From Scotland with Love (2 page)

‘You’d better come into the kitchen. It’s warmer there.’

Daisy, somewhat reluctantly, put the pen and bookplates back in her case and tucked it to one side, out of the way.

The kitchen was a big improvement on the hallway. Here there were some indications that this Scottish equivalent of a mud hut actually belonged to a writer who must be a multi-millionaire, what with his stunning sales figures and most of his books being made into amazingly popular television dramas. There was a gorgeous red range cooker and a lot of pale wood worktops. This was a good kitchen. And it was warm.

‘Would you like a drink?’ Rory said.

‘Yes please. A glass of white wine would be lovely. Or a Campari and soda if you haven’t got wine.’ She hadn’t looked at her watch recently but she was certain it was past wine o’clock.

He gave a short laugh. ‘I meant tea or coffee, but maybe you’ve got the right idea. He opened a cupboard and took out a bottle and two glasses. He poured large measures into both. Daisy opened her mouth to protest at the size of the drinks but then shut it again. She’d need alcohol if he was right about the storm and she was stranded. She recalled that Rory never drank anything alcoholic except neat whisky and that not very often. Famous Grouse. She remembered the brand now. Her boss would never have let a detail like that slip her mind. She took the glass he handed to her.

As he didn’t seem to be making toasts, Daisy took a throat-burning sip. She didn’t desperately like the taste but a few seconds in, she found she quite liked the effect. ‘Do you have the internet? Or something? I ought to tell people where I am and that I might not be back when I said.’

‘You’ll have to be quick as it all might go in the storm, but we usually have fairly good reception. Over there is comfortable.’

She went to where he indicated an area where there was a table, a desk lamp and a chair, a sort of mini office. She pulled out her phone from her bag that was still slung round her neck. She’d tackle Venetia first. ‘Hi! Hope you’re having a good break. I’m at Rory McAllan’s getting those book plates signed. Unfortunately there’s a bit of a storm on its way and I may not be back on Monday. I’ll keep in touch. Daisy.’

To her mother she wrote, ‘Oh God, Mum! Really done it this time! I’m here but there’s a storm and I might be stranded with Mr Grumpy for days! Eek! He’s got a lush kitchen though and I know I’ll be safe. Love, Daisy, xxxxxxxxx.’ She didn’t want her mother to worry about her being hit on by the famous author. She was absolutely confident that wasn’t going to happen.

He’d finished his whisky while she was still only halfway through hers. ‘I suppose you’ll need feeding.’

Daisy nodded. ‘Don’t you eat, then?’

‘Of course. And I can fend for myself well enough. I’m not used to guests.’

‘As I’m not really a guest, maybe I could get us something?’

He looked at her questioningly. ‘You can cook?’

‘Yup.’ She didn’t add that her parents had sent her on a course, considering it a necessary life skill. She’d turned out to be good at it and really enjoyed it. She cooked for her parents and their friends’ dinner parties, to make money when she was between jobs, which was often.

‘You don’t look as if you can do anything.’

‘Really’ Daisy was appalled. She didn’t think she looked too bad. ‘Why?’

‘Blonde hair, blue eyes, too much make-up, wrong clothes.’

She was annoyed. She took great pains to dress appropriately. Today she was wearing a kilt, thick tights and knee-length boots – and her coat, which was a bit thin and short. But how much more appropriate could she look? ‘That’s the most appalling stereotyping.’

‘It’s not. I’m speaking from experience. You’re the girl who failed to get me to sign books when I was in London and nearly made me miss my flight. You are not good at your job.’

Daisy swallowed. She had been told this many times and had now come to accept it. ‘Well, I admit that. But my clothes aren’t wrong.’

‘Aren’t they? You’ll freeze to death if you move too far from the range.’

‘I’ll be fine if I stay in the kitchen.’ She wondered why this house had such a great kitchen – it didn’t go with the rest of the ‘Scottish simplicity’ theme. She also wondered if there’d be other nice surprises, like a sauna, or a well-heated home cinema.

‘You’re only saying that because you’re still wearing your coat.’

Defiant, if a bit reluctant, she took it off and hung it over the back of a chair. She was relieved to discover her cashmere sweater was almost, if not completely adequate. If only her feet weren’t so wet and cold. She unzipped her boots and took them off. They were completely ruined, she noticed. ‘You wouldn’t have a pair of socks I could borrow?’ she said bravely.

He grunted and left the room. He came back with a pair of the sort of socks you wore inside gumboots. She pulled them on. ‘That’s better! Now I’ll make lunch.’

He still wasn’t convinced by her lunch-making abilities, Daisy could tell.

‘You won’t be able to cook on that,’ he said, indicating the range. ‘Being a city girl.’

Daisy felt telling him that being a city girl with parents who had a large place in the country with a very similar range was unlikely to endear her to him. His working-class roots were famous and he would despise her even more if he realised quite how middle class she was. She just smiled. ‘If I can’t manage the range I’ll use the conventional cooker next to it. So if you’d just show me what food you’ve got and I’ll get on.’

He opened the fridge. ‘There’s quite a lot of ham. Eggs. Milk. Staples, really.’ He closed the door and then crossed the room and opened another door. ‘This is the larder. Vegetables, tins of things. A sack of spuds. All in here.’

‘OK,’ said Daisy. ‘Why don’t you leave me to it?’

He seemed reluctant, like trusting a toddler to cut up its own meat for the first time.

‘Come on,’ said Daisy. ‘What harm could I do with a few potatoes and a carrot?’

He laughed. ‘OK then. There’s always a tin of soup we could open. I’d have done that anyway.’

‘Give me an hour,’ she said. ‘Then come back.’

As Daisy familiarised herself with the kitchen, finding pans, knives, things she’d need, she speculated on Rory McAllan. Everyone at Athene tiptoed round him like he was a dangerous beast. He was grumpy, there was no escaping that, but he probably was human, deep down. The trouble was, at Athene, everyone was so conscious of him being such a star, of paying all their wages and keeping their elegant London offices in good decorative order. They couldn’t afford to offend him. He wasn’t the sort of writer who was burning to express himself; he always said he didn’t much enjoy doing it, and could stop at any moment. This would be a disaster for Athene. They’d never find another ‘book a year’ author who was critically acclaimed and sold shedloads – they just didn’t exist, normally. But Daisy felt she had to treat him as if he was at least half human or she’d never survive being snowed in with him. As she sharpened a knife (Global, very nice) she realised she still hadn’t got him to sign the book plates. There was hardly any point in her asking him to do them now.

‘This soup is really good!’ Rory said.

‘No need to be so surprised,’ said Daisy. ‘I’m not a complete ditz. Try the soda bread.’

She was being nonchalant but Daisy was pleased with herself. She’d made a thick and tasty broth which could just about be labelled ‘Scotch’ and some soda bread to go with it. There didn’t seem to be any bread otherwise, and at least it was quick to make. Although she’d found a vast freezer in the larder, it didn’t seem to have anything normal in it, like bread. Instead it seemed to be filled with anonymous plastic bags of meat which could have been anything. She’d ask a few pertinent questions before she messed with any of those bloody little packages.

They didn’t speak while they ate but Daisy was thinking. She would have to stay the night. And she would have to keep herself occupied. She could cook, of course, if he wanted her to. Make ordinary bread if there wasn’t any, and there was yeast. She’d found a sack of locally milled flour in the larder. They wouldn’t starve. But she was used to being busy. She’d have to find some way to occupy herself. And keeping out of his way might be difficult unless he had a study to disappear into.

‘So did you do a fancy cookery course to learn how to produce food like this?’

Daisy would like to have been able to say it was innate ability that made her able to produce a tasty soup but she was honest. ‘Yes. It’s one of the few courses where I actually excelled.’

‘So why don’t you do that for a living instead of being a crap PR girl?’

‘I’m not a crap PR girl,’ she said, although he had pretty much put his finger on it. ‘And it’s hard to get work as a cook if you don’t want to work in a restaurant or in someone’s private house. I do dinner party cooking for friends but there’s no money in it.’

‘All anyone seems to think about is money,’ said Rory.

Daisy glanced up from her soup. He sounded bitter, not just grumpy. ‘Well, a girl’s got to keep herself in shoes.’ She wasn’t quite sure why she wanted to reinforce his bad opinion of her. Maybe because she didn’t think she’d ever convince him she wasn’t just a silly girl. But she wanted to redeem herself this time, for this job. She’d majorly messed up when she’d failed to get Rory to sign the books and the subsequent telling off had been painful. And it was most painful because her boss had said, ‘When I took you on, I thought you had something about you.’ She had been surprised to hear this and now very much wanted to prove her boss right. She wanted to have ‘something about her’.

‘I have to go out,’ he said.

‘What? Go out? I thought we were stranded here!’ She looked across and realised she could hardly see out of the window it was so dark, and nearer the house, she could see more incessant snowflakes hurling themselves into the glass making her feel dizzy.

‘We are. I’m going on foot. I want to be back before the snow sets in properly.’

Daisy looked out of the window. ‘It looks pretty well set in to me.’

‘It’ll get worse. Which is why I have to be off.’

A pang of real guilt stabbed Daisy. ‘Did you delay because of me arriving?’

He studied her. ‘I’d love to say yes, to make you feel bad, but actually, there are other reasons I couldn’t go sooner.’

‘So where are you going? If you don’t mind my asking? I’m assuming there isn’t an offy round the corner.’

He gave a short laugh. ‘We’re all right for whisky, if that’s what’s worrying you. No, I’m going to fetch a friend.’

‘Lovely,’ said Daisy.

Later, when she’d found dried yeast and was getting some bread going, she speculated on the friend. Another woman would be good. Another man might be OK. But a tiny part of her was disappointed. She’d rather enjoyed being alone with Rory. He was a challenge. She wanted to get to know him better and that might not happen if there was another person there.

She was waiting for her bread to rise when she checked her phone again. Constantly checking was part of her PR world. There was a text from Venetia. She was never out of touch, even if it was the Christmas/New Year break. ‘Whatever you do, do not piss him off! We haven’t got him on board for another book yet! Was total madness you going up there!!! V x.’

Daisy was grateful for the x. It meant that Venetia hadn’t completely lost it with her. Knowing her, Venetia would appreciate Daisy’s efforts to help, even if they were the wrong side of insane.

Her mother seemed fairy relaxed, which was good. She just said, ‘Keep warm, darling! I used to love Scotland.’

Daisy looked out of the window again. Tiny little flakes were coming out of the sky in dizzying amounts. It suddenly occurred to her to worry about Rory. He and his friend were out in the snow. Would they be all right?

Daisy had decided there was no point in alerting the emergency services and was just wondering if she ought to defrost one of the unappealing packages when she heard Rory come home. The front door opened. ‘There you are, lovely girl,’ he said. No one replied. The lovely girl was probably too loved up to speak. Marvellous! Thought Daisy. I’m snowed in with a couple who won’t be able to keep their hands off each other. I’ll have to sit with my fingers in my ears to avoid hearing them making love. Eugh!

She heard Rory approach the kitchen door. She was sitting at the table with an open cookery book and a cheerful expression pinned to her face.

‘Come and meet Griselda,’ he said. ‘There’s no need to be frightened.’

Daisy got up from the table, wondering what sort of woman Griselda was that Rory had to reassure her about.

‘Come on, girl,’ he said fondly. And in walked a very large grey dog.

‘A deerhound!’ said Daisy delightedly. ‘You’ve got a deerhound! And oh – is she –’

‘Very pregnant? Yes. The pups are due any time now. Grizzie’s been staying with my cleaner while I’ve been away. I couldn’t pick her up until they’d all come back from her mother’s.’ This was a bit complicated but Daisy went with it. ‘I just hope Hamish – he’s the vet – will be able to get through when her time comes.’

Daisy went over to the dog. ‘She’s gorgeous! Hello, Grizzie!’ she said softly and started rubbing her chest.

‘I thought you’d be afraid of her,’ he said.

Daisy, who was on her knees by the dog cuddling her, looked up. ‘You wanted me to be afraid of her, didn’t you?’

He almost smiled. ‘Let us just say I expected you to be.’

Daisy smiled. She didn’t mention her dog-filled childhood. He was unlikely to be interested.

‘Er – Daisy –’ He remembered her name with a struggle. ‘You couldn’t cook her something, could you?’

‘That depends. What would Madam fancy? Some macaroons? Sour apple sorbet?’

‘Venison stew, actually. Could you manage that? Do you do stews?’

‘No,’ said Daisy. ‘I do daubs, ragus and maybe a casserole, if pushed.’

He frowned, not sure if he was being sent up or not.

‘Of course I can do stews! Where’s the meat?’

‘In the freezer.’

‘Aha!’ she said. ‘I wondered what all that was. Dog food.’

‘Human food actually. It’s culled venison. But she likes it.’