Emily Read online

  ‘Who were you ringing?’ I asked.

  He looked at me for a minute as though I were a stranger. There was the same sinister stillness, the lurking danger that I’d been so aware of the first night I met him.

  ‘Who was it?’ I asked again.

  ‘Mind your own business,’ he snarled. ‘Just because I’ve married you, it doesn’t give you the right to question all my movements.’

  I felt as though he’d hit me. For a minute we stared at each other, bristling with hostility. Then he pulled himself together, apologized for jumping down my throat — and began to kiss me almost frenziedly.

  When I woke up, in the middle of the night, I found him standing by the window, smoking a cigarette. He had his back to me but there was something infinitely despairing about the hunched set of his shoulders.

  With a sick feeling of fear, I wondered why he had felt it necessary to ring up a woman on the first night of his honeymoon, and taunt her with the fact that he’d just got married.

  Marriage, as I discovered on my honeymoon, may be a bed of roses, but there are plenty of thorns lying around.

  Not that I found myself loving Rory any the less; rather the reverse, but he was not easy to live with. To begin with, I never knew what mood he was going to be in. There were the prolonged black glooms, followed by sudden firework bursts of affection, followed by an abstracted fit when he would sit for hours watching the sun on the plane trees outside our window. There were also the sudden, uncontrollable rages — in a smart French restaurant he had picked up a dish of potato purée, and hurled it at a passing fly!

  I also had to get used to everyone looking at Rory rather than at me; and that was another thing about marriage. I couldn’t spend hours tarting myself up to compete with all those svelte French women. If Rory suddenly decided he wanted to go out, it was straight out of bed, into the shower and ‘what the hell do you want to bother with make-up for?’

  I found being with him day in, day out, slightly claustrophobic. There wasn’t a moment to shave my armpits or touch up the roots of my hair. He did quite a lot of work. I was longing for him to sketch me, and kept sweeping my hair back for him to admire the beauty of my bone structure, but he was far more interested in drawing old men and women with wrinkled faces in cafés. The drawings were amazingly good.

  Chapter Four

  We were sitting in bed one afternoon after one of those heavy French lunches, when suddenly there was a pounding on the door.

  ‘Who the hell’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘A chambermaid gone berserk and unable to contain herself,’ said Rory, and shouted something very impolite in French.

  The pounding went on.

  ‘Perhaps it’s the flics,’ said Rory, getting out of bed and putting on his trousers. Through a haze of alcohol, I looked at his tousled black hair and broad brown shoulders.

  Swearing, he unlocked the door. A beautiful woman stood there.

  ‘Chérie,’ she cried ecstatically. ‘Bébé, I knew you were ’ere. The man on the desk was so discreet. He refuse to admit it.’ And flinging her arms round Rory’s neck, she kissed him on both cheeks.

  ‘I think you are ver’ unkind,’ she went on reproachfully in a strong French accent, ‘sloping off and getting married without a word to anyone. I mean, think of the wedding presents you missed.’

  Rory looked half exasperated, half amused.

  ‘I’m afraid this is my mother,’ he said.

  ‘Oh gosh,’ I squeaked. ‘How fright… I mean, how lovely. How do you do?’

  It was a fine way to meet one’s mother-in-law for the first time; sitting up in bed, wearing nothing but a crumpled sheet and a bright smile.

  ‘This is Emily,’ said Rory.

  Rory’s mother rushed across the room and hugged me.

  ‘But you are so pretty,’ she said. ‘This pleases me very much. I keep telling Rory to find a nice wife and settle down. I know you will make ’im ’appy, and he will start behaving beautifully.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I faltered.

  She was stunning looking — lush, opulent, exotic, with huge dark blue eyes, hair dyed the most terrific shade of strawberry blonde, the most marvellous legs and lots of jewellery. It was easy to see from where Rory got his traffic-stopping looks.

  One of her eyelids was made up with brilliant violet eyeshadow, the other smeared with emerald green.

  ‘I have just been to Dior for a fitting. I tried out their new make-up, it’s a very pretty shade of green, no?’

  ‘Where’s Buster?’ asked Rory.

  ‘Coming later,’ she said. ‘He’s having a drink with some friends.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ said Rory. ‘He couldn’t possibly have a friend.’

  Rory’s mother giggled. ‘Now, chérie, you must not be naughty. Buster is my second ’usband,’ she explained to me. ‘Rory’s father, Hector, was my first.

  ‘When I marry Buster, Rory say to me, “You’re getting better at choosing husbands, maman, but not much.”’

  Rory’s mother suddenly gave a shriek. ‘Ah! Mon Dieu, I remember the taxi is still waiting downstairs. We ’ave run out of money. We knew you would have some, Rory, you’re so rich now. Could you ring down and get the manager to pay the taxi?’

  Rory looked at her with intense irritation, then he laughed, picked up the telephone and gabbled away in French.

  ‘Ask ’im to send up some champagne,’ said Rory’s mother. ‘At least two bottles, I want to drink my new daughter-in-law’s health. You must call me Coco,’ she said.

  I caught Rory’s eye and tried not to giggle. Everything was getting out of hand.

  Later, when the champagne arrived, Rory said, ‘Why have you run out of money? Pa didn’t leave you badly off.’

  ‘Of course he didn’t, darling, it was just that we had to have central heating for the castle, or we’d have frozen to death.’

  ‘And a sauna bath, and a flagellation room?’ said Rory.

  ‘Of course, darling, Buster ’as been used to the best, and he’s been shooting four or five times a week and that all adds up. Everything’s in such a muddle, we can’t decide whether we want to spend the winter in Irasa.’ She turned to me. ‘I hope you’re going to like our island, chérie, those Highland winters can be very terrible, and it’s so boring seeing the same old people all the time, and all those sheep. That’s what Buster’s seeing his friend about.’

  ‘What?’ said Rory.

  ‘Buying this aeroplane. He thinks he can get it cheap. Then we can all escape to London, or Paris, or the Riviera when we feel like it.’

  Rory raised his eyes to heaven.

  ‘He does need it, darling,’ said Coco, almost pleadingly.

  ‘Who told you we were here?’

  ‘Marina did. She telephoned me in Cannes to tell me the news.’

  ‘The bitch,’ said Rory.

  ‘Who’s Marina?’ I asked.

  ‘Marina Maclean,’ said Coco. ‘At least, she was. Now she’s Marina Buchanan. She’s just married Hamish Buchanan, who’s very rich and more than twice her age. She lives on the island too. I saw her just before we left, Rory. She didn’t look very happy. Sort of feverish; she’s spending a fortune on clothes and jewellery.’

  ‘That’s what comes of trying to marry one’s grandfather,’ said Rory unemotionally.

  ‘Hamish looks terrible too,’ said Coco. ‘He’s suddenly gone all hip, growing his hair, not eating meat, and dancing in the modern way — trying to keep up with Marina, I suppose. He looks twenty years older. Oh well, it’s no use wasting sympathy on Marina. She’s made her bed.’

  ‘And now she’s about to lie in someone else’s,’ said Rory.

  ‘Oh, look, here comes Buster.’

  ‘I should like to get dressed,’ I said plaintively.

  ‘Oh, nobody dresses for Buster,’ said Rory.

  Buster Macpherson, when he arrived, turned out to be the kind of man my mother would have gone mad for. He had well-brushed blond hair and blue eyes
that let out a perpetual sparkle. He looked like the hero in a boy’s comic. He showed a lot of film-star teeth.

  He was absolutely not my type. He had none of Rory’s explosive feline grace, but he obviously exerted considerable fascination over Coco who, although she didn’t look a day over thirty-five, must have been nearing fifty, and a good ten years older than Buster.

  ‘Congratulations, you chaps,’ said Buster. He peered through the gloom at me under my sheet.

  ‘May I kiss the bride?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Rory. ‘You’d better watch Buster, he’s going through the change of life.’

  Buster shot him an unfriendly look, helped himself to a large glass of champagne and sat down.

  ‘Ah, honeymoons, honeymoons,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘Did you buy that aeroplane?’ asked Rory.

  ‘I think so,’ said Buster.

  Coco gave a crow of delight.

  ‘Where are you going to land it?’ asked Rory. ‘In the High Street?’

  ‘No,’ said Coco. ‘We’ve got a little runway on the island now. I knew I had something to tell you, darling, Finn Maclean is back.’

  Rory’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘The hell he is. What’s he poking his nose into now?’

  ‘He’s thrown up his smart Harley Street practice and come back to Irasa as Medical Officer overseeing all the islands,’ said Buster. ‘He’s persuaded the Scottish Medical Board to build him a cottage hospital in the old church hall and buy him an aeroplane so he can hop from island to island.’

  ‘Our own flying doctor,’ said Rory. ‘Why the hell has he come back?’

  ‘I think he wanted to get out of London,’ said Buster. ‘His marriage broke up.’

  ‘Not surprised,’ said Rory. ‘No woman in her right senses could stand him.’

  ‘Finn Maclean is Marina’s elder brother,’ Coco explained to me. ‘Rory and he don’t get on, you understand. He never got on with Rory’s father either — he kept complaining about the poorness of the tenants.’

  ‘He’s an arrogant sod,’ said Rory. ‘You won’t like him.’

  ‘I rather like him,’ mused Coco. ‘He does not have the bedroom manner, but he is all man.’

  Life on Irasa, I decided, certainly wasn’t going to be dull. The unpredictable Marina running rings round her ancient husband; Rory feuding with Finn Maclean, who was ‘all man’; plus Buster and Coco, a knockabout comedy act in themselves.

  ‘This is a nice hotel,’ said Coco meditatively, trying on some of my scent. ‘Can you get Buster and me a room here, Rory?’

  ‘No I can’t,’ said Rory. ‘I happen to be on my honeymoon, and I’d like to get on with it without your assistance.’

  Chapter Five

  After a fortnight, Rory started getting restless and decided to return to England. We stopped in London and booked in at the Ritz. I must say I did enjoy being rich — it was such bliss not having to look at the prices on the menu.

  We were in the middle of dinner, I lingering over a crêpe suzette because it was so delicious and Rory halfway through his second bottle of wine, gazing moodily out at Green Park, where the yellow leaves whirled and eddied away from the wet black branches of the plane trees.

  Suddenly he summoned a waiter:

  ‘I want my bill,’ he said, adding to me, ‘finish up that revolting pudding, we’re going home tonight.’

  ‘But we’re booked in here,’ I protested.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. If we hurry, we can catch the sleeper.’

  ‘But it’s Friday night,’ I said, ‘we’ll never get a bed.’

  ‘Want to bet?’ said Rory.

  We tore across London in a taxi, fortunately the streets were deserted, and reached Euston station just five minutes before the train was due to pull out.

  ‘You’ll never get on,’ said the man at the booking office, ‘it’s fully booked.’

  ‘What did I tell you,’ I grumbled. ‘We’ll have to sleep in a cattle truck.’

  ‘Stop whining,’ said Rory. His eyes roved round the station. Suddenly they lit on one of those motorized trolleys that carry parcels round stations and are always running one over on the platform. It was coming towards us. Stepping forward, Rory flagged it down.

  The driver was so surprised he screeched to a halt and watched in amazement as Rory piled our suitcases on.

  ‘What the bleeding hell do you think you’re doing, mate?’ he said.

  ‘Drive us up Platform 5 to the first-class sleeper for Glasgow,’ said Rory.

  ‘You want me to do what?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Go on,’ said Rory icily, ‘we’ll miss the train if you don’t hurry.’

  He climbed on and pulled me up beside him.

  ‘We can’t,’ I whispered in horror, ‘we’ll get arrested.’

  ‘Shut up,’ snarled Rory. ‘Go on,’ he added to the driver, ‘we haven’t got all bloody day.’

  There was something about Rory’s manner, a combination of arrogance and an expectation that everyone was going to do exactly what he wanted, that made it almost impossible to oppose him. Grumbling that he’d get the sack for this, the driver set off.

  ‘Can’t you go any faster?’ asked Rory coldly.

  The driver eyed the fiver in Rory’s hand.

  ‘You won’t get a penny of this,’ said Rory, ‘unless we catch that train.’

  We gathered speed and amazingly stormed through the barrier unopposed and up the platform. Train doors were being slammed as we reached the sleeper.

  ‘Put the luggage on the train,’ said Rory to the driver, and strolled over to the attendant who was giving his lists a last-minute check.

  I edged away, terrified there was going to be a scene.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re booked solid, sir,’ I heard the attendant say.

  ‘Didn’t the Ritz ring through?’ said Rory, his voice taking on that carrying, bitchy, upper-class ring.

  ‘Afraid not, sir,’ said the attendant.

  ‘Bloody disgrace. Can’t rely on anyone these days. Expect your side slipped up, one of your staff must have forgotten to pass on the message.’

  The attendant quailed before Rory’s steely gaze. He took off his peak cap and scratched his head.

  ‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’ said Rory. ‘I’m on my way back from my honeymoon, my wife is quite exhausted. We booked a sleeper and now you’re trying to tell me you’ve given it away.’

  As the attendant looked in my direction, I edged further away, trying to merge into a slot machine.

  ‘I really don’t know what to say, sir.’

  ‘If you value your job,’ said Rory, ‘you’d better do something about it.’

  Two minutes later an enraged middle-aged couple in pyjamas were being shunted into a carriage down the train.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry, sir,’ the attendant was saying.

  ‘You might have thanked him,’ I said, sitting down on the bed, and admiring the splendour of our first-class compartment.

  ‘One doesn’t thank peasants,’ said Rory, pulling off his tie.

  Chapter Six

  We drove towards the ferry which was to carry us to Irasa. I glanced at Rory hunched over the wheel, demons at his back, the beautiful face sullen with bad temper. His black mood had been coming on for several hours now.

  At last we reached the ferry. Under a grey and black sky a mountainous sea came hurtling towards us, thundering, moaning and screaming, and dirty with flying foam.

  ‘Hello, Mr Balniel,’ said the man on the gate. ‘I wish you’d brought some better weather. It’s been raining six weeks in Irasa, even the seagulls are wearing sou’westers.’

  On the boat the sky darkened noticeably, the temperature dropped and the gulls were blown sideways like pieces of rag in the wind.

  I’m not sure Scotland’s quite me, I later thought disloyally, as we bumped along one-track roads with occasional glimpses of sulky-looking sea.

  On our left a huge forbi
dding castle lowered out of the mist.

  ‘Nice little weekend cottage,’ I said.

  ‘That’s where Buster and Coco live,’ said Rory. ‘This is us.’

  I suppose it had once been a rather large lodge to the castle — a grey stone two-storey house, hung with creeper, surrounded by a wild, forsaken garden.

  I started to quote Swinburne, but Rory shot me such a look.

  I shut up.

  I decided not to make any flash remarks, either, about being carried over the threshold. Rory was extraordinarily tense, as though he was expecting something horrible.

  He certainly got it. I’ve never seen such shambles inside a house; broken bottles, knocked-down lamps and tables, glasses strewn all over the floor, dust everywhere, thick cobwebs. The bedrooms looked as though someone had used them as ashtrays, the fridge like a primeval forest, and someone had written ‘Goodbye forever’ in lipstick on the mirror.

  The house consisted of a huge studio, a drawing-room almost entirely lined with books, two bedrooms upstairs, a kitchen and a bathroom; all were in absolute chaos.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Rory. ‘I left a message with my mother to get someone to clean the place up.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said faintly, ‘it’ll only take a few hundred years to put to rights.’

  ‘I’m not having you whisking around like Snow White,’ snapped Rory. ‘We’ll sleep at the castle tonight. I’ll get someone to come in tomorrow.’

  I looked out of the bedroom window. The view was sensational. The house grew out of a two hundred and fifty foot cliff which dropped straight down to the sea.

  ‘I hope we don’t fall out too often,’ I joked weakly, then I saw a cellophane packet of flowers on the bed. ‘Oh look,’ I said, ‘someone remembered us.’ Then I shivered with horror as I realized it was a funeral wreath of lilies. Inside the envelope, on a black-edged card, was written ‘Welcome home, darlings’. ‘How beastly,’ I said in a trembling voice. ‘Who could have done that?’

  Rory picked up the card. ‘Some joker who’s got it in for me.’