Emily Page 4

  ‘But that’s horrible.’

  ‘And quite unimportant,’ he said, tearing up the card. He opened the window and threw the wreath out, so it spun round and round and crashed on the rocks below.

  Startled I looked into his face, which glowed suddenly with some malice I couldn’t place.

  ‘Come here,’ he said softly.

  He pulled me against him, pushing my head down on his shoulder, one hand tracing my arm, the other moving over my body. Then he smiled and closed his long fingers round my wrist where the pulse pounded.

  ‘Poor little baby,’ he whispered. He could always do this to me. ‘Let’s go next door,’ and he pulled me into the dusty spare room with the huge window on to the road and began to kiss me.

  ‘Shouldn’t we draw the curtains?’ I muttered. ‘They can see us from the road.’

  ‘So what?’ he murmured.

  Suddenly I heard a scrunch of wheels on the road outside. Swinging round I saw a blue Porsche flash by. In the driving seat was a red-headed girl who gazed in at us, a mixture of despair and hatred in her huge, haunted eyes.

  I enjoyed staying at the castle, living in baronial comfort, and making the acquaintance of Rory’s black labrador Walter Scott, who had been living with Buster’s gamekeeper while he had been away. He was a charming dog, sleek, amiable, incurably greedy and not as well trained as Rory would have liked.

  After a few days we went back to live in Rory’s house (very pretty it looked, after it had been cleaned up) and began marriage proper.

  I didn’t find it easy. I was determined to be one of those wonderful little homemakers putting feminine touches everywhere but, as Rory remarked, the only feminine touches I added were dripping pants and stockings, and mascara on his towel.

  I tried to cook, too. I once cooked moussaka, and we didn’t eat until one o’clock in the morning. But Rory, who was used to Coco’s French expertise, was not impressed.

  I also took hours over the washing. There weren’t any launderettes in Irasa, and then it lay around for days in pillowcases waiting to be ironed; and Rory never seemed to have clean underpants when he needed them.

  After a couple of weeks he said, quite gently, ‘With all the cobwebs, we seem to have formed a spider sanctuary here. You’re obviously not into housework, so I’ve hired a char, four days a week, and she can iron my shirts too.’

  I felt humiliated but enormously relieved.

  The char, Mrs Mackie, turned out to be a mixed blessing. She was wonderful at cleaning, but a terrible gossip, and obviously irritated Rory out of his mind. As soon as she arrived he used to disappear into the mountains to paint, and she and I sat round drinking cider and talking.

  ‘I’ve got a wicked bad leg,’ she said one morning. ‘I shall have to go and see Dr Maclean.’

  ‘Finn Maclean?’ I said.

  She nodded.

  ‘What’s his sister Marina like?’

  ‘She’s no right in the head, although I shouldn’t say it. The old Macleans never had any money. Dr Maclean, her father, was a gud doctor, but he dinna know about saving. Marina married this old man for his riches, and it’s dancing him into his grave she is. Perhaps now young Dr Maclean’s come back he’ll keep her in order.’

  ‘Why’s he come back when he was doing so well in London?’

  She shrugged. ‘Irasa has an enchantment. They all come back in the end.’

  Chapter Seven

  Irasa — Island of the Blessed, or of the Cursed. I could understand why none of them could escape its spell, and why only here could Rory find the real inspiration for his painting.

  The countryside took your breath away; it was as though the autumn was pulling out all the stops before succumbing to the harshness of the Highland winter. Bracken singed the entire hillsides the colour of a red setter, the turning horse chestnuts blazed yellow, the acacias pale acid green.

  With Rory painting all day, Walter Scott and I had plenty of time to wander about and explore. The island was fringed with wooded points like a starfish. Out of the ten or so big houses, on one point lived Rory and me, on another Buster and Coco, on another Finn Maclean and on yet another Marina and Hamish. The islanders’ white cottages were dotted between.

  One afternoon in late October, I walked down to Penlorren, the island’s tiny capital.

  Penlorren was a strange sleepy little town, exquisitely pretty, like a northern St Tropez. Wooded hills ringed the bay, but the main street was an arc of coloured houses, dark green, pink, white and duck-egg blue. In the boats the fishermen were sorting their slippery silver catch into boxes.

  As I walked about I was aware of being watched. Suddenly I looked round and there was the blue Porsche parked by the side of the road: the same red-headed girl was watching me with great undefended eyes. I smiled at her, but she started up the car and stormed down the main street, scattering villagers.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked a nearby fisherman, and somehow knew he was going to answer, ‘Marina Maclean.’

  I’d forgotten to get any potatoes and I went back to the main store. Three old biddies were having a yap, they didn’t hear me come in.

  ‘Did you see Rory Balniel’s wee bride?’ said one.

  ‘Pur lassie, so bonny,’ said the second. ‘She might as well have married the divil.’

  ‘There’ll be trouble ahead,’ said the third. ‘Now young Dr Maclean’s back again.’

  Then they suddenly saw me, coughed, and started taking a great deal of interest in a sack of turnips.

  Chapter Eight

  The feeling of unease I’d had since the first night of my honeymoon grew stronger. Another fortnight passed. I had to stop fooling myself that our marriage was going well.

  I was so besotted with Rory I wanted to touch him all the time; not just bed touching, but holding hands and lying tucked into his back at night like two spoons in a silver box. But Rory seemed to have no desire to come near me, except when he made love to me, which was getting less and less often.

  I tried to kid myself he was worrying about work. I knew about geniuses, secretive, more temperamental, of finer grain than ordinary mortals, and more easily upset. I tried to talk to him about painting, but he said I didn’t understand what he was doing and, anyway, talking about it ruined it.

  I was in the kitchen one morning. I had learned to be quiet when work was going badly, the clatter of a pan could drive him mad. He wandered in yawning, rubbing a hand through his hair, looking so handsome with his sleepy, sulky face, I felt my stomach tighten.

  ‘Do you want some coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Feeling more like a normal wife, I went into the kitchen, started percolating coffee, and sighed inwardly for the days when Nina and I had lived on Nescafé. I thought of the beautiful, haunted girl in the blue Porsche.

  ‘I keep seeing Marina Buchanan,’ I said.

  Rory looked at me. ‘So?’

  ‘Not to speak to,’ I stammered. ‘She’s terribly beautiful. Shall we ask them to dinner?’

  ‘I’m sure they’d enjoy your cooking.’

  I bit my lip. I didn’t want a row.

  ‘I’m sorry about my cooking. I am trying.’

  ‘Sure you are, extremely trying.’

  ‘Rory, please, what’s the matter? What have I done? You haven’t laid a finger on me for at least four days.’

  ‘You can count up to five? That is encouraging,’ said Rory acidly.

  ‘Most newly weds are at it all the time,’ I said.

  ‘We might be, if you were less unimaginative in bed. I’m surprised all your exes didn’t expect something a bit more exciting.’

  I jumped back as though he’d hit me. Sometimes there was a destructive force about Rory.

  ‘God, you bastard,’ I whispered. ‘If you were a bit more encouraging, I might be less unimaginative. And if I’m no good in bed, why the hell didn’t you say so in the beginning?’

  ‘I was probably too drunk to notice,’ he said.

&nb
sp; ‘I hate you!’ I screamed.

  I stormed out of the room, rushed upstairs and threw myself on the bed, bursting into tears. Five minutes later I heard a door slam and his car driving off down the road.

  I cried for hours. ‘He’s only doing it to hurt me,’ I kept saying, trying to reassure myself. I got up, washed my face and wondered what to do next.

  I thumbed through a magazine. You could have pulled corks with the models’ hair. I liked music but you couldn’t listen to records all day. I supposed I could put on a deeply felt hat and go for a walk.

  I sat up, dismayed: I realized I was bored. No-one was more aware than I that boredom was a mark of inadequacy. People with inner resources didn’t get bored. No; as Rory had discovered, I’d got hidden shallows. I went to the fridge and ate half a tin of potato salad.

  There was a knock on the door. Delighted, I leapt to my feet and rushed to open it. There stood Marina Buchanan, quivering with nerves as if even now she might turn and run. She was lovely, if haunted, in a red coat and long black boots, her shining Titian hair blowing in the wind like a shampoo commercial. Her mouth was large and drooping, her face deathly pale, and there were huge blue shadows underneath her extraordinary eyes. I understood everything my mother had told me about Garbo. I wished I hadn’t eaten that potato salad.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Marina Buchanan.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘I’m Emily Balniel.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘Coco sent me a postcard suggesting we should get together.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely,’ I said. ‘Come in and have some coffee or something.’

  ‘How nice it looks,’ she said, gazing in admiration at the drawing-room.

  ‘Let’s have a drink, not coffee,’ I said. ‘I know one shouldn’t at this hour of the morning, but it’s such a celebration having someone to talk to.’

  We had the most tremendous gossip. She didn’t seem haunted any more, just slightly malicious and very funny. She adored Coco, she said, but couldn’t stand Buster. She wasn’t very complimentary about her husband either.

  ‘He’s terrific between the balance sheets, so it means I can have everything I want, but I’m getting a bit fed up playing Tinker, Tailor with the caviar…’

  I giggled.

  ‘Where’s Rory?’ she said.

  ‘Out painting.’

  She looked at me closely. ‘You look tired. Has Rory been giving you a hard time?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Don’t get sore, I’m not being critical, just realistic. Rory’s divine-looking, he exudes sex-appeal the way other men breathe out carbon dioxide, and he’s got terrific qualities.’ She paused as if trying to think what they were. ‘But he can be difficult. Where other people make scenes, Rory makes three-act plays. When he’s upset he takes it out on other people, he always has. My brother, Finn, is difficult, but in a more predictable way, and he’s not spoilt like Rory, or bitchy either. Rory’s always trying to send Finn up, but it doesn’t work because Finn couldn’t care less. And although Rory’s always had everything, somehow Finn makes him feel inadequate. They hate each other’s guts, you know,’ she added in satisfaction. ‘There’s bound to be fireworks — the island isn’t big enough for both of them.’

  She got up and wandered round the room. I looked at that wild, unstable loveliness, and wondered what had possessed her to marry an old man when she could have had anyone.

  ‘Why don’t you both come to dinner on Thursday?’ I said.

  ‘That’d be lovely, but you’d better ask Rory first.’

  At that moment Rory walked in.

  ‘Hello, Rory,’ she said softly, and then when he didn’t answer immediately, she went rattling on.

  ‘It would be nice if you could learn to say hello sometimes, Rory. With six months’ practice you might even learn to say, “It’s a lovely day”.’

  I steeled myself, wondering what sort of mood he was in now, but he turned round, then came over and kissed me on the mouth, quite hard.

  ‘Hello, baby, have you missed me?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said, snuggling against him, feeling weak with relief.

  Then he looked across at Marina, and ice crept into his voice. ‘Hello, Mrs Buchanan, how’s marriage? Still making Hamish while the sun shines?’

  I giggled. ‘We’ve been having a lovely gossip. I’ve asked Marina and Hamish to dinner here on Thursday.’

  Chapter Nine

  I was determined the dinner party would be a success. For the next three days I cooked, polished and panicked, determined Rory should be proud of me. On the afternoon of the day they were coming, I was well ahead; the house gleamed like a telly ad., all the food was done. The only thing we needed was lots of flowers. There were none in the garden, but I’d noticed some gorgeous roses in a garden down the road. I set off, still in my nightie — flimsy and black. I’d been so busy I hadn’t even bothered to get dressed.

  It was a warm day for the time of year, the wet grass felt delicious beneath my bare feet. I ran past ancient fruit trees and overgrown shrubberies, and started to pick great armfuls of roses.

  I was just bending over, tearing off one huge red rose with my teeth, when I heard a furious voice behind me.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  I jumped out of my skin and spun round, aghast, the rose in my teeth like Carmen. A man towered over me. He must have been in his early thirties, he had dark red hair curling over his collar, a battered, freckled, high-complexioned face, a square jaw, a broken nose, and angry hazel eyes. His face was seamed with tiredness, his mouth set in an ugly line — but it was still a powerful, compelling, unforgettable face.

  ‘Don’t you realize this is private property?’

  Then I twigged. This must be Finn Maclean. I stared at him, fascinated. It was not often one came face to face with a legend.

  ‘Didn’t you know you were trespassing?’

  ‘Yes, I did. I’m terribly sorry, but no-one’s ever picked any flowers here before. It seems such a waste to leave them. I didn’t know you’d turn up.’

  ‘Evidently,’ he said, taking in my extreme state of undress. ‘Who are you, anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘Emily,’ I muttered. ‘Emily Balniel.’

  For a second there was a flicker of emotion other than anger in his face. Was it pity or contempt?

  ‘I’d have thought Rory was rich enough to afford his own roses. I suppose you’ve picked up all his habits of doing and taking exactly what you like?’

  ‘No, I haven’t, and you can keep your rotten roses,’ I said, and threw the whole lot at his feet.

  Chapter Ten

  Although I was seething with rage, I didn’t mention the incident to Rory when I got back; he was in too bad a temper. I started tidying the drawing-room.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t hum nervously when you do things,’ he said. ‘Stop fiddling with those leaves, too, they look awful enough as it is.’

  ‘You only notice them because Marina’s coming.’

  I went into the kitchen and slammed the door. First Finn, now Rory. I thought I was going to cry, but it would only make my eyes red, so I took a large swig of cooking wine instead. Then I suddenly realized I hadn’t put out any napkins, and had to rush upstairs, pull them out of the laundry basket and iron them on the carpet.

  Maddeningly, Marina and Hamish arrived twenty minutes early, so I had no time to tart myself up. I wondered if Marina did it deliberately. She looked staggering in a slinky, backless blue dress which matched her eyes. But even I was unprepared for Hamish. He must have been close on sixty, with nudging eyes, an avid grin and yellow teeth. But he’d got himself up like an out-of-date raver: thinning grey locks clustering over his forehead and down his back, sideboards laddering his wrinkled cheeks, a white chamois leather smock, lots of beads and jeans several sizes too small for him. He looked like an awful old goat. Rory, who looked devastating in a grey satin shirt, couldn’t stop laughing.

>   ‘Marina, darling, what have you done to him?’ he said in an undertone. ‘He looks like an octogenarian ton-up boy.’

  ‘I’ve made an old man very hippy,’ said Marina, and giggled.

  ‘Don’t you like his smock? A touch of white is so flattering close to the face when you reach a certain age.’

  They were convulsed with mirth. I think I would have been shocked by their malice if Hamish hadn’t been so awful, lecherous and pleased with himself.

  We all drank a great deal before dinner.

  ‘I’m thinking of growing a beard,’ Hamish said.

  ‘I don’t like beards on boys or girls,’ said Marina.

  ‘Are you still taking singing lessons?’ Rory asked Marina.

  ‘I drive over to Edinburgh once a fortnight. It’s a long way, but worth it. I usually stay the night. It gives Hamish a break.’

  ‘To get up to mischief,’ said Hamish, giving me a wink that nearly dislocated his eyelid.

  No one really noticed the dinner, not even when one of my false eyelashes fell in the soup. Marina ate nothing; Hamish was obviously frightened his trousers were going to split. Rory never ate much, anyway. I cleared the plates and served each course; I might have been a waitress. Walter Scott was having a field day finishing up in the kitchen.

  There were strange undercurrents. I felt as though I was watching a suspense story on television where I’d missed the beginning and couldn’t quite work out what was going on. Hamish rubbed his skinny leg against mine. Any moment he’d get a fork stuck into it.

  After dinner Marina turned on the gramophone. She and Hamish danced. Hamish looked absurd, flailing about like a scarecrow in a gale. Marina moved like a maenad, her red hair flying, her face transformed by the soft light.

  Rory sat watching her, his face expressionless. He had been drinking heavily all evening.

  Finally she flopped down beside him on the sofa.

  ‘Did you ever finish that water-colour of the harbour?’