The Vintage Girl

  I stopped at the gate and looked down. My footprints were leading up the path—if I turned round and went back now, he’d get a hell of a shock when he opened his front door and wondered what had visited him in the night.

  Something from the past. Someone coming home …

  Stop being so ridiculous, I told myself, and knocked.

  And waited.

  Ugh. I blanched as a vision of Catriona opening the door in a towel struck me. What if I was interrupting something?

  I struggled with some butterflies, then fixed a smile on my face as the lock clicked on the other side.

  “Sorry, is this a bad time?” I blurted out while the door was still being opened.

  “It depends what you’re here for.” Robert ruffled his damp hair. He was wearing a couple of long-sleeved T-shirts, one over the other, and an old pair of battered jeans. His feet were in thick walking socks, and a recently showered smell hung around him. I hadn’t realized Robert wore contact lenses, but he was sporting a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that made him look like a rather hot young professor. “Reeling practice? Tax return?”

  “E-mail. I know it’s early but I’m waiting for my boss to get back to me. And I want to show you something.” I paused. I couldn’t hear Catriona, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t there; I didn’t want a repeat of yesterday. My conversation bank was down to “the weather” and “Catriona.” “I could come back later—”

  “Don’t be daft, I’ve been up for ages.” He opened the door farther to let me in and I pulled off my snowy boots. “Have you had any breakfast?”

  “Yes, the full Scottish. Apart from the haggis. And the black pudding.”

  I followed him through to the kitchen, where a laptop sat on the kitchen table, surrounded by piles of paper.

  “Oh, and the kippers,” I added, taking in the half-drunk mug of black coffee, the rack of toast, and the neatly scraped butter next to it.

  “So just porridge, then?” said Robert.

  “Yup. Could do with some toast, to be honest.”

  He shoved some papers out of the way so I could put my bag down, and lifted the cafetière to pour me some coffee. “Coffee okay? You’re not one of these decaf wheatgrass girls?”

  “Does it look like it?”

  He paused, scrutinizing me. “I don’t know. Does it?”

  “My normal breakfast is two double espressos,” I said. “I’ve got a set of really gorgeous vintage coffee cups from the George V hotel in Paris. For five minutes, I’m Coco Chanel. And then it all goes downhill, but you know, for five minutes …”

  “Which came first?” he asked, and put the mug down in front of me. “The coffee for breakfast? Or the cups?” He paused. “Or the wanting to be Coco Chanel?”

  I opened my mouth to say the coffee, then realized that until I’d bought the coffee cups at auction, I’d had tea, like Max. “Coco Chanel,” I confessed. “But the caffeine helps me deal with my boss. His natural state is artificially stimulated. I keep suggesting a detox, but I’m scared he’d just collapse in a pile of dust.”

  “I’m just the same,” he said, refilling his own mug. “Catriona keeps leaving green tea here for me, says caffeine isn’t good for either of us.”

  I got an abrupt, unwelcome flashback to her baby plans. I wondered if he knew.

  “But I don’t have time for any other vices,” he added with a conspiratorial wink. “So the coffee stays.”

  “Good,” I said. “Make a stand for caffeination.”

  We looked at each other for a moment, and I felt that unsettling familiarity again. It was freaky. I’d barely met him, yet I felt like we’d known each other before. Maybe it was something to do with me looking like Alice, I thought, fiddling with my mug.

  “How did you get on with that notebook?” he asked. “Was it helpful?”

  “Oh, er, yes. Really interesting. But look what I found in that box I took away.” I reached into my laptop bag and brought out a daybook from 1923.

  My plan was to start with the super-practical factual side of Kettlesheer life and then, once he was softened up, to hit him with the poetry of Ranald’s love notes.

  “It’s a daybook,” I explained, pushing the leatherbound diary across the pine table. “It was Violet’s—look, it’s got all her notes to give to the housekeeper about flowers and linen, and menus, and details of house parties and which bedrooms to use for which guests.” I watched anxiously as Robert took it and began leafing through. “Doesn’t it make the house come alive when you see what used to go on in those rooms?”

  “Did you know you’re sleeping in Ranald’s bedroom?” he asked.

  “What?” I felt my heart bang in my chest. “Really? Why didn’t someone tell me?”

  He looked up, his eyes amused. “Maybe they didn’t know. I didn’t, I just noticed in here. That adjoining bathroom, you’ve probably seen it has two doors? One each side. The other would go through to Violet’s suite.”

  “Oh, wow,” I breathed, suddenly seeing my room in a whole new light. No wonder I felt a presence in there—Ranald and Violet must be watching me unpack their story, reading their notes, in his bed, of all places …

  I felt myself blush. They didn’t seem the separate-bedroom type to me. Even if it was the convention.

  “Don’t go all misty-eyed on me,” said Robert sternly. “He didn’t die in there or anything. And it’s been a guest bedroom for years. Plenty of time for the atmosphere to wear off.”

  I blinked and tried to look businesslike. “I thought maybe if you decided to open the house to the public, you could use this sort of thing as the basis for an exhibition of country-house life. Violet has beautiful handwriting.”

  “And a naughty sense of humor. Did you see what she had to say about the Lord Lieutenant and his lady wife?” Robert passed me the book with an outraged expression.

  Lord Lieut (snorer)

  Lady Lieut (not safe after sherry)

  Mick McLennan (park near Lady L)

  “Good Lord!” he added. “Who knew you were on the money with your secret-panel tapping? There must be hidden tunnels from bedroom to bedroom all over the house!”

  “I’ll ignore that,” I said, then couldn’t resist looking up to see if he might actually be serious.

  “I’m joking,” he said, deadpan.

  But he’d slowed down his flicking to take in each page properly, so I pressed on. “Have you seen how she has all her children’s birthdays marked? With each one’s favorite meal—blancmanges, and shepherd’s pie … And her wedding anniversary, and the dates they went to stay with friends for balls in London and shooting in the Highlands …” I leaned forward to show him, and our foreheads almost touched over the table.

  Robert must have noticed, but he didn’t move away. “She had a fair bit to do, I’ll give her that,” he said. “Have you seen how much coal she had to order for all the rooms? No wonder they had some fireplaces blocked up.”

  I could feel his breath on my face as he whistled in awe. Now is the time, said a voice in my head. Show him the postcards.

  But I couldn’t move away.

  Oi! Now, insisted the voice, and reluctantly I leaned back to reach in my bag again.

  “And I found these,” I said, putting the postcards next to the daybook. Robert was still reading. “Look!” I insisted. “This is more romantic.”

  “I’m adding up how many grouse they shot,” he murmured; finally, when I waved the postcards under his nose, he looked up.

  “Did anyone tell you the story of how they met?” I asked.

  “Yes. In London. During her … season?”

  “And?”

  “There’s more?”

  I told him as he undid the ribbon and began to read the backs of the cards. I watched him, hawklike, for signs of tears along his long lashes; but, disappointingly, he was made of sterner stuff than me. Just as he was turning over the fourth postcard, my phone started to ring.

  I wanted to ignore it, but as soon as it went
to voice mail, it rang again.

  Better answer; it could be Max about the table, I thought.

  It was Alice. “Hi, Evie, how are you?” she asked. “How are you getting on?”

  Alice never usually bothered to start off a conversation that way. “I’m fine,” I said, then added, “Alice,” for Robert’s benefit.

  He raised his eyebrows above the tortoiseshell rims of his glasses. Geeky but sexy. I looked away quickly.

  “Evie, are you on your own?” Alice went on. “I need to talk to you about something rather delicate.”

  “I’m at Robert’s,” I said. “But I don’t have to repeat everything you say. I can do yes-and-no answers.”

  “Tell Alice I’m not listening in,” said Robert. “And tell her I hope she’s done what I told her and been to see that dancing teacher. I don’t want her letting my mate down on the dance floor.”

  “He says he’s not listening—” I realized how patently untrue this was, and glared at him. He raised his hands in pretend innocence.

  “Tell Robert to get his nose out.” Alice didn’t sound amused. “Can you go outside.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Okay.” I pointed at the phone and mouthed, Excuse me.

  Robert made a Go for it gesture and turned back to the postcards.

  “How far outside would you like me to go?” I asked, stepping quickly down the hall toward the front door. “How bad is this news?”

  “Two-door bad.”

  That was a family code: two doors between our mother’s eagle ears and the phone.

  “Right, I’m outside,” I said. “Well, not outside. I’m in the porch. I don’t want to go outside because it’s bloody freezing up here—”

  “I don’t have time for a weather forecast,” said Alice. “Listen, I’m not coming.”

  “What?” It came out too loud. “What?” I repeated, with less volume but more emphasis.

  “I’m not coming to the ball.”

  That’s what I’d thought she’d said. It didn’t, however, make any sense.

  Fifteen

  “What do you mean, you’re not coming?” I demanded. I stared out of the frosty glass around the door. All I could see was white. “Have you had an accident?”

  “I’m really, really sorry,” said Alice. “But I can’t do it. I’ve left a message on Fraser’s voice mail apologizing, so don’t try to talk me out of it. It’s done. I’m not coming.”

  “I don’t understand. You can’t come, or you don’t want to come?” I racked my brains for a reason. “Is it work? Are you ill? What’s the problem? Is it Fraser? He seems fine. He’ll forgive you for being rubbish in the reel!”

  “No, it’s not that.” Alice went silent for several seconds. “I can’t say. Trust me.”

  “If you don’t say, then how do I know whether to worry about you or not?” I demanded.

  “There’s nothing for you to worry about,” she said. “But I do need you to do me a favor.”

  “And what’s that? Oh, God,” I said, suddenly realizing. “I’m stuck here with Duncan and Ingrid and Fraser and Sheila all going ballistic because you’ve ruined their seating plans, their dancing plans, everything! What the hell am I going to say to them?”

  “Exactly—that’s the favor. You have to go in my place,” said Alice, as if this were totally reasonable. “You can’t just flake out like you can with cocktail parties. They need eight people. And it’s too late to invite someone else now—everyone’ll be busy. It’s Valentine’s weekend. You’re the only person who’ll be free.”

  “But I can’t just go in your place,” I wailed. “I don’t know how to do the dances! And correct me if I’m wrong, but that does seem to be quite an important element of the evening.”

  “Learn,” said Alice. “You’ve got enough time.”

  I spun round in disbelief, nearly dislodging the ski jackets hanging on the porch wall. “Four days? Get lost! I haven’t got the first clue about Scottish reeling!” I felt a tug and felt the long hood of my cardigan catch on a peg. I had to stop to disentangle myself before I broke the coat hooks, on top of everything else.

  “Look, they can find someone,” I went on. “Catriona’s sister’s name came up—Laura, is it? I wasn’t going to mention it, but Janet Learmont was very keen to sub her for you in this precious Reel of Luck.”

  “No! I don’t want Laura Learmont moving in on Fraser! I know what—” snapped Alice, then softened her tone, a fraction too late. “No, it would be better if you go. Don’t you want to dance with Fraser?” she added artfully.

  Of course I did. How could I not? “Well, yes,” I said.

  “Go on. He’s brilliant—you just have to let him put you in the right place. And you’ll get to meet some of his single friends. Like his brother—have you met Dougie yet? You can broaden your horizons, step out of your comfort zone …”

  Oh, that was too much. I almost yelped at the cheek of it.

  “Alice, I’m already so far out of my comfort zone that I’m virtually in orbit around it! Was this part of your plan?” I demanded. “Are you and Mum and Max in this together?”

  “Of course not.” Alice had recovered the upper hand. “It’s a wonderful night, and you’ll love it once you get into it. It’s not hard, and you always were quicker at picking things up than me.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “You were.” She sounded almost wistful. “Tap dancing. You got the shuffly thing way before I did.”

  “After three years, Alice! Three years and a hell of a lot of Gene Kelly DVDs!”

  “Please. Do it for me. I’ll owe you one.”

  I wavered. Historical Fraser swam back into my head. He was wearing a top hat.

  “It’ll be so romantic,” she went on. “Ballgowns and dance cards—everything you’re always banging on about wanting in your life.”

  I wavered harder. And Alice hadn’t even seen what I’d seen. Kettlesheer’s woodsmoky, chilly ghosts were creeping into me, and the prospect of the ballroom lit up with lamps and filled with rustling ballgowns was hopelessly alluring. And—I only let the thought flicker around the edges of my mind—I rather wondered what Robert would look like in evening dress. I already knew how Mr. Darcy–tastic Fraser would look. And I’d be the one on his arm. Possibly even in his arms.

  It was my absolute dream, actually happening? So what was holding me back?

  Fear. Fear of being the one part of the dream that didn’t match up.

  “Go on,” Alice urged. “It could be fabulous, and if it’s not, so what? You’ll never see these people again.”

  “Okay,” I said. “For you. I’ll do it.”

  “Oh, thank God,” breathed Alice.

  “But on one condition,” I went on. “You’ve got to tell me why you’re bailing out. Is it this first reel? Because if it is, you shouldn’t be lecturing me about stepping out of my comfort zone.”

  “No,” said Alice, “it’s not that.”

  “Is it Robert?” Whether there’d been a falling-out or a getting-off, I could detect something there. I just couldn’t work out what.

  “No.” She sounded firm.

  “And it’s definitely not Fraser?”

  “No, it’s … I …” She stopped. “I can’t put it into words properly. I’ll tell you after. But it’s a really good reason, and if you love me, don’t ask.”

  “Alice! You know how much it winds you up when Mum does this! Sometimes it’s good to talk about things,” I protested. “Just because we’re not allowed to talk about the time Dad went to Manchester doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

  That was akin to mentioning Lord Voldemort. Nothing ever happened in our family—apart from the time our happily married parents mysteriously split up when I was twelve. Dad went to Manchester for six months, allegedly to oversee some merger, and we were supposed to not talk about Mum dyeing her hair blond and taking up Pilates. He came back, she reverted to a brunette pixie cut, we were supposedly none the wiser. Except from then on, a
ny family holiday was subjected to forensic examination by both of us.

  We were both silent. It was one of those moments when I wished Alice didn’t slam down her wall of “We’re not going to talk about that,” and that I didn’t just blurt out the first thing that came into my head. It was only because our family life was so relentlessly dull that we got away with it as much as we did.

  “Shall we focus on the task at hand?” inquired Alice. As usual, she immediately covered the trails of awkwardness with a list of instructions. “I’ll get my dress couriered up to you—will you stay at Kettlesheer or move down to the Grahams’? I’m sure it’ll be fine with Sheila if you want to move down there—she’s expecting me.”

  “That might be a problem. With the dress, I mean.” I polished the pane of glass with my sleeve. My stomach was tightening with suppressing the tension. We got through catering packs of heartburn tablets chez Nicholson.

  “Why? We’re more or less the same size. If you breathe in.”

  “No, I mean I don’t think the courier will be able to get through. Not for a few days, anyway.”

  Alice snorted. “Oh, come on, you’re just outside Berwick, not in the Orkneys!”

  “Hello? We’re snowed in. Hasn’t it been on the news yet? Mhairi says it could be days until the roads get cleared. Are you okay?” I added. Her breath had whistled in with a very sharp, possibly sweary noise. “In some respects, I guess you couldn’t have got here by Thursday …”

  My voice trailed off. A figure was striding up the path toward the lodge. A man. A broad-shouldered, capable-looking man in a flat farmer’s cap. I squinted.

  Oh no.

  “Alice, Fraser’s coming up the path,” I squeaked. “I bet he’s looking for me! What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing! I panicked. I thought you could come up with an explanation.”

  “What? Are you mad?” I ducked down behind the window. “What am I supposed to say?”

  “You’re the one with the insanely overactive imagination! Tell him I’ve broken my leg. Or I’ve got swine flu. Just anything that would stop me dancing at the weekend. But don’t hurt his feelings. Don’t tell him I’ve run off with my assistant or anything that might … upset him.”