Ivy nods. “That’s hard. But no news is good news. I know you need closure one way or another though. Maybe we can help you find that.” She looks at Nate who nods and then she changes the subject, keeping it light and fun, which is what Blair and everybody else needs.
I find a spot in the library where we’ve been situated, and watch and try to listen, try to partake in the conversation but I can’t do it with any heart. Ivy finds me later, pilfering whisky from the kitchen where I know the cook keeps a couple of bottles of decent stuff for ‘emergencies.’
“What’s happened with Ben?”
There’s no greeting from her or private words that convey any sisterly affection, but then, that wouldn’t be Ivy.
“He isn’t dead.” I can’t lie to her. I’ve never lied to Ivy.
“Then why does Blair think he is and keep tearing up over it? If you know he’s not dead, why are you letting her believe that he is? That’s cruel, ‘Zac.” She shakes her head and her disappointment in me is worse than any reprimand.
“Because if she knew, she’d want him back here and until the rumours around him are stopped and we know who’s been passing on information it isn’t safe for either of them.” It’s a rehearsed sentence because I’ve said it so much in my head that it no longer makes sense, I just don’t want her to know too much, in case I’m wrong.
Ivy shakes her head. “Explain it to her. Let her make sense of it. She’s going to go bat shit crazy when she finds out you’ve been lying to her, and she deserves to know.”
“I know. We should’ve told her from the start.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you? I mean, this is like heart-breaking, life changing shit, Isaac. Or is this more about you needing to keep them both to yourself?”
I look at the ceiling and debate drinking the bottle of whisky in full right here to silence the thoughts that buzz around my head like annoying flies.
“No. It was Ben. If Blair knew then so would Micky. Too many people. And we need to smoke out the person who’s passing stuff on.” There’s an element of truth to what she says and it’s that which kicks me hard.
She nods. “We can help. I can help. You’re too conspicuous now because of your position.” She doesn’t explain what my position is, doesn’t need to.
“Thank you. But I don’t want you putting yourself in any danger.” My words are about as much use as a wet match.
“Seriously? Have you met who I’m married to?” She flicks her hair, an action she perfected at the age of seven.
“Well, I hope he keeps you safe.”
She laughs. “Do you even need to say that. Let me help.”
I shrug and we head back to the library, pretending that we’re not here for a funeral that anyone wishes didn’t have to happen.
Blair
I’m in Edinburgh to collect the dress I’ll wear to my father’s funeral, words that are becoming too familiar on my tongue. I grew up loving this city; the castle and the building that used to house the Scottish parliament before the monarchy was reinstated, dictated by the English through some ancient law. I love the shops and the grand hotels, the flow of tourists who come to pay homage to Edinburgh and its lore.
Today the city is as bright as ever. Spring has tamed the sharp bite of winter and it’s the first time I’ve been out without the need for gloves or the thickest winter coat I own. There should be joy in the change of weather, the promise of longer days and lighter nights, but I won’t allow myself to feel it until after tomorrow, after we’ve buried my father in a grave in the garden that is high enough to overlook the loch.
The seamstress could’ve brought the dress to me, could’ve sat in ceremony and watched me parade it in the comfort of one of the many dressing rooms before sewing in any final tweaks.
That felt wrong. I chose black because tomorrow I don’t want to be noticed; I don’t want any media to comment on what I wear or how my hair looks or how sad I look. It’s my father’s fucking funeral. Somewhere there has to be dignity for all involved.
I try the dress on quickly, my hair disguised by a beanie hat and I’m dressed like any other woman in her early thirties so I’m virtually unrecognisable. This time I have the privacy of the dressing room without anyone watching me and making comment about the size of my waist or the cellulite that’s on the backs of my thighs. The only scrutiny here is mine, and all I’m scrutinising is my time with my father and wishing for more.
Another day, another hour, another minute.
I wish we’d had more time.
Ben remains on the periphery of my thoughts, hovering like an immortal moth. It’s easier to believe that he’s dead. Easier to create a situation in my head where he had to step out that morning before the sun came up and the wrong person was there. Easier than to think he was a traitor and a liar and a thief when he took my heart and stole away with it.
I’ve seen him everywhere. In my dreams, in the gardens, by the banks of the loch. When I’ve been out riding, I’ve thought I've seen him in the trees and when I leave the shop, I see him standing in the street, listening to someone playing guitar and singing about their lost love.
I freeze, Micky nearly walking into me as he’s paying attention to what’s around us rather than when I’m walking. I hear him curse and then look in the direction my sight is frozen in.
“That looks like Ben.”
