‘I hope so,’ I say with a rush of happiness. I only wish I didn’t have to hide my lie from Fergus – but what alternative is there? Even if he understood my reasons, there’d be the risk of something slipping out, and Alice finding out – and I can’t bear for that to happen now. Occasionally, though, I wonder: what happened to the real Kate?
Then my attention is caught by Liv, who’s arrived with Finn and passes him over to Rory. ‘Good luck!’ Fergus gives her a quick hug.
‘Thanks, Dad.’ She grimaces.
‘Liv’s up next,’ he explains, turning to me.
‘You mean on stage?’
‘That’s right. She’s a singer,’ he starts, but she laughs awkwardly, brushing him away.
‘Kind of. Not really.’ Her mouth twists and she flushes.
‘She’s a brilliant singer,’ Fergus offers, ‘but I’m not allowed to say that, am I? Not allowed to have an opinion—’
‘Daaaad.’ For a moment that could have been Edie there, joshing with her father. Then she’s hurrying away and we watch, transfixed, as she sings a handful of songs without embellishment or vocal tricks. She seems utterly at ease up there, in a simple black dress and Birkenstocks, her long glossy dark hair loose. A teenage girl alone with just a microphone and an acoustic guitar. I glimpse Fergus watching her, and the pride that emanates from him fills my heart. Of course, Vince has always been proud of Evie too. But I wonder how he’d have coped if there’d been an unplanned teenage pregnancy, and if mother and baby had lived with us.
He’d made a big enough fuss when Edie had announced that she’d be moving to the States. ‘Wecan’thave Jarvis. I don’t want a dog, Kate. This is so unfair!’ We’d argued then – out of earshot of Edie. Okay, it might not have been what we’d imagined. But what other choice was here?
Fergus just gets on with stuff, I reflect. But then, he’s had to. His wife died, and he had his daughter to look after – and a bookshop to run – on top of his grief.
Liv finishes her set to enthusiastic applause and comes to find us again. There’s no surliness today; no acting as if she’d rather be anywhere else but here.
‘You were brilliant,’ I tell her.
‘Really? Are you sure?’
‘Really,’ her father says firmly.
‘Thanks!’ She beams at us, then scampers off again, disappearing into the high-spirited crowd. Then, gradually, it all starts to thin out. Fergus and I fetch another beer from the bar and find ourselves sitting on the grass, alone together at the river’s edge.
It’s seven-thirty already. The afternoon has spun by and now, I realise, I don’t want the day to end. Fergus has already mentioned that Peter, the taxi driver, will be on hand later if I need a ride home. We sit in easy silence, watching golden light dance on the river.
With the festival over, a beautiful stillness settles over the Perthshire hills. I’m aware of the closeness of Fergus. His strong profile, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
And I can sense the steady thud of my heart. Then he turns to me and says, ‘So, did you enjoy the day?’
I nod and smile. ‘It’s been wonderful. Thank you.’
‘Hey, nothing to thank me for.’ His smile crinkles his eyes, and his gaze catches mine for a moment. It strikes me suddenly that, back in Shugbury, Deborah’s planning committee dinner will be starting around now. And Vince will have to explain why I’m not there. Will he tell the truth, I wonder? Or perhaps everyone already knows? I quickly push the thought away and sip my cool beer with Fergus beside me as the sky turns honey-gold.
Never mind home, I tell myself. I’m all filled up with music and people and happiness, and I feel so lucky to be here. Almost like that teenage girl again, hauled up to Scotland by Mum – because George had demanded it: ‘Just one more holiday at that campsite. Please!’
I’d thought it would be boring. At fifteen I was far more interested in my friends, and boys, than being in a tent with Mum and my brother and cooking sausages over a fire. But up we’d travelled, and it had turned out to be the best trip of all.
I’d been so happy then. Everything had felt so thrilling and new – as if a whole new world was opening up to me. And now, as I glance at Fergus, I realise that feeling is still in me. ‘Fancy a stroll, and maybe a stop-off at the Boat Inn?’ he suggests now.
‘I’d love that,’ I say, as we get up and start to stroll along the riverbank.
Maybe that feeling has been there, buried deep inside me, all along.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Vince
Vince is sonotin the frame of mind for Deborah’s planning committee dinner. He’s considering feigning illness – or faking his own death like that guy with the canoe.
But what if he’s spotted moving around in his own house? Will he be driven to lying on the floor with all the lights off? Living here, he’s come to realise, there is no bloody escape.
