Back in the room with the clock ticking and the birds singing from the branch of a tree outside, I drop the papers to the desk as I press my head to my hands.
I’ve got to stop doing this.
For the sake of my sanity.
For the sake of my throbbing balls.
I sit back with a groan, pressing the heel of my palm against my poor aching cock, looking up as the door to the office opens.
“Did you say something?” Portia asks, her hand wrapped around the door as though she’d like to come in but won’t without an invitation.
“No.” My voice sounds hoarse, my hand frozen on my crotch. Move it and I might look like I’ve been having a little fun alone time. Or as Portia might see it, that I’ve locked myself in my study to interfere with myself. Emphasis on self.
Why, when I’m here, I can almost hear her say. She’d take it as a personal affront.
“Oh. Well, are you going to be very much longer in here?”
“No. Not too much longer.” Why do our conversations seem so stilted?
“You’ve been gone an age. Bad enough that you didn’t pick me up for dinner,” she adds with a bright smile, “but then you abandon me in favour of work.”
“I didn’t abandon you.” She turned up here when I thought we’d agreed to meet at the restaurant. “Picking you up would imply this was a date. It would imply we meant something to each other.”
That was unkind. Snide even. But must we keep dancing around this? Is she waiting for an offer of marriage or for me to give her the flick?
Portia flushes and straightens her dress, then completely ignoring the implication of my words, tells me she’ll wait for me downstairs.
As the door to the room closes, I drag a tired hand down my face as I wonder why I’d sought to call her at all. We haven’t spent time together since before my birthday. And by that, I mean she’d neither spent the night in my bed nor been fucked. Not by me, at least. Perhaps she’s been fucked by someone else. I’m unsurprised that the thought doesn’t appear to matter to me. Once, I’d thought we’d suit each other. We come from the same backgrounds and understand marriage is often for convenience rather than love. And whatever happened between us, I knew she wouldn’t go running to the tabloid newspapers. That she’s still here makes me wonder if perhaps she didn’t believe me when I said I’d never marry again.
I look up once more as Portia’s head appears around the door to my study again, almost as though she’s afraid to come in.
“John is here with the car,” she murmurs.
I nod, and she retreats. With a weary sigh, I begin to close my laptop. Portia seems to think my recent milestone birthday has left a melancholic, lingering effect. I’m sure my friends think the same. I can’t say they’re entirely wrong, though they aren’t right either because the experience of turning forty might be something that’s messed with my head. Nudged my equilibrium. But it isn’t the prospect of getting old that fills me with dread. Instead, what has left me feeling out of sorts and perhaps even a little bereft is the knowledge that I’ll never turn forty again. And by that, I mean I’ll never have the opportunity again to spend the night with Holland.
Pushing back my chair, I stand and slip on my jacket and slide my phone into the inside pocket of my jacket. I’ve got to push past this ennui. Maybe a change of scenery would help. Tuscany is always nice this time of year. Or maybe I should do something radical, like propose to Portia. She’d place no demands on my time or my life and help run the estates. Given that we’re no longer fucking, it might just be the next logical step.
14
Holly
Holy moly. It’s cold in here.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, or rather, I stare at the dark circles under my eyes. It had taken me forever to drift off to sleep last night thanks to the unfamiliar bed and the eery quiet of my surroundings. It’s odd to think I’d have trouble sleeping when my previous bed literally rattled every time a bus trundled past my bedroom window. Hooting owls and random creaks shouldn’t have been such an issue. But it might’ve started with the bath after I’d discovered what an immersion heater is: it’s something that’s complete crap. The faucet (why are there two?) had barely spluttered out four inches of water before running cold.
Most uncomfortable bath ever!
Bad enough that there isn’t a shower—which will make hair washing fun—without rationing the hot water. And the daylight hasn’t improved my accommodation, either. Not only does the heating seem to be on the fritz, but the place hasn’t seen a lick of paint since the 1980s. Chintz I can cope with—I just need some heat!
After pulling on more layers than a late spring morning should need, I inhale a breakfast of coffee and toast, making a note to thank whoever provided enough groceries to get me through the next few days. Then I pull a chunky knit sweater over my tank, T-shirt, and black jeans, before slipping on my pristine white Kate Spade sneakers. Casual but stylish, I decide. Whatever the dress code usually is, I’m sure this will do for now. It’s a little after 10.30 in the morning when I venture outside, figuring I should maybe find Lady Isla, seeing as no one has called yet to take me to her.
Pulling the blue (paint-peeled) door closed behind me, I lock it. I’d found the key on the coffee table last night, resting in a leaf shaped out of glass. Sliding it and my phone into my back pockets, I set off at a purposeful pace because decisive is a good look, even on someone who has no idea where they’re going.
Gravel crunches underfoot as I make my way past the row of cottages, each of them a little tidier and homier than mine. Pots sit on windowsills brimming with blooms, mats in front of doors that bid guests a warm welcome. At the end of the row, I slip under an archway. A sign points back the way I came that reads NO ENTRY.
Out in the open, the hills in the distance are the kind of vibrant green that has to be seen to be believed. From a distance, they look like they’re coated with a deep green velvet, though darker in the valleys and almost the colour of a Shiraz. A grey lacy blanket of cloud enveloping their summits.
I startle as crows caw as I pass a set of honest-to-goodness stocks—the contraption that thieves were kept in. A hole for a head and wrists, like ye olde handcuffs. I’m sure this is a modern-day addition to the castle, built to look the part, but the murder of crows sitting along its edges seems pretty authentic.
If not a little ominous.
Unless they’re on the payroll, too.
I push on, following the path as it widens and skirts around the edge of the castle walls heading towards well, I’m not sure what it is, but it looks kind of commercial. I quicken my step as it starts to rain, cursing the fact that I didn’t think to bring my jacket as the weather changes in an instant from starting to rain to really going for it.
“Heckin’ hell,” I mutter, almost bursting through the first door I come to, adding, “Oh, hi!” when I realise I’m not alone.
“I was just about to come for ye,” Chrissy says, looking up from the cell phone in her hand. “Lady Isla is running a wee bit behind, so she thought I could give you a tour of the castle. I know you won’t be working here exactly, but it’ll be good for ye to have a sense of your surroundings.”