Having seen the pictures Fin took of Tremaine House—their newest Scottish hotel—I can’t wait to see the outcome of The Bawdy House. Though Fin designed some of the interior of Tremaine, the more off-the-wall features were suggested by a design company. I’m sure there was some kind of issue with them finishing the job. Maybe just as well. From what I remember, there’s an overload of bold colours and a slight obsession with stag heads.
Brass, silver, fluorescent, and even moth-eaten taxidermy ones.
It’s pretty mad.
I swallow hard, flipping the article closed as it goes on to estimate the pair’s net worth.
Too many zeros to contemplate.
It’s about then I realise Fin has finished her call.
‘Looks goog, doshnt it?’ she says around a mouthful of toasted bread and cheese. I know what she’s getting at, and I agree.
Real goog.
‘Rory’s seriously minted. How did I not know?’ Fin coughs and looks at me uncomfortably. ‘Sorry. Was I not supposed to say? Was that too crass?’
‘I’m in love with the king of crass,’ she says, recovering her composure.
‘As rich as a king, too, according to this.’ I tap the newspaper with my index finger, immediately regretting it as Fin’s eyes slide away, her expression tight. Then I belatedly recall hearing her once say that she would never date a rich man because they weren’t worth the heartache.
It’s a good job Rory played down his wealth. Though we have a strange bantering type of relationship, he loves Fin so very much.
‘While on the subject of my love.’ Her tone is suffused with a bright air. ‘We’re going to dinner on Friday. He said to tell you toget your arse there.’
‘Such a sweet talker.’
‘Isn’t he?’
‘He missed his calling. He should be designing invitations, greeting cards, and wedding stationery.’
She laughs now, and I join in. ‘Yeah, he’s good at delivering messages. Get this; apparently, Kit’s bringing a dinner date Friday—for the first time ever—and Rory asked, rather than demanded, to enquire, via your good self, when Jon was expected to arrive.’ Her delivery is joking and breezy, yet her words invoke an arctic chill. ‘He’s arriving this weekend, isn’t he?’
‘Kit’s bringing someone?’ The enquiry about Jon barely registers as Fin takes another mouthful of her coffee then nods.
‘Yeah, Rory said he’d had his suspicions for a while. Looks like we’ll find out where his preference lies.’
Lies being the operative word.
I’m being unfair. We made no promises, yet I’m filled with an irrational need to cry. Moments ago, I was mentally adding up the benefits of an arrangement between us—I was even considering presenting my pitch to him, along with my naked self. But now? It looks like none of this is going to happen.
To cover the sudden blurring of my gaze, I reach into my bag, pulling out the first thing my hand comes to, which happens to be my phone.
‘You did say he was arriving this weekend.’
‘Did I?’ With a furtive sniff, I reach into my bag again for a tissue.
‘I called you to ask the other day.’ Her tone suddenly registers over my disappointment.Carefully addressed. Kind.
‘I didn’t see a missed call.’ I keep my gaze on my phone, my response sounding horrifyingly watery. I hadn’t caught up on messages over the weekend. Too into Kit and not interested in hearing from Jon, I suppose.
‘The call, it... well, it went to voicemail.’
My head comes up slowly, my brain working on a processing delay. ‘But you never call. We only ever text.’ And now I know what this is all about. My voicemail message.
This is Bea. Please leave your number after the tone. Oh, unless you happen to be named Jon, then you can take your pathetic excuses and shove them so far up your own backside they come out of your throat!
Thanks!
