If I’d stayed on in the capacity he’d wanted me to.
“This is really delicious,” I murmur, then glue my eyes to my plate to stop them from wandering his way. I stick my fork—one of three on the table in front of me, and snaps for me because I know what each is for—into the shell of a North Sea crab, the meat of the crustacean seeped in koji butter, so I’m told. Not that I have any idea what that is. I heap a little onto a delicate sliver of sourdough and take a bite of the decadent deliciousness.
“Oh, Sandy.” Isla rolls the deliciousness around her mouth as she looks to the other end of the six-seater table—she sits to my left, Griffin to my right, and the boys facing me—“I think I might need to steal Dougal.”
“There’s no need,” he drawls. I can still feel his eyes on me. “I have no plans to be anywhere else but Kilblair currently.”
Was that a threat?
“Are you looking forward to the Duffys’ party?” Looking up from the crab shell, I try (not for the first time) to engage him in conversation.
Try for normal. Aim for amiable.
“Not particularly.” His words are cool and dismissive, yet the way his eyes roam over me is wholly contradictory.
“Sandy’s not especially big on parties,” Isla adds.
“On account of him almost being a geriatric, I should imagine,” Griffin mutters only for my ears.
“He wouldn’t even let me hold one for his birthday.”
Griffin uses the moment to slide his hand between my shoulders where he rubs. The fact that I have to fight the instinct to rebuff his touch is something he seems to understand. And ignore. “You okay there, babe?” he asks in a tone that’s a little too sickly to be sweet.
“I’ve seen Babe,” Archie pipes up. “It’s a film about a talking pig.” He glares across the table at Griffin. “You shouldn’t call Holly a pig. It’s not very polite.” The kid’s solemn expression morphs as his attention swings to his mom. “Mummy, why do think writers write but fingers don’t fing?”
“Because the English language is a strange and wonderous thing,” she answers without missing a beat. “Eat your fish cakes, Archie.”
The boys are dining on a somewhat adapted menu. They’re missing out because this crab is yum.
“You’re sure you’re enjoying that?” Isla murmurs, sliding me a concerned glance.
“Yes. It’s delicious.” I shoot her a quick smile. “I guess I’m not very hungry.” On account of every mouthful feeling like a lead weight as it hits my stomach. I wish I could manage it because it really is delicious. Light and delicate, and flavoured with dill.
I struggle valiantly through a main course of Asian-style vegetables and twice-cooked sticky duck, though mostly move the food around my plate. I hate that this is my first real food in days, and I can’t even ask for a doggy bag.
“What about you, Holly?” At the sound of Alexander’s sudden and voluntary address, my shoulders seem to levitate up around my ears. “Are you looking forward to Dylan Duffy’s birthday?”
“I—” As I inhale a jagged breath, my gaze falls anywhere but on him. “I don’t think I’ll be going.”
“Of course you will,” says Griffin as though I didn’t just say otherwise.
“I’m trying to persuade her,” Isla adds.
“Hollywood parties aren’t really my thing. Plus, I’m kind of busy. And I really don’t have anything to wear.” As I reach for my glass, my eyes flit Alexander’s way. He’s still watching me. I swallow nervously, my throat suddenly as dry as the Sahara.
“I’m wearing my Batman outfit,” Archie announces as Mr McCain sets down a square of chocolate cake and ice cream in front of him. “I’ll come and show you before we leave, if you like, Geordie?”
“That would be marvellous,” Mr McCain replies with a genuine smile.
I’m pleased to see informal dining is just that. Although, thinking about it, I guess the butler still didn’t speak until he was spoken to. Still, Archie’s pretty pleased with his response, judging by his smile. It’s as wide as half a bicycle wheel.
“You can’t be Batman, stupid,” retorts Hugh, who has barely spoken all evening. “It hasn’t been announced that he’s going to be playing Batman yet.”
“But he’s not going to be Batman if I’m wearing the suit, is he?” Archie answers with a six-year-old’s logic.
“You’re such an idiot,” Hugh mutters as his mom begins to scold him.
“That was unkind, Hugh. Apologise to your brother.”
“I’m sorry you’re an idiot,” he snipes.
“Hugh,” she repeats in a warning tone, “we do not get to take our bad moods out on other people. And we especially don’t behave this way at the dinner table.”
I murmur my thanks as Mr McCain sets my dessert—sorry, my pudding—in front of me. When in Rome!
“You didn’t tell him off for smashing a glass,” he retorts, loud and aggrieved, his arms swinging out in the direction of his uncle. “Why is he allowed to bring his bad mood to the dinner table, and I’m not?”
“Because I’m not taking my foul mood out on anyone else,” Alexander answers impassively.
“You took it out on your glass, though, and you didn’t clean up after yourself. McCain did. And, if you want the truth, you also keep looking meanly at Holly. So,” he concludes, his attention turning back to his mother, “I’m not the only one with bad manners at this dinner table, either.”
“Maybe I should send both you and Uncle Sandy to bed.”
“It’s okay, Hugh,” I interject. “Your uncle isn’t really being mean to me.” No more than I deserve. Boy, I wish I was in McCain’s place right now as I watch him almost tiptoe from the room.
“I’m surrounded by idiots,” Hugh cries, raking both hands through his hair.
“Hugh!” his mother calls for a second time. Me? I roll my lips inward to keep from smiling because he sounds like a miniature Alexander.
“It’s true,” he demands, pointing across the table at me. “Uncle Sandy keeps sending her death glares, and she’s just taking it. I shouldn’t be surprised, though, should I? Because she fell off her chair while taking a photograph of her breakfast last week!”
Isla slides her napkin from her knee, depositing it on the table as she stands. “Out,” she demands in a clipped tone. “You and I are going to have a little chat.”
The table falls silent as Isla frogmarches her son out of the room.
Well, for at least ninety seconds.
“Did you really fall off your chair?” Archie asks, his expression puzzled.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Though I was actually standing on my chair when I slipped. I thought I’d sprained my ankle,” I add in a low tone. “But he wasn’t right about it being last week. It was more like three weeks ago.”
“Maybe Hugh’s right,” Griffin says, reaching out to chuck my chin. I consider ducking and biting him, but who knows what I’d catch? Also, there’s Alexander’s watchful gaze to consider.