Chapter Twenty-Six
KIT
I catch a flight to Edinburgh on Saturday and collect the truck from the airport. Rory has teased me mercilessly about the Ford F-150 I keep in Scotland, suggesting it’s some kind of phallic declaration, which seems to imply I have a small dick.
But since we both know that’s not true, I let it slide.
The truck, now renamed the beast, thanks to Rory, was an impulse buy and so impractical. I can’t get a parking spot for the size of it, and it’s murder on the wee country roads. I’m beginning to think I hold onto it just because it gets up Rory’s nose.
The drive to Tremaine House, our latest acquired hotel, is uneventful. The weather is dry and bright, though the kind of brass monkeys cold that only Scotland knows because spring is always late to this part of the world.
The bighoose,as the locals call the hotel, should have some meaning to us. It is, after all, our father’s ancestral seat. Not that it came to us. The auld twat left almost everything to a local greyhound charity when he died.
Kit and I were his bastards, our mother his bit on the side. Seems he kept her hanging on by saying he couldn’t leave his disabled wife. When our mother died in a car accident, he wouldn’t take us in, but when his wife died, strangely enough, he came grovelling.
It was too little too late, and far too easy for two ballin’ lads to tell him to get fucked. So I hate this place and loathe the thought of being here tonight.
But I am looking forward to shagging Bea all over the grounds.
When Tremaine House came up for sale, I wanted nothing to do with the place. But Rory’s a hothead. Emotional. Said it should be ours by right, and that we should buy it and do with it whatever we liked.
Of course, what he wanted to do was knock it to the ground until I pointed out it would spoil the gardens our mother designed while she worked there.It’s also heritage listed, so knocking it down wouldn’t have been all right.Because Rory felt so strongly, or in other words, got his knickers in a knot, we picked it up at auction then set about turning it into a boutique hotel with the most outlandish décor. I’m certain the sperm donor is now spinning in his grave.
Sentimentality has no place in business, I tell myself as I arrive at the short causeway even though the memories tied to this place still hurt.
The big hoosestands on a small island, connected to the picturesque village of Auchkeld. No other hotels are around, just a couple of bed and breakfast establishments, and I’d rather sleep in one of the farmer’s fields than subject myself to one of those places.
As I pull into the driveway, the sun is setting, turning the sandstone building gold. Blossom covered trees stand on the distant hills as the evening mist rolls in from the sea. It’s hard not to be seduced by how beautiful this wee bit of Scotland is.
I drive around the moss-covered fountain, which stands as a turning circle these days, and pull in to park. After grabbing my bag from the back seat, I climb the dozen or so worn steps to the portico, pushing open one of the massive Scottish oak doors.
I wonder if this is what it feels like to be the queen? Whether she thinks everything is perfect and smells like roses because a wee woman is always ten steps ahead, flinging flower petals on the floor while running a feather duster over every surface.
I didn’t come here to inspect the place—that’s what the area manager is for. But I can hardly say I’m not interested. That’s not part of our company ethos.
Nowhere does it readsod off and leave me alone.
So far, I’ve looked at the building work on the former worker's cottages, which will be self-contained suites come the Easter holidays. I’ve examined the cellar and taken a phone call from a vintner who’s interested in doing business with us. And I’ve had my opinion sought over a dozen smaller things.
But enough is enough.
‘Matilda.’For the love of God, shut your fucking hole, I don’t add. Mainly because I bite my tongue. But at least my tone stops her blethering. ‘I came here for a couple of nights away—some peace, y’ken? I’ve got dinner plans on the mainland in a couple of hours’—for emphasis, I look at my watch—‘and a few things to sort before then. So if you’ve a problem with the butcher, I suggest you have a word with the area manager.’ What’s his name again? ‘Keith!’
‘Oh!’ She makes the exclamation sound like the hoot of an owl, though she looks more like a dowdy sparrow. She also looks a little perturbed. ‘You did’nae look at the crossing times for the causeway, then?’
Her sing-song voice does nothing to ease the realisation of what a tit I’ve been. Lost in the feelings this place stirs up, I’ve fucked up. Epically.
‘I’ve missed the crossing times,’ I say flatly.
‘Well. . . yes.’
‘Fuck!’ My hands are in my hair. ‘Fuck my life!’
‘Oh. Oh, dear.’ Matilda takes two steps back like she’s expecting me to turn into the hulk, and I need more space.
‘JesusChriston a bike. What the fuck time does it change?’
‘In the morn’,’ she sing-songs again. ‘A’fore dawn.’
