I open my mouth to protest—to remind him how he’d looked at me when I’d gripped his arm outside of the hotel in London, or maybe to say how he’d managed to resist me, not to tell me any of this, standing in that cold lane, him in his tuxedo and me in my white-frilled apron—but I don’t get the chance as he sweeps my feet from under me.
“You see, Holland, your difference has been beautiful to me all along.”
41
Holly
“I spy with my little eye, something beginning with quwa.”
“You mean q,” Hugh replies with the kind of superiority only an older sibling possesses.
“No, I don’t,” Archie protests. “I’m allowed to spell it frenetically, aren’t I, Mummy? I’m only six, remember.”
“It’s phonetically,” Isla corrects patiently, glancing at her progeny through the rear-view mirror. “And, yes, I think an allowance might be made for Archie’s age, Hugh.”
“Are you sure I can’t have my iPad back?” he complains.
“The thing has been glued to your hand almost the entire way. Just play with your brother for a little while.”
“Fine,” he grates out, muttering, “Quality time,” aggressively.
“That’s the spirit,” his mother replies, not sounding too impressed at his sass.
“No, that’s my guess.” He huffs out a hard breath. “Oh, never mind.”
“The joys of travelling with children.” Isla glances at me briefly as the car slows at a crossroads, and she flicks on the turning signal. “It could be worse. You could be stuck in the car with Griffin. I’ve heard he has a liking for classic rock.”
There was no way I was travelling to the Duffys’ residence for this birthday party with Griffin. Apart from not being in the mood to deal with him, I wasn’t about to give him the opportunity to get all handsy. It’s not like there’s been much need to keep up the charade, but it hasn’t stopped him from making those overtures. Or uttering more innuendo than The Great British Bake Off. I can’t believe I’d been persuaded to come at all, but I guess Isla is right. It would be a shame to miss out on whatever opportunities might come up.
Besides, I wasn’t about to stay behind and mope around the castle by myself. Especially when there’s every chance Alexander might be there. I can look without touching, I tell myself.
“Griffin and classic rock,” I repeat. “You’re sure he’s not more of a K-Pop kind of guy?” Isla’s chuckle is short-lived as I ask, “What kind of music does your brother like?”
Urgh!
“Sandy?” I choose not to examine the ripple of delight in her expression. “He has quite eclectic tastes. You might find him listening to The Beatles or Simple Minds. The Strokes.”
“Sometimes, he listens to boring classical music,” Hugh complains. “All pianos and sadness.”
“I caught him listening to The Cardigans last week.” She pulls a distasteful expression as she turns the steering wheel to the right. “Lovefool, of all things. I suppose love does make fools of us all,” she adds in a tone I’m probably not meant to hear.
“I like it when he plays the song about the crying clown.”
“I don’t think I know that one, sweetie.” Isla glances conspiratorially my way, and like a well-played guitar, Archie launches into a tuneless rendition of “The Tears of a Clown”.
Who knew? Layers. The man has hidden layers. And I am hiding my amusement with a slow shake of my head.
“He can dance too,” she says.
“Yeah?” Of course he can dance. Alexander Dalforth has all the moves.
“I mean, he can waltz, obviously.” Yeah, obviously. “We were forced to learn,” she adds quickly by way of explanation. “But in general, he can dance. He’s an excellent salsa partner, so I’m told.”
I don’t want to know exactly who told her and make a vague noise in answer.
It sounds like he’s been holding out on me. And how did we get from the topic of my fake boyfriend’s taste in music to that of the man I’m supposed to be weaning myself from?
Oh. I remember.
Me.
I blow out a long, trembling breath. Anticipation, I think. The big Hollywood birthday party. People. Happiness. Humbug. But it all pales in comparison to how I feel about seeing Alexander again.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m just tired.” I shoot her a reassuring smile. “I stayed up late last night to call my sister.” And only got to speak to my nephew.
“Is everything well?”
“Yeah, fine.” Apart from the thing he said about her arguing with some man. No, he said “the same man”. An Australian man. Which led me to think about her first year in college when she’d call home. There was a time she positively gushed about an Australian guy she had classes with. But then she came home for good, and he was never spoken of again.
A coincidence? I think not.
The boys return to their game of eye spy as Isla turns up the radio a touch before her attention turns to the long stretch of road ahead. The radio DJ drones on about something I have no interest in as I fix my eyes to the side window, watching as fields of sheep morph into heather-covered hills, tall thistles beginning to line both sides of the road. It’s been a strange few days, and I feel out of sorts. Emotional, I suppose, which I’ve been putting down to my time in Scotland coming to an end.
Yep, that’s what it is.
Nothing to do with . . . anything else.
As the familiar introduction to one of my nana’s favourite songs spills from the Range Rover’s fancy speaker system, I huff out an unhappy-sounding laugh.
Thanks, Nana. Just what I needed. I send my ironic thanks heavenward as the plucking strings section comes to an end and the late great Buddy Holly begins to croon about perfect weather and raining hearts.
My nana always did have a caustic sense of humour. And to say she swore like a sailor was an understatement. It was more like a naval fleet.
Okay, so it’s been raining in my heart since the day it last rained on my head. With my sad-looking ponytail and my knees stained green and, as it turned out, more blades of grass stuck to my ass than my wet feet, Alexander told me he sees me in a way I’ve never been able to see myself. He saw through my bravado and pretence and told me he likes me anyway.
It’s such a stupid cliché—but clichés are a thing for a reason—because it’s been raining in my heart since then. Raining in my heart and, in my private moments, raining from my eyes, the deluge of tears pouring down my cheeks.
No one has ever said such beautiful things to me, but maybe that’s not why I’m crying because he didn’t stop there.
“As Chrissy likes to say, what’s coming for you won’t pass you by,” Alexander had said as the rain hammered on the roof of the folly, cascading over the edges onto the grass below. He went on to say that what is meant to be will always be, regardless of what anyone wishes for. Fate, he was talking about. He said there was no avoiding the inevitable but that it can’t be forced either. He said he feared that’s what he’s been doing.