My hands sit on her hips, holding her. An anchor, but I don’t know who anchors who. “Her death isn’t your fault. It was no one’s fault but a period in time.” And for the first time I believe it.
“I’m sorry you didn’t grow up with a mother.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry you had that pain all your life.”
She’s so soft under my hands. Her breasts rest against my chest, her body pressed against mine. My hands drop down to the smooth peach of her bottom and my fingers linger on the crease there.
“You don’t need to be sorry for anything, Blair. You just need to be you. Whatever you choose, I’ll stand by you.”
I just hoped that it wasn’t a lie.
Can you talk?
The message burns my retinas.
Need to speak asap.
I pull the car over and get out. I’m on a road somewhere between the castle and Edinburgh and if I carry on any further I’ll lose signal.
I press dial and wait for the soft accent I know will answer. It’s been two weeks since Lennox’s funeral and the House of Stewart has kept itself out of any media and away from publicity. There have been no state dinners or engagements, allowing everyone time to grieve.
Time to get their pieces in place for the next match.
I haven’t heard from Isaac since the day of the funeral, but I’ve seen him in the press and in the news. Everything has been downplayed: questions about the relationship between the two countries have been evaded or ignored in the clever way he has where the person interviewing doesn’t even realise they’ve been had without receiving an answer.
“Thank you for getting back to me so quickly.” His voice is hushed when I answer.
“You send a fucking cryptic message like that and I’m going to call back. Are you okay?” Because my first thought wasn’t that he was calling about work, it was that he needed me for more.
“I’m as good as the ocean.”
Which I could hear in the background.
“Where are you?”
“Home. For a few days. I needed to make myself scarce. I decided to catch some waves.” He was surfing.
“What’s so urgent? You hit your head on your board?”
He laughs and I feel a dig in my chest I’m not used to.
“No. The cousin. He’s been making eyes at Goldsmith. Apparently there’s some shit about to hit the press about Blair. Fabricated.”
“What is it?”
“She fucked a guy called Iain Wray. He’s a Scottish extremist. There are photos of them together although they’re blurred and you can’t tell it’s even someone female.”
Isaac sounds tired and pissed off.
“I can tell you categorically that they’re not of him and her.”
“I figured that they wouldn’t be. I haven’t heard his name mentioned for fuck knows – four years?”
“When were the pictures taken?”
“Six months ago. That’s the date on the them.”
