The Missing Years Page 8

  “What can I get you?” interrupts the bartender.

  “Let me get it for you,” Ben jumps in. “What are you drinking?”

  “Oh. Um, a vodka tonic for me and pint of lager for Carrie, but it’s okay, I can get it . . .” But Ben is waving away my mild protestations and delivering his own order to the barman too, which is substantial: either he is on a mission or he is ordering for a large group. There’s something odd about his accent, even in the few words he has uttered. Just when I think I have it pinned down, it throws in something new. He could be Scottish, South African, American or Australian. When he’s done with the bartender, he looks back at me with those startling clear blue eyes. “Consider the drinks an apology. It was such a shock to hear your name at the hotel, I must have looked like a lunatic staring at you—”

  “Yep, fairly lunatic-like,” I say lightly, and he grimaces in apology.

  “I was hoping to find you to explain. And then I heard there was a bit of drama in the café—I can’t apologize enough. The hotel is actually known to be really welcoming. I’m so sorry you had a different experience.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not blaming the hotel. The staff couldn’t have been nicer.” I hesitate. “The woman . . .”

  “Morag.”

  “Yes. Do you know why she was quite so . . . ?”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t read anything into it, though—I know it’s not really a valid excuse, but she’s not very well.” I nod, and he leans in conspiratorially. “Though she wasn’t exactly a product of charm school when she had her full health, if I’m honest.” I laugh, as he means me to, and he leans back again, shaking his head and smiling. “Ailsa Calder. Who’d have thought.”

  “I was only at the school for, what, just over two years. I’m surprised you remembered me at all.”

  “Well, there were only thirty of us in the whole school,” he points out. I’d forgotten that, how small the local school was—and perhaps still is—but now it’s flooding back to me. Thirty kids aged between five and twelve and two teachers. One classroom that could be partitioned into two, and almost always was. When it was your birthday, you had to stand at the door between the two halves, and the whole school would sing happy birthday, with extra verses, one of which the birthday child had to sing solo: I’m only six, I’m only six . . . I hated that—how was it any kind of birthday treat to have to sing in front of others? But Ben is still speaking. “And you disappeared in rather dramatic fashion, so I guess that helped the memories stick—ah, thanks, mate, what’s the damage?” Ben picks out Carrie’s lager and my vodka tonic from the drinks-laden tray the bartender has just pushed across to him, then pauses with the glasses still in his hands. “Look, I’m with a group over there”—he jerks his head toward a noisy group in one corner which is naturally cordoned off by a raised floor and balustrade—“why don’t you come and join us? You can tell me what you’ve been up to all these years, and I can introduce you to some of your neighbors.” He grimaces. “Nice ones, I promise.”

  “Thanks, but I’m here with my sister . . .” I gesture over at her.

  “She’s welcome, too, of course.”

  “Oh. Um, thank you. If it’s okay with Carrie . . .” But I already know Carrie will be delighted to meet people. I glance back toward her table and find her watching me. She quirks up her eyebrows when she sees me looking at her and mouths, Okay? I nod and slide down awkwardly from the bar stool, then take the drinks off Ben. He’s tall, Ben; even with my heels I have to tip my head back a little to look at his face.

  “Okay. I’ll go deliver these drinks, and I’ll let you figure it out with your sister. No pressure. Except that I’m agog with curiosity about you. Dying of it, in fact. But really, no pressure.” He’s grinning as he says it. It seems as if his smiles hang around his eyes and mouth, looking for any opportunity to return. I can’t help but laugh in response. I’m still smiling as I walk to the wingback chairs.

  “You seem to have made quite the impression,” says a wide-eyed Carrie, taking her pint of lager from me. “Do tell. Who is that?”

  “That,” I say, enjoying the revelation, “is the hotel manager I told you about.”

  She stops with her pint halfway to her mouth, a parody of astonishment. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. It turns out we were at school together.” I settle into the seat opposite her. I would never have imagined she drank pints. Some sort of expensive Czech bottled beer, perhaps, but not lager in a pint glass. I don’t want to explore the layers of stereotyping exposed by my surprise.

  “Wow.” She looks across the bar at the rowdy group to whom Ben is delivering drinks. There’s some fifteen of them, perhaps slightly more men than women at first glance. “And he remembered you?”

  “Yep. I have that effect on people,” I say, tongue firmly in cheek, and she laughs. “Actually it seems my family history is quite the local legend. Even the gym guy knew about it.” I take a sip of my vodka tonic. Probably everybody in that group, if they are from round here, will know my story. For a moment I consider bolting, but there’s no point in putting off the inevitable. “Ben’s asked us both to go across and join them.”

  Carrie’s eyes light up. “We should totally do that,” she says decisively, then quickly backtracks. “That is, if you want to. If you just want to have a quiet drink, I’m fine with that, too.”

  I laugh. “Carrie, I know you’re dying to meet the locals. It’s okay to say it.”

  “Yep, I am. I’m not like you; I’m a people person, what can I say?” Now that I’ve let her off the hook, she’s perfectly happy to laugh at herself, but her words catch at me nonetheless. I’m not like you; I’m a people person. I know I’ll find them turning over in my mind later. But she’s forging onward. “We’re here for a while. It would be nice to have a few people I can grab a coffee or something with.”

  “Just a coffee? Or are you hoping for a little Highland fling? There’s a fair few men to choose from right over there.” I waggle my eyebrows suggestively, which for some reason sends her into reams of giggles. I feel a warmth inside me at that and half wish Ben hadn’t invited us over—I’m not in any hurry to break up our tête-à-tête.

  “Definitely no Highland fling,” she says firmly, when the giggles have died down. “I’m off men.” Before I can quiz her on that, she stands up and grabs her pint and bag. “Let’s go join them then.”

  I follow her lean figure across the bar. Her hair is pulled back loosely in an artful mess, and her maroon cashmere sweater has slipped off one shoulder. Everything about her screams casual, sloppy sexiness; I see how it draws the eyes of almost every man as we cross the floor. It’s a wonder we are in any way related.

  My father was in MI6 (all that traveling with the gems was actually a really good cover for being a spook). He was fluent in six languages and held black belt status in an unspecified martial art. As part of a major anti-terrorist operation, he single-handedly saved thousands of lives, but as a result became a target. His body has never been found, but the chatter that MI5 picked up at the time of his disappearance suggested that he was assassinated by a professional killer in Antwerp. Those who were closest to him in MI6 lament the fact that, for the sake of national security, his family can never know the true hero that he was.

  EIGHT

  Ben must have been keeping an eye out for us; by the time we reach the two steps to the raised area, he’s waiting to greet us. “I’m Ben. You must be Carrie,” he says, smiling and extending a hand to her. I see her take a deep breath and her shoulders shift somehow, a subtle movement, and then she puts out her own hand. Behind Ben I can see interested looks from his friends. They seem to range in age from early twenties to late thirties. “Watch your step there,” he warns, turning to offer me a hand to steady me on the stairs. He has rolled back the sleeves of his shirt now to reveal tanned forearms. He certainly didn’t get those from a Scottish winter.
“Let me introduce you both to everyone, and then we can have fun watching you forget all our names. This is Fiona, Alistair, Gemma, Stefano, and here is—”

  But I’ve stopped listening because over the shoulder of Gemma, or perhaps that was Fiona, next in line to be introduced is a face I’ve met before. My charming non-burglar, Mr. Jamie McCue.

  “And this is Fiona’s brother, Jamie,” Ben is saying.

  “Actually, we’ve met.” Jamie steps forward with a handshake. Ben quirks up his eyebrows in surprise and Jamie obligingly explains. “We ran into each other near the Manse the other day and figured out that we’re neighbors.” Jamie’s eyes are on mine as he pushes a lock of his dark hair off his forehead. There’s a wariness within them, and also a touch of mischief, as if he’s daring me to dispute his account.

  Carrie glances at me. “You didn’t mention that.”

  “Well, that’s understandable,” nods Ben sagely, saving me from having to reply. “Jamie is eminently inconsequential.” The two of them drop onto a well-trodden path of mutual insults, and the moment to contradict him is gone. He’s not as tall as I remembered, or maybe it’s the combination of my heels and the fact that most of the men here look small compared to Ben. Like the other guys in this group, Jamie’s dressed in jeans and a shirt, but the jeans are tighter, and the shirt is very slim fitting. Mr. McCue has an eye for fashion, I would think.

  Carrie has been swept into a conversation with Ben and a few others, leaving Jamie and me to one side, half turned to each other and half watching the rest of the crowd. “So what are your plans for the Manse? A full London-style makeover?” he asks, the faintest touch of disdain in his voice when he says London.

  I don’t answer his questions because Ben’s introductory words have just sunk in for me. “Which one is your sister?” I ask him abruptly.

  This gets his full attention; his half-mocking grin drops abruptly. “Please,” he says, laying his fingers on my arm. It’s the arm that is holding my drink; I can’t jerk away. His eyes are pleadingly insistent. “Dinnae say anything. Please. I dinnae want her upset. And we dinnae really broadcast her obsession with the Manse, you ken—”

  “Which one is your sister?” I look around the group, as if to divine the answer for myself. Fiona. Which one is Fiona? None of the women here look like the “Wuthering Heights”-type figure I’ve imagined haunting the second floor of the Manse.

  Jamie yields. “The one talking to your sister,” he says dejectedly.

  I glance across at Carrie and find her in conversation with an extraordinarily slight woman in her late twenties. She has a boyish build, almost entirely flat chested, without a scrap of fat on her, but there’s a sinewy strength to the arms that are revealed by her sleeveless top. She’s in profile and I can’t see her eyes, but her wavy, blunt bob-cut hair is certainly not as dark as her brother’s. Still, I can believe they are related. There’s something about the line of the nose, and a similarity in their compact, fine-boned frames . . .

  But this, this is the woman who likes to wander through my family’s house uninvited; the woman who is a wee bit away wi’ the fairies. As I watch, Carrie laughs at something Fiona has said, and Fiona herself grins and turns a little more toward me, and I see the way her thick hair fans out like a triangle around her pale face. There’s a sense of dread building in my stomach. I have to stamp on the urge to drag Carrie away from Fiona, out of the pub entirely.

  “Please,” says Jamie anxiously from beside me, but my eyes are fixed on Fiona and Carrie. “She’s harmless, really. And this thing with the Manse and your father, it’s just a fascination—”

  I swing toward him. “My father? What do you mean, this thing with my father?”

  “I didnae mean—” He’s wretchedly uncomfortable now, his eyes jumping from me to the group, as he tries to project an air of casual conversation.

  “What thing with my father?”

  “Shh, please, I’ll tell you, I promise—”

  “Tell me now.”

  “Another time, I promise, just please, please, not the now—I cannae ruin Ben’s birthday.”

  “It’s Ben’s birthday?”

  “Guilty as charged.” The man himself has joined our conversation, with a bottle of Peroni in hand.

  “But then I should have been buying you drinks,” I lament. It hasn’t escaped my notice that Jamie has taken the opportunity to slink away from my side.

  Ben shrugs. “Bar karma: it all works out in the end.” Something beeps, and he pulls a phone out of his pocket and checks the screen. “Piotr is running late,” he says.

  “Tell him to take the back road,” calls Fiona.

  “Why?” asks Ben, but he’s already typing with the thumb of the hand that’s holding the phone, his Peroni held casually in the other.

  She shrugs. “Not sure. But tell him.” Now that the conversational groups have merged, Carrie and Fiona have blended into our circle.

  “Done,” says Ben, putting away his phone. “Anyway, Carrie—didn’t you say you two were celebrating?”

  “That’s right,” Carrie says brightly. “It’s the first time we have lived under the same roof for over fifteen years. We thought it was worth celebrating.” She holds my gaze and I can’t read those gray eyes at all. Then she smiles, and something in me releases. I step forward to clink my glass against hers, and it’s like I’m watching us through the eyes of our audience, this group of friends of Ben. We look like we have a past in common: shared history, whispered secrets. We look like we could be sisters.

  The barmaid brings a bucket of beers and some bottles of wine. The alcohol flows, and the conversation too. Someone hands me a wineglass and before long I’ve lost track of how many times it has been topped up. Ben has booked a large table for dinner and won’t hear of Carrie and me eating separately. He shanghais the poor waitress into squeezing in another two seats, though from the way she hangs on his words, I suspect she would squeeze in ten more seats and the rest of the customers be damned if it got her another heartfelt thank-you from Ben—and I think he knows that too. I answer the same questions from several different people by saying the same things—my name, where I live, what I do: a micro manifesto of who I am—but no one digs further. In any case, it’s a boisterous group and the conversation rarely runs straight; it follows any tangent that might lead to hoots of laughter. When I glance across to see whether Carrie is okay, I see her holding forth to Fiona and Ben, her audience in stitches. I suppose I shouldn’t have doubted that the actress knows how to play to a crowd.

  But . . . Fiona. Still talking to Carrie. She’s hardly the unhinged nymph I had in mind, but now that I’ve seen her, that image is changing: now it’s her that I see, sitting cross-legged on the bed in the master bedroom. One elbow rests on her knee as she taps the end of her cigarette against the lip of the earthen ashtray that lies on the bed in front of her. Her head is bent to the ashtray but as I watch it lifts to reveal her face, at the exact same moment as the real Fiona turns to find my eyes upon her. That triangle of hair, atop a slight body . . . I turn away quickly, unease pooling in my stomach again, and find Ben beside me. “Come sit next to me,” he implores, ushering me toward a long table that must be set for at least twenty. “I haven’t had a proper chance to speak to you yet.”

  “But it’s your birthday.” I resist the urge to glance back to see if Fiona is watching me. “I can’t really take pride of place next to the birthday boy.”

  “Of course you can. And Carrie too. These reprobates get bored by me all the time; they’ll probably welcome the break.” He’s pulling out a seat for me and I have little choice but to sit in it, with Ben on my left. As we’re such a big party, we seem to be on a fixed menu: the waitress is already laying out sharing plates as starters, and stops to speak to Ben about something. The rest of the crowd is beginning to filter over too. There’s a young couple settling into chairs on my right who
are deep in conversation with the people opposite them. I turn to look directly across the table and find myself meeting the eyes of a dark-haired man in his late thirties to whom I know I was introduced earlier. He has an oddly creased face, like rumpled bedsheets, and eyes that are rarely still. Right now they’re picking me over and he’s making no attempt to hide it.

  “Hi. I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.” I’m aiming for disarming charm.

  “Alistair. Alistair Jamieson.” Is it my imagination or did he stress the surname?

  “Ah yes! Ali.”

  “To my pals.”

  It might just be his broad accent, but there seems to be something truculent in his manner. It sparks a small rebellion in me. I resolve to use Ali regardless of whether he would like me as a pal. “Excellent. Ali. Sorry.” I grimace theatrically. “I’m useless with names. I’m Ailsa Calder.”

  “I ken who you are. It hasnae taken you lassies long to get right to the heart of the community, has it?”

  Definitely truculent. I play tone-deaf and smile brightly. “You sound like you grew up here. Did I go to school with you too?”

  “Aye, you did.” His lips twist sourly. “Though I’d lay money you only remember Ben.”

  “Actually I don’t even remember him, really.” There’s a certain edge in my own words too, now.