“What were you doing standing on a chair?” Alexander asks, his tone even.
“Like Hugh says, I was taking a photograph of my breakfast. And I . . . slipped.”
“You’re supposed to eat it, not break your neck for it,” Griffin scoffs, reaching for his spoon.
“It looked pretty.” I shrug. It was kind of a ridiculous moment but admitting it feels nowhere nearly as awkward as this dinner has been. “Blueberries and blackberries, raspberries, too. And I needed something to post to my Instagram page.”
“Needed?” Alexander adds.
“It had been a while.”
“She tried to take a photo of that psychopathic peacock yesterday.” Griffin scoffs as he begins to dig into his food.
Rude. Shouldn’t we wait for Isla?
And speaking of Instagram, my fingers are currently itching for my phone, though I’d left it in my room. What did Mr McCain say this was again? Chocolate mousse with miso caramel and macadamia. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to eat the meringue sitting on top of this stack of deliciousness. Not without making a mess.
“Are you going to eat it or take a photograph?”
I look up and catch the tiny quirk at the corner of Alexander’s mouth, and my heart gives a painful little ping.
“I was thinking about it,” I murmur, staring down at it, “but I don’t have my phone.”
“Some things are better just experienced in the moment.”
A cold shiver runs through me as I glance Alexander’s way. His eyes are focussed on me in a way that I recognise from our first meeting. The intensity in his gaze making my insides feel like a ribbon pulled over the sharp edge of a pair of scissors. As though he’s seeing something I hadn’t intended for him to see. I remember being a little afraid, like being balanced at the top of a fairground ride.
A little like I do now.
ALEXANDER
A more unpleasant evening I have never experienced, and I once spent a disagreeable night in a Peruvian hospital after a motorcycle accident. But it has also been enlightening. And gratifying. I’ve never seen a woman less into Griffin than I have Holland.
Holland, not Holly.
Jesus, the look she gave me when I called her that. It took every ounce of my willpower to keep me in the chair. I wanted to go to her. To pick her up, tell her I’m sorry, and carry her out of there. When I would’ve probably shaken the living daylights out of her.
But I didn’t. For obvious reasons. But I trust her playacting with my shit of a brother will drive her into my arms at some point.
I have to believe that, even if she seems on edge around me, primed like a deer sensing danger.
Am I a danger to her?
I suppose that’s up to her.
“I am so sorry.” My sister looks shaken as she makes her way into the drawing room. When it became clear she might be a while, I’d encouraged Holland to eat her pudding, though I couldn’t face my own. While I’ll be sure to tell Dougal it was delicious, I had difficulty tasting anything but betrayal. Dramatic, I know. I know nothing is going on between them, but it still fucking hurts that she’d go to such lengths to deny it.
And why?
Protect herself?
And what was her reason for going to such extremes to take a photograph of her breakfast? She’d offered the information up so easily. At least, on the surface. But as I’d wondered as I’d watched her pick at the mousse, I realised that wasn’t the truth.
The admission had cost her.
Meanwhile, I’d swallowed a little of the mousse while Archie and Griffin ate with gusto, leaving nothing but the pattern on their respective plates.
What a fucking nightmare of an evening.
“How is he?” Holland asks Isla, beating me to the question. “I’ve never seen him so upset.”
“He’s sad,” she replies eventually, her eyes filling with tears that I know she won’t allow to spill. “He’s sorry, Holland.” Holland begins to wave off her words, but my sister pushes on valiantly. “He’s sad, and he doesn’t want to see you go. His emotions are all mixed up, and he doesn’t know how to process what he feels.”
“He’s not the only one who’s sorry,” Holland replies, her gaze dipping to her lap.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for. Change is a fact of life we all have to face multiple times through the course of our lives.” She touches Holland’s shoulder as she passes to the sideboard and the tea tray McCain had unobtrusively delivered to the drawing room. What she doesn’t say is that someone at school recently told him his parents are getting divorced. Worse, that his father had been seen holding hands with the nanny. So now he’s desperate for Holland not to leave because he’s terrified what a new nanny might mean. Child logic, I suppose.
“Archie, look,” Isla says brightly. “Someone’s sent up hot chocolate. Do you think you might manage a cup?”
“Can Hugh have some?” he asks, his voice small.
“Maybe tomorrow. He’s having some time to himself at the moment. There are marshmallows,” she adds temptingly. My nephew succumbs, reluctantly nodding his head. She places the child-sized Batman mug on a table next to Archie with instructions to give it time to cool. As she turns her back, he shoves one pink and one white marshmallow into his mouth, leaving him to look like a happy squirrel.
“Coffee anyone? Tea?”
“Coffee for me, please.” Griffin lifts a lazy hand before bringing it to Holland’s lap in a blatant attempt to goad me. “It doesn’t matter if I’m kept awake tonight, does it, love?” He raises her hand to his lips as though to press it with a kiss, but she pulls it away quite deftly, playfully pushing his shoulder instead.
“Oh . . . you!” I think that was supposed to be playful, though her expression looks more painful. In fact, she looks like she’s imagining his head exploding.
Or maybe that’s just me.
“How do you like your coffee, Griffin?”
“Like I like my women.”
“Except you don’t have to pay for it here.” The room goes quiet, and I look up from my glass. Fuck. I said that out loud, didn’t I? Much to the horror of everyone.
“Alexander!” This from my sister.
“Jesus, Al.” This from my half-brother.
Though there comes no verbal response from the woman I’ve inadvertently insulted. Just a reproachful look
“I beg your pardon. Present company excepted, of course.” I lift my glass as to my mouth but can’t quite bite back my thoughts. “For her price is far above rubies,” I mutter, plagiarising Proverbs.
31:10, if I’m not mistaken.
Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the time to come.
I am an arsehole.
“Coffee, Sandy?”
At my sister’s question, I shake my head. As she frowns my way, I shore up my defences. “I have a touch of heartburn.” It’s not indigestion, and it’s not quite heartache. It’s more like an aggravation, burning me from the gullet up.
“You want to watch that at your age,” Griffin interjects. Despite being just a few short years behind me, he does like to make age-related digs. “It’s like they say, you are what you eat.”