Mistakes We Make (7 page)

A piper, busking on the corner of Princes Street, struck up a dirge and she smiled to herself. Sooner or later the dour side of Scottishness always surfaced.

She began to weave her way through the narrow cobbled lanes to where the Abbotsford Bar stood, almost unchanged for half a century. Logan was leaning on the burnished wood of the broad bar, drinking a pint of something dark. She hovered for a moment, studying him. He was tall, just as she was, but dark-haired. They had the same even features and clear skin, and they both had hazel eyes. They both had a long, straight nose and generous lips. There, perhaps, the resemblance ended. Molly’s features were finer and more feminine; Logan was more chiselled and his cheekbones were better defined. He wore his hair short, but with some length on top, and it was thicker than Molly’s and wavier.

It was obvious he’d come straight from work. Sharp suit, crisp shirt with double cuffs and gold cuff links she knew for a fact had come from Tiffany’s, Church’s lace-ups you could see your face in. Adam never spent money on himself, but Blair King must be doing well judging by Logan’s extravagance. His two sons were at private school, Adrienne didn’t work and they lived in a five-bedroomed house in smart-set suburbia. She wasn’t resentful of his success, only annoyed that she’d created the mess that had caused her own career to stall.

‘You’re looking different,’ she said. ‘What’s with the beard?’

Logan stroked his chin and laughed. It never seemed to matter how stressed Logan was, he always had an easy laugh. ‘It’s quicker than shaving. Anyway, Adrienne likes it.’

‘How is Adrienne? And the boys? I haven’t seen them in ages.’

‘They’re fine.’

She picked up her water. ‘What was your idea?’

‘Idea?’

She shoved his arm. ‘Stop winding me up. I’ve only got twenty minutes.’

He drained the last of his beer and waved the empty glass towards the barman. ‘What would you say to clubbing together to get Dad something special?’

‘Fine. Any ideas?’

She was ready for the airy, ‘Oh, I’ll leave that to you, just tell me how much I need to chip in.’

Logan said, ‘You know Aunt Jessica?’

‘Dad’s sister? In Melbourne?’

‘We’ve only got one Aunt Jessica, I believe.’

‘Don’t be sarky. I was surprised, that’s all.’

‘There’s only a year between them, so it’s her seventieth next year. I thought we could get him a plane ticket.’

Molly gaped at her brother. He’d been spraying money around like champagne from a well-shaken bottle in the last couple of years so the generosity of it was no surprise, but it was unlike him to be so imaginative.

‘It’s a great idea.’

‘Thought you’d like it. Can you afford it? Don’t want to push you.’

‘Of course. I’d love to do something special for Dad and I’m hardly spending any money at the moment. Let’s go for it. Half and half.’

‘Attagirl! Thanks, mate.’ He lifted the freshly pulled pint and sipped at it appreciatively. ‘So what’s this meeting you’re off to then?’

‘Oh—’ Unexpectedly, Molly felt the need to keep Barnaby and his offer to herself. ‘Nothing.’

‘You always did clam up when you were planning something,’ Logan said.

She grinned. Logan was right. She was deeply superstitious about sharing her schemes until they came to fruition. ‘I’ll tell you if it comes to anything.’

‘Hmm.’ He put his beer down on the counter and kissed her cheek. ‘Same old Moll. Will you organise the ticket? Let me know how much I owe you.’

‘You are coming to Dad’s party, aren’t you? You and the family?’

‘Saturday evening?’

‘I changed it to Sunday lunch. Don’t you ever read your emails?’

She punched his chest lightly with an exasperation that was not feigned at all. ‘Sun-day. Sun-day. Got it?’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘Hah!’

She gave him a quick hug and headed for the door, shaking her head. Managing Logan was Adrienne’s job now – for which relief, much thanks.

The moment she spotted Barnaby Fletcher in a corner of the restaurant, she knew she had to accept his offer. It  wasn’t just that he hadn’t changed one bit (except maybe put on a few pounds), it was the surge of adrenalin she experienced at the idea of working with him again.

‘You look—’ he held her at arm’s length and studied her face, ‘—exactly the same. That is to say, stunning. Here.’ He pulled out a chair for her. ‘Sit down. Are you all right there? This is wonderful. Terrific. It’s so
good
to see you.’

He filled his expensive jacket and, where once there might have been a little more slack round the neck of his shirt, the flesh almost bulged above it. Almost, but not quite. He was still a fine-looking man – not classically handsome, but with pleasant, open features and a warmth in his gaze that was impossible not to like.

‘I won’t ask about Adam,’ he said when they had ordered, ‘but tell me about life at Fleming House. I want to know everything that’s been happening since I saw you.’

‘A few lows, inevitably,’ she confessed. ‘Never enough people on the ground, never enough budget. But the highs have been considerable. I’ve built it from virtually nothing into a highly profitable venture.’ She couldn’t keep the pride out of her voice.

‘Tell me more.’

He ate while she talked, which suited her. Her stomach was so knotted that she had no appetite. ‘We honed in on the wedding trade. I persuaded Lady Fleming to make a few rooms in the house available for the bridal party and we upgraded the ballroom and its facilities. Business has been incredible. The grounds are lovely, of course, and we use top-notch caterers. But the highlight has been converting the barn into a restaurant and conference facility.’

‘That sounds like a challenge.’ Barnaby, finishing his steak, was watching her closely.

‘It needed tight management. I brought it in before time and under budget.’ Did her sense of achievement show? The conversion had been a major project and she had managed it alongside running the events.

Barnaby cleaned his plate and patted his stomach appreciatively. ‘So,’ he said, studying her, ‘now to the big question.’

Molly’s heart began to race. So here it was. Her future. This was a negotiation, and Barnaby Fletcher was good at negotiations – but so was she. Professionalism kicked in.

She avoided Barnaby’s eyes, lifted her glass and held it in front of the candle on the table between them.

‘I’ve been thinking about it.’

‘And?’

‘I’m very flattered.’

Don’t show him how excited you are. Play hard to get
.

Barnaby leaned forward and edged the glass aside with a gentleness surprising for such a big man. The directness of his gaze was unnerving – he had a knack of making you feel he could read your thoughts.

‘I hope I don’t sense a “but” coming on, Molly. You know this opportunity is made for you.’

‘It’s a big decision.’

‘I know.’

‘It means moving away from all my friends. More importantly, it means moving away from Dad.’

Molly raised the glass to her lips and took a sip. It was a buttery Tokay, and very good. Barnaby had never been a man to skimp on quality in any aspect of his life. If she lived in London, she could enjoy this kind of life. If she were part of Barnaby’s business, she’d be on expense accounts – and with the kind of clients they’d be pitching for, you weren’t talking McDonald’s.

But it was about much more than the good life. It was about stretching herself to the utmost, using her creativity and management skills at the highest level.

‘You’ve asked for a lot of money.’

‘You’d earn it back in a couple of years.’

‘I’d still have to find it.’

He sat back and looked at her levelly. ‘That can’t be impossible. It’s a good offer, Molly. I’ve been frank about the current contracts and the future prospects. You must have been keeping up with the industry; you know what’s possible.’

‘I’m not certain—’

Barnaby looked at her, one eyebrow raised. ‘You have doubts about your ability to do the job?’

‘No! Of course not. I’d relish the challenge.’

‘I can’t believe you’re seriously worried about raising the cash, but I understand you’ll need to talk it over with your lawyer.’

Molly winced.

‘OK, not Adam, but you must have a lawyer. I do need an answer, Molly. Let’s see – this is Monday. Shall we say Friday for a decision? You understand that if you turn this down I’ll need to get moving on Plan B pretty quickly.’

‘Give me till next Monday?’

It wasn’t just about playing down her interest now. She’d have to work out how to raise the cash, and there was only one way she could think of ...

Barnaby said coolly, ‘There’s a queue.’

‘I imagine there is. But I will need to talk to a few people first. That’s fair, isn’t it?’

One corner of Barnaby’s mouth lifted.

‘I promise you’ll have my answer a week today.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll keep my fingers crossed that it’s the right one.’

They parted amiably, Molly to catch her train, Barnaby to go to his deep feathery mattress in the luxurious surroundings of the Balmoral Hotel. It had been an interesting evening.

––––––––

C
aitlyn, laden with carrier bags, hobbled along Farm Lane wishing she were the kind of person who could nick a supermarket trolley without so much as a blush. But, leaving aside the certainty of being sacked, stealing anything was strictly against her principles.

The potatoes in one of the bags in her left hand weighed only fractionally less than the bottle of Coke in the heaviest bag in her right. The cucumber she’d thrown into the trolley (healthy, no calories, on offer) had nicked the polythene and was starting to slide out. Harris had demanded baked beans, Lewis had insisted on spaghetti hoops. Ailsa, on a health kick, wanted a melon. Thank heavens Isla May hadn’t made any demands and her mother was eating next to nothing.

When, fifty yards from number eleven, the end of the cucumber finally split the bag, everything spilled out – baked beans, spaghetti, melon and all. She came to an ungraceful halt.

‘Damn!’

Crotchety with tiredness, she lurched towards a tin that was rolling towards the gutter. If Kevin McQuade came past now, the shopping would be off the pavement and into the McQuade kitchen in a blink. She rammed the contents of the split bag into the surviving carriers and prayed she could make it along the road in one piece.

Lurching lopsidedly as she struggled to bear the weight of one bulging bag now with the potatoes, the melon
and
the bottle of Coke and holding it just off the ground in case it, too, decided to split, she rounded the last bend before her house. Someone was sweeping an electric trimmer across the hedge, left to right, right to left, sending leaves tumbling to the pavement in every direction. She arrived at the gate (or rather, the space where a gate had once swung), dropped the bags inside the wall with relief and studied the legs on the ladder above her.

‘Hello-o!’ she shouted towards the skies, trying to make her voice heard above the noise of the trimmer.

The face that looked down at her was an ocean of freckles, topped by hair the colour of a newly pulled carrot. Malcolm Milne. That ginger had made him a target for teasing all his life.

He turned off the trimmer.

‘Hi, Caitlyn.’

Malcolm, like Ricky McQuade, had been in her class at school, but where Ricky had been in the loud-mouthed gang of bullies who’d made the teachers’ lives hell and failed every exam, Malcolm had been one of the victims because – as well as the ginger mop – he’d worn his heart on the outside of his threadbare burgundy blazer.

Caitlyn learned when she was very young how to defend herself. You had to, when it was just you and your mum against the world. You had to, when your mum’s new partner turned out to be a spineless waste of space.

She’d never paid much attention to Malcolm Milne. Maybe she should have done more to protect him, but the first rule of school had been look out for yourself. 

She studied the muscular figure in the faded denims and heavy check shirt, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. My God, he’d changed! How had she not noticed? Malcolm Milne had been a scrawny little boy with sticky-out ears, but she saw now that his eyes were a deep sea green and were kind. He’d matured well – gardening obviously suited him.

‘Still working for Ibsen Brown?’

Ibsen Brown, a Summerfield local, had moved up a gear from being a jobbing gardener and, with the help of his new partner, Kate Courtenay, had set up a gardening business, Brown Earth. She’d heard it was doing well – there was no shortage of well-heeled folk in Hailesbank and the pretty conservation village of Forgie who were desperate for help in the gardens of their comfortable homes.

Malkie clambered down the ladder and dusted his hands together. ‘Aye. Ibsen’s got a new contract, as a matter of fact.’

‘Yeah?’

‘His dad’s retiring and he’s taking over his work. All the formal gardens at Fleming House. The grass too. It’s a big job.’

Caitlyn said, ‘That’s good news for Ibsen then.’

Malcolm smiled at her. She liked his smile. It was a little crooked because his teeth weren’t straight, but it went all the way up to his eyes. ‘Aye, it is. But I’m afraid it might make it harder for me to find time to cut your mum’s hedge. Ibsen’s putting me in charge up at Fleming House, you see.’

He looked so proud, and shy, and embarrassed, all at the same time, that Caitlyn leaned forward impulsively and kissed his cheek.

‘Malkie, that’s brilliant! He must think really highly of you.’

A wave of red infused Malkie’s throat and embarked on a voyage upwards.

‘Thanks.’ He gazed at her awkwardly, then turned back to the ladder. ‘Best get on.’

‘How’s Sassy?’

Malcolm had been going out with plump little Saskia Kelly, who worked down at the baker’s, for three years, ever since she’d had a pregnancy scare that turned out to be nothing.

‘Oh, you know.’ His grin was still there, but his eyes glazed over and he turned back to the hedge.

Caitlyn bent to gather up the tattered remnants of her shopping bags and finally made it to the front door as the whine of the hedge cutter started again. She had just located her key when the door was yanked open and Harris’s grinning face appeared.