Her eyes focus on mine and I see her smile. It’s delicate and shy, before becoming wider and I see colour blush on her cheeks. It’s been ten days since I’ve last seen her and now that feels like it was too long.
William leans across Lachlan who is next to me. He’s recovered from the incident in the club, brushed it off like it was nothing and played down the fact his phone was taken. He’s sitting next to Elise, who’s draped herself over him several times already, but his eyes have been on Blair.
“Lachy here thinks Blair will hand over the crown in the next twelve months. We should hold out on the deal.”
He’s loud and full of wine, possibly something white and powdery too.
“Now’s not the time.”
“There’s no need to speak so dismissively to me like that.” He stands up and I wish to fuck Ben was here, because this is where he could intervene and stop William from making a twat of himself.
“I apologise.”
William settles, almost knocking into the waiter who’s collecting the soup bowls, and then he carries on talking, theorising, and he reminds me of Lennox with half-baked ideas and idealism.
A piper begins, the bag pipes filling the room, and the head chef brings in the haggis, the centrepiece of the supper. It’s laid on a table in front of where Laird Steward stands, knife in hand and the room grows silent, waiting for the poem written by Robert Burns for this night and this supper.Ode to a Haggis.
People stand and the room echoes with words that are barely understandable, the accent thick and the dialect traditional.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if Ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!
Laird Stewart exclaims the final word and then stabs the haggis to a room of cheers and calls, and then there’s a whisky toast to the food before we all sit, the feel in the room simmering with laughter and it feels good.
I see Blair still standing and she makes her way round the room to where I’m sitting, stopping along the way to speak to people. I head towards her, too many eyes for what I want to do and too many ears for what I need to say.
“I thought I saw Ben earlier.”
Her words are an electric shock.
“I was riding over near the loch, the field where Lennox and I would go to, and I thought I saw him.” Her words are breathless and rushed, her eyes wide and I can see the hope there.
“Maybe it was.” Because there’s no reason to think otherwise. There’s no sign that he’s dead.
“Maybe.” Her hand rests on my forearm and softly grips.
I want it to be true, want it to be Ben. For both of us. Because even if he never returns I’d never have her fully.
* * *
The haggis is served with neets and tatties, and a rich gravy. It isn’t fancy food. It’s warming and filling and it feels more honest than the seven-course taster menus that William has prided himself on recently. There are desserts and then more speeches, one from Lachlan and one from Blair, traditionally poking fun at the opposite sex. It’s funny and light and for the ten minutes it takes, there’s no undercurrent.
A few of the older Scots sing traditional songs that I don’t recognise and I see Blair laughing at me.
“You look like you have no idea what’s going on,” she mouths across the table.
“I haven’t.” I shrug and I feel William looking at me.
She smiles and then turns to her uncle who’s asking her something.
