‘You’re cutting it fine,’ he says, one elbow hanging out the driver’s window in a picture of nonchalance.
‘Not on fucking purpose,’ I grumble, once it’s verified I’m on the guest list.Apparently, you can send a present ahead and not be on the guest list. It also seems this is the back entrance to the castle, the one being used today as a decoy from thepaparatizzicovered front. ‘And I’m pretty sure Posh Spice nearly ran me over on her way in.’
Rory laughs heartily. ‘That’s it. She’s not getting the fifty quid I promised her. I even thought about paying off thepolisto turn a blind eye,’he says, gesturing back towards the policemen. ‘But I’m too pretty to go to jail for soliciting vehicular manslaughter.’
‘Who’d run the business if I was dead?’
‘Who’d care? You’d be dead, and I’d be on holiday.’
We travel along a tree-lined road, coming out at a clearing with the castle in front. Blue-grey Scottish stone and mullioned windows gleaming in the sun. It even has turrets.
‘Fucking stunning,’ Rory murmurs as we approach.
‘Looks like something from a fairy tale,’ I agree with a nod of my head.
‘They’ve got salmon in the loch, too.’
‘It’s a nice way to live.’
‘I’m buying a castle,’ Rory answers immediately.
‘You can’t leave the city for more than a few days.’
‘To retire in,’ he qualifies. ‘For Fin and our tribe of kids.’
‘I’m sure Fin will be thrilled to bear your brood. Especially if they take after you with that big fucking head.’
We drive past the castle, pulling up outside some outbuildings.
‘Hurry,’ he says. ‘We’ll be late for the service.’
I know Fin is one of the child’s godmothers, so I can see why he’s in a rush. As he climbs out of the car, slamming the door, I notice something very odd.
‘What’s with the kilt?’ He strides in front of me, blue tartan swishing behind him.
‘We’re all wearing them,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘You in your suit will be the odd fucker out.’
The door to the church creaks on its hinges as Rory pulls and piano music spills out. Someone vaguely famous appears to be playing the instrument, the cool stone interior of the chapel suffused with colour from the altar’s stained-glass window. The last time I was in a church was for Meg’s funeral. I wonder if all churches smell the same—of old stone and wood, incense and flowers?
Pleasant yet cloying at the same time.
Rory makes his way to a pew near the front, but as I’m not so presumptuous—or here with one of the godparents—I slip into one at the rear. I’m pretty tall, but even I’m having trouble finding Bea over the height of some of the hats.
Feathers, felt, and even one that looks like fruit. What is it with fashion these days? I look down at my black suit and toy with my cufflinks, wondering who’s responsible for bringing back the beard and kilt and wondering what would be a suitable punishment.
The service is short, the baby crying out just once as the priest drenches his face, and before I know it, the happy parents are carrying the babe out into the sunshine, followed by godparents... and hangers-on, and those from the front pews. And then I see her under a tiny pill hat with a veil; a vision in black and buttercup yellow. I want to laugh—it’s just like her to take the piss out of herself and her name.
Only, I don’t laugh because, although she looks beautiful, she’s also wearing an expression I’ve never seen. It’s a hard look to decipher—it’s almost as though she’s wearing a very beautiful, though blank mask.
She doesn’t see me as she passes, ducking her vision to the strip of carpet leading to the church doors... as the man standing just a little behind her reaches for her hand.
Her. Fucking. Hand.
And she lets him.
She walks out of the church with another man.
People mill around me; I’m aware some would like to get past, eventually realising my near catatonic state and finding other ways out.
