‘So, what did you think?’ Bill asked once the last guest had left.
‘Good! I never knew there was so much to learn about herbs.’
Bill chuckled. ‘Tempted to grow some yourself?’
‘Well, I’ll do my best to recognise the few we’ve got in our garden at home,’ Luke said, and then flinched. Our garden. Only it wasn’t any more, was it? It was his garden. How suddenly such moments ambushed you. He wasn’t sure if Bill had caught the fleeting moment, but he laid his hand on Luke’s shoulder.
‘I’m glad you came. And I hope it goes well with Miss Kendrick.’
‘Thanks. Me too.’
They shook hands before Luke left Oyster Cottage for the short walk back through Lorford to the castle. The sky was an inky indigo now, studded with stars, and the uninterrupted view of it above the castle’s turrets was mesmeric. Luke took a moment to drink it all in and then he climbed the steps and rang the bell.
Orla had watched as Luke left the castle without her, a part of her crying out to go with him – that tiny part she’d tucked so deeply away from everybody because she was afraid, if she showed it, she would be hurt again. But it was there all the same; she’d just been so afraid to acknowledge it.
She felt terrible about having thrown him out and hoped she’d gone some way to regaining his trust. Then again, there was a part of her that was still upset at him having betrayed her trust. He’d been her guest for such a short space of time and was trying to implement major changes in her life. That, she believed, wasn’t fair. She’d let him into her home, but he had no right forcing such massive life changes upon her. He had no idea how she felt about being around people – any kind of people – let alone strangers. Well, perhaps he’d have a better understanding when she told him about what had happened to her.
But, as the clock slowly ticked around, Orla began to feel her courage slipping away from her. Was she really ready for this? She wasn’t at all sure. She’d never spoken about it to anyone other than her mother. Her friends and colleagues had only ever been informed; they’d never been contacted by Orla directly. She hadn’t been able to do it. She’d quietly withdrawn from her life, slipping deeper and deeper into herself.
Looking out of the window as the summer sky deepened from a pale turquoise to a deep indigo, she found her way towards a dark oak cabinet in the great hall, her hand hovering over the little latch that kept it closed. It had been closed for months now, but she needed to open it tonight. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the latch, opened the door and reached inside, her hand settling on the cool neck of a bottle of wine.
Just one glass, she promised herself. One glass to help ease her into things, to gently smooth the passage to her recent past. That would be all she’d need.
By the time she heard the bell ring at the front door, Orla was feeling softer, gentler. Luke seemed to notice straight away and watched her as they walked into the great hall together, One Ear between them.
‘Orla, have you been drinking?’
‘Just a couple of glasses of wine,’ she told him. At least, she thought it was two. But maybe it was three. Or four.
She noticed him clocking the wine bottle on the coffee table. Yes, Orla thought, it looked as if more than a couple of glasses had been drunk.
‘Can I get you a glass?’
‘Please.’ He watched as she poured him a glass and then she topped up her own. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Of course.’ She didn’t look up at him. She couldn’t bear to see those curious eyes gazing at her.
‘Because we don’t have to do this, you know.’
‘Yes, we do,’ she told him. ‘I feel I should. You’ve shared with me and now I should share with you, and . . . it’s time. I feel it’s time.’
She took a moment, aware that she was beginning to feel a little warm but, whether it was the wine or the knowledge of what she was about to reveal to Luke, she couldn’t be sure.
‘All right, then,’ Luke said.
Orla nodded. It was the strangest conviction, but she did – at last – feel ready to be rid of the burden of carrying this great hurt around.
They sat on the sofa together with One Ear lying down by his mistress’s feet as if in support of the decision she’d made, and they both sipped their wine. Orla had lit a small fire and the lamps she’d switched on did their best to banish the shadows and dark corners of the cavernous room. It was a cosy, intimate setting and it went a little way towards calming Orla as she began her story.
‘I was a photographer in London,’ she began quietly. ‘For quite a few years. I loved my job. I worked in a studio for a while, mostly photographing families or being hired for corporate events or portrait photography – that kind of thing. No two days were ever the same and I liked that. But then I was sent to a fashion shoot and my life changed for ever.’ Orla paused and Luke waited as she took another sip of her wine.
‘I’d never done a fashion shoot before. My partner usually covered them. It’s a different kind of atmosphere and it never really appealed to me, but my partner was ill so I stepped in. It was for some high-end magazine. Some of those silly clothes that nobody ever wears in real life. You know the sort – lots of net and trains and feathers and things.’ Orla shook her head as she remembered. ‘But I wasn’t there to judge. Anyway, there was this model. She was beautiful – the loveliest hair and eyes I’d ever seen – but she was a real diva and she was fighting with the director all the time. They just weren’t seeing eye to eye. I was doing my best to stay in the background and was counting down the minutes until I could leave. But I never got to leave, because the model did.’
‘But how did you shoot without the model?’
Orla gave a wry smile as she replayed what had happened in her mind. ‘Because I became the model.’
‘What?’
‘The director was frantic. He had to get the shoot finished and he was looking around the room for someone to step in and picked me. I really don’t know why. I’d never modelled in my life but, before I knew it, I was having my hair and make-up done and I was on set, only, this time, I was in front of the camera.’
Orla remembered the chaos of the day once again and how every fibre of her being had screamed against it, knowing that the role of model simply wasn’t her. But she hadn’t protested loudly enough, had she? If she had, her whole life would have been different.
‘But who took the photos?’ Luke asked.
‘The director did. He used to be a photographer and he knew how to handle a camera.’ Orla took a deep breath. ‘So, the photographs came out and the shoot was deemed a huge success by the magazine. I even got fan mail, can you believe it? The editor of the magazine was thrilled and asked for me again. Well, I said no, of course. I was a photographer, not a model. But they made me an offer. It was ridiculous really. More than I made in a year as a photographer. What could I say? I had bills to pay on an expensive London flat.’
‘So you said yes?’
She nodded. ‘Anyway, I got quite a bit of work after that and, one day, I found myself working with the model who I’d replaced that day. Her name was Kelli and she’d seen the photos and congratulated me, but I couldn’t help worrying that she might be mad at me for having got her job and all the subsequent jobs that came my way. But she was always polite to me and I didn’t worry about it because I had other things to worry about.’