‘I’m looking forward to dinner,’ said Graham. ‘Xanthe tells me you’re a Cordon Bleu chef.’
Izzy’s drink went down the wrong way. ‘No, she’s exaggerating. Please god, don’t say she said that to the Carter-Joneses.’
Jeanette pulled a face.
‘She didn’t.’
With worry shining in her eyes, Jeanette nodded. ‘She did, I’m afraid.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Izzy squeaked.
‘Because it would have made you panic, like you’re doing now,’ said Jeanette.
‘I’m not panicking,’ said Izzy, knocking back the rest of her Prosecco in one quick slug. The warmth hit her stomach with a punch of heat that spread out like a mushroom cloud. She sucked in a noisy breath. ‘Okay, I am panicking.’
‘McBride, breathe,’ said Ross. ‘You can do this.’
‘I can’t. Oh God. I have to. I feel sick.’ She really did. All along her biggest worry was the food. She wasn’t a professional. She’d been on a six-week cookery course to improve her basic skills. The expectation had been that she’d serve breakfast and a hearty comfort-food dinner to guests who wanted to stay in a castle. Never in the plan had there been an ambition to be a five-star luxury hotel.
The next morning, Izzy woke early and headed into the kitchen to spend the morning making another partan bree, which she planned to serve as a starter with home-made bread rolls. After that, she’d serve roast beef with dauphinoise potatoes with green beans, shallots, garlic and toasted almonds. The food would be okay but her presentation skills left much to be desired. It was all about the ingredients, she told herself. The beef had been locally sourced, the potatoes were from the farm shop and very fresh and the beans would be blanched so that they’d be perfectly crisp with that lovely nutty flavour.
She prepared as much as she could including the cranachan dessert, soaking the raspberries in a touch of whisky and toasting the oats.
After she’d done everything she could in advance, she and Jeanette raced around, checking and double checking that all the rooms were perfect. Xanthe had given Graham and Alicia one of the newly decorated rooms and Izzy hoped that the Carter-Jones party were all couples. Worst came to the worst, she’d give up her room.
By two o’clock her nerves jangled with anxiety as she looked out at the steady snowfall, but with so much to do, she couldn’t afford to stop and think about anything. At quarter to four, they all gathered in the hall while Jim, resplendent in kilt complete with smart ghillie brogues, ceremoniously lit the fire. Jeanette wore one of Izzy’s plain black dresses with a tartan sash matching his kilt, while Duncan wore his own plaid along with the Strathallan men who wore matching kilts. Izzy wore her best black dress along with smart black heels, which were for show only; the minute she was back in the kitchen she’d be back in her DMs.
‘Of course, there’s no guarantee they’ll be here on time,’ said Izzy. ‘The weather’s still atrocious.’
‘I’ve had no word from Mrs Carter-J. Surely she’d let us know if they were running late.’ Jeanette flicked a tiny fleck of lint from the sleeve of her dress.
‘True,’ said Izzy. Now that she had nothing to do, her nerves intensified. She sat down on the sofa nearest the fire, within reach of the Edinburgh glass decanter filled with a ten-year-old malt from Bill’s collection. Cut glass tumblers, shined and polished by Jeanette, glistened in the firelight, the golden orange flames magnified by the crystal.
After half an hour, Izzy’s knees were noticeably jittering up and down, so Ross suggested that they all went back to work. ‘I’ll keep a look out and let you know when they arrive.’
‘That sounds like a good plan,’ said Izzy, anxious to get back to the kitchen. ‘I can always put dinner back a bit if they’re really late.’
They dispersed and Izzy, back in the kitchen, consulted her list for the day. Oh shit, she’d forgotten to take the oats out of the oven and they were burned to a crisp.
As she railed at herself, she stopped, hearing an unusual noise that was getting louder. She peered out of the window at the same moment Jeanette came running into the kitchen, closely followed by Xanthe and Alicia.
‘They’ve come by helicopter,’ shrieked Xanthe.
‘It’s landing on the front lawn,’ Jeanette squealed.
‘It’s quite extraordinary,’ added Alicia. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen anyone arrive by helicopter, anywhere.’
All the nerves jumped up into Izzy’s throat threatening to strangle her.
‘Okay, action stations, everyone.’ This was it. What they’d been preparing for, for the last six weeks.
Twenty-five thousand pounds to the rescue.
Xanthe, Alicia, Jeanette, Jim, Duncan and Izzy crowded onto the front steps and, obviously alerted by the noise, Ross and his father joined them. They watched as three figures emerged from the helicopter, two jumping down and ducking below the rotor blades to scurry towards the castle carrying holdalls. The third person, well bundled up in a white puffer coat that made them almost blend into the snow, tugged at a huge grey suitcase, which then tumbled out of the helicopter, landing almost on top of them. They began dragging the case across the top of the snow like an unwieldy sled, bowed double beneath the updraft of the helicopter rotors. Izzy frowned as the figures drew closer. It looked as if it were only the younger Carter-Joneses. The sound of the helicopter engine began to increase, the noise quite deafening, and the blades spun faster as it began to rise up into the sky, whipping up the snow in a mini blizzard as it took off. Two of the figures waved madly to the pilot and then, noticing the woman battling with the suitcase, one of them went over to help her. The three of them began plodding through the knee-deep snow towards everyone on the steps.
‘Tits and teeth, everyone,’ said Xanthe. ‘Yoohoo, welcome to Kinlochleven Castle.’
‘Do that and you’ll scare them off,’ muttered Ross.
