“Apologised to him for what?” I ask warily.
“I had to tell him I couldn’t put you in a room together.” She adds a tinkling laugh and an inconsequential wave of her hand. “But the rooms were allotted last week in this grand housekeeping plan and obviously made up accordingly.”
“Oh, well. What can I say?” Except I’m glad. And I might kill him.
“From your expression, it looks like you’ll have quite a bit to say about it. At least, when you see the man himself.”
“I think I might find one or two words for him.” Rude ones.
At the door, Ivy directs us to follow a pair of guys in khakis and polo shirts to our rooms as she turns to greet more arriving guests. Isla and the boys are in the suite a couple of doors down from mine, though as the boys are quick to point out, they’ll actually be sleeping in Alistair’s playroom tonight in tepee-style tents.
“A quick refresh and I’ll take them to find the nanny,” Isla says.
“Do you want me to do it?”
She waves the offer away. “No, that’s fine. They’re about to explode with excitement, so I should probably do it soon.” She turns in the direction of her room, where the boys are almost hopping with anticipation at the already open door.
“Hurry up, Mummy,” Archie complains.
“Oh, Isla?” She half turns as I call out to her. “I forgot to say thank you for the dress. It really is beautiful.” Too beautiful for a loaner, that’s for sure. “I’ll have it dry cleaned during the week and—”
“I’m sorry, Holly, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“There was a garment bag left on my bed yesterday. I thought—we spoke about it, didn’t we?”
“I got the impression it was all taken care of,” she says, taking two steps closer. “And now I feel awful because I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“My bad,” I reply. “Sorry. Don’t worry about it.”
“Perhaps Griffin . . .”
“Yeah, that must be it.” And now I feel uncomfortable. Griffin bought me a dress?
I guess that’s a conversation we need to have.
Dress = good deed ≠ sex
Maybe that’s why he thought to wrangle a room together. Kudos to Ivy for seeing that scenario for what it is. Namely bullshizzle.
If Vogue is a style bible, then my room is one of its verses. It’s beautiful. I mean, my room in Kilblair is beautiful, but in an old money, well-worn but built to last forever and filled with family heirlooms kind of way. This room could be straight from the interiors page of Vogue—the Parisienne version. Original plaster panelled walls painted a shade of white I imagine would be called wheaten or something just as artistic sounding. The queen bed looks French, the linens pinstriped in more shades of white with accents of Toile du Jouy in a bright raspberry colour dotted around the place. Cushions, a fabric modesty screen, and in the dainty Louis style sofa and single chair.
I unpack my case and unzip the garment bag, hanging up a dress that seems far too sophisticated for Griffin to have chosen. It doesn’t flash a lot of flesh to begin with.
Maybe he got a little help from a female perspective when he went shopping for this.
Midnight blue, high-necked, and long-sleeved, this exquisite piece of tailoring is deeply cuffed at the wrists and waist and falls in a soft ruffle to mid thigh. At least, from the front. From the back it drapes dramatically from the shoulders in a waterfall effect, forming a billowing, ruffled train that stops at my heels. My four-inch gold heels.
The dress is a showstopper. A thing of beauty. And something I would’ve never dared try on myself. Partly because of the label. Valentino.
That’s why I’d thought it was Isla’s. The label. And the fact that the cut of it would lend itself to both our body types. Except maybe the length, which is why I’d sought to add heels. Anyway, I’ve died and gone to designer heaven and in truth, finding this beauty on my bed is one of the main reasons I got in the car at all.
What girl doesn’t love to get gussied up like she’s going to a ball?
Once my domestic tasks are taken care of, I decide to have a wander around the castle. Let’s see if I can find out how the other (Hollywood) half live.
While Claish might be nowhere near the size of Kilbair, it’s still the kind of building I wish I’d brought a bag of crackers to so I could at least leave a trail back to my room. Hallway after hallway, door after door, but as I reach the first floor, I notice many people moving around confidently, so at least I can ask for directions if I get lost. Milling around, toing and froing, fetching and carrying, at second glance. So I decide to head on out to the gardens.
I lift my hand to shield my eyes as I step out onto a terrace furnished with teak Lutyens benches and tables shaded by huge parasols. A pair of weather-worn stone lions guard the steps down to a carpet-like lawn where a giant chessboard, complete with child-sized chess pieces, stands.
It looks more like the set of a period drama than the home of one of Hollywood’s big hitters, which I think is infinitely better.
“Oh, hi!” I offer as I notice the elderly woman sitting in a wheelchair in the shade of the castle’s walls. Delicate framed and silver-haired, she wears a pair of eggshell blue slacks and a matching knitted twin set. On her thin wrist is a tiny gold watch and at her neck a double string of pearls. The only incongruity in her whole outfit is her sunglasses. Large red frames with gold studs, the designer logo emblazoned on their thick arms. Balenciaga.
“I wish it was,” she replies, her voice papery.
“I’m sorry?”
“Hi,” she repeats, as though I’d misheard. And I had not. Just misunderstood. “I wish I was. High.”
“Oh. Right.” Weird. And unexpected in one that looks so neat and proper. But okay.
“Ye can get marijuana on prescription in California, you know?” Mari-joo-wana is how she pronounces it.
“Yeah? I mean, yeah. I heard that.”
“Aye.” I can feel her eyeing me through the dark frames. “I do like my holidays there. I thought you looked like an American.”
“You can tell by just looking?”
“You have’nae the right skin tone to be Scots. Not blue enough,” she adds with a sage nod.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” She’s going to be fun, I can tell.
“No, lassie, not at all. You’d be doin’ an old woman a favour by keeping her company. The name’s June, by the way. I’m Dylan’s concubine.”
I find myself hesitating as I sit. Maybe she’s going to be a little fun and a little crazy.
“Don’t be a daftie. Sit yourself down,” she scoffs. “I am his adopted granny. More like Ivy’s, but it’s himself that pays the bills.”
“I’m Holly.”
“A new friend of Ivy’s?”
“Well, I met Ivy and Dylan just recently.” When I served them haggis bonbons.
June’s gaze narrows. “That’ll have been over at Kilblair?”
“Yes. Do you know it?”
“Not really. Scotland has as many castles as some places have hovels. But Ivy told me she and the birthday boy had been invited.”