mention Mason.’
‘I couldn’t care less about Mason.’
‘Riiight.’
‘It’s true,’ I insisted, faffing around with my notebook.
Katie afforded me a measured look.
‘I should never have let myself develop feelings for him, Katie. There’s no chance of anything happening between us.’
‘How can you know that?’
I almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. ‘He’s quite happy to flirt and joke around, but if there’s a hint of anything else, he shuts down.’ I looked everywhere but at my sister-in-law. ‘And then there’s two other women he was seen with.’
‘Have you asked him about these women?’
‘What? No!’ I answered, horrified. ‘He’ll think I’m jealous.’ I blew out some air. ‘I’ve got a business to run and that’s far more important anyway.’
For the next couple of days, the cottages saw a satisfying stream of booking enquiries and reservations. Katie was delighted to witness a keen interest in a few of her new and more adventurous plates – a pink-and-white-striped affair and a black one with white polka dots.
I’d noticed a particular penchant for the textile designs I’d made of the lighthouse and a row of brightly coloured beach huts, which I’d placed in Puffin Cottage. That convinced me I should perhaps try out a few more of a similar nature; maybe experiment with some other textiles and fabrics.
When I mentioned to Katie I’d been considering making a couple more child-inspired designs – perhaps using shells to make a car, and rocks and gauze to construct a sandcastle – she was very enthusiastic.
‘Oh, go for it,’ she said with a grin. ‘I could just see parents and grandparents going nuts over cute pictures like that for their kids’ nursery or bedroom.’
As we chatted, the doorbell tinkled, announcing the arrival of our other cleaner, Maisie.
She looked glowing, despite her milky complexion, in a blush-pink shirt dress and white trainers. ‘I just saw that good-looking historian guy again.’
I shoved a stray hair back into my topknot bun and ignored her remark.
Katie glanced up to see my reaction, before she gave Maisie an emphatic ‘Please stop talking’ expression. When that didn’t work, she performed a quick slashing motion to her neck. However, Maisie was oblivious to Katie’s dramatic miming as she unfurled her bucket bag from her shoulder.
‘I overheard him talking to Mrs Compton outside the supermarket. She was all set for a good chinwag, but he apologised and said he had to shoot off.’
I tried to cut across Maisie’s conversation. The last thing I wanted to do was dwell on Mason. I felt a right tit about the whole thing. ‘Katie, do you think I should move my couple of Highland cattle watercolours out of Robin, to make way for the boats at sunset chalks I did the other week?’
Maisie folded her freckled arms, oblivious, and carried on discussing Mason. ‘I did hear Mrs Compton say something about him taking the Lower Falloch Road, if he wanted to get to the train station.’
‘Yes,’ growled Katie much louder than she needed to. ‘I think that’s a great idea about the chalks, Popps.’
Maisie’s light-blue eyes twinkled with speculation. ‘He was carrying some food shopping, by the looks of it. Couple of bottles of wine, dark chocolate, a decadent pudding…’ She let out a dramatic sigh. ‘I wonder if it’s for that glamorous redhead I saw him with last week in town?’
My emotions fired up. ‘Redhead?’
Maisie looked at me with a blank expression. ‘Yes, she had a wavy red bob. Why?’
It must be the same woman that Mrs Arnold saw Mason going to dinner with at the Starr Barr.
Katie spotted the hurt pooling in my eyes and made a growling noise. ‘Have you got bloody X-ray sight or something, Maisie? Can you please stop talking and go and check that Heron is ready for the arrival of Mr and Mrs Calder?’
Maisie was indignant. ‘It is ready for occupancy. I finished it off this morning. You could eat your lunch off the kitchen floor.’
Then she finally picked up on Katie’s razor-sharp glares. ‘Oh. Er. Aye. I see. Right. Sorry.’ And with that she scurried back out.
I rested my hand on top of the kitchen counter.
‘Wine and dark chocolate?’ I repeated. ‘A fancy pudding?’ I managed a pained smile.
‘Going to collect someone from the train station?’ I shook my head in disbelief.
‘So, which one is it? The brunette from the beach or the redhead he was taking out to dinner. Or does he have a new addition?’
Katie placed a caring hand on my shoulder. ‘I thought you weren’t bothered about Mason?’
‘I’m not. At least, not anymore.’ I watched two seagulls squabbling over a blob of discarded ice-cream on the cobbles outside the door, which two of the holidaymakers’ children had just dropped. I tried to ignore the empty feeling inside me.