Sealed With a Kiss (22 page)

‘Girls, just because the wanderer has returned doesn’t mean the rules of the house have changed.’

Sam cornered first Katharine and then Jennifer, removing wellington boots and unzipping them from their raincoats. With only one day left until Christmas, they were reaching new highs of
excitement, and Sam maintained that the only way to manage them was to take them out for regular walks, like dogs.

Kate thought of her little Willow, who was spending her first Christmas on the island with Jean and Hector. The prospect of travelling by train with a slightly unpredictable puppy, prone to
escaping, chewing everything in sight and weeing in corners, had been too much for Kate to bear. Jean, who had a soft spot for Willow, had leapt at the chance to dogsit for the week Kate was in
Cambridge.

Having dealt with the girls, Sam squeezed Kate’s shoulder in passing and ducked behind the breakfast bar to fill the kettle. He caught Emma from behind, causing her to drop her knife and
shriek with surprise. Kate felt a huge pang of sadness twist within her. Despite the warmth and familiarity of her friends’ house, she felt lonely and out of place.

‘Would you mind if I popped out?’ She stood up. Emma and Sam looked at her, concerned.

‘Last-minute shopping?’ asked Sam, ‘You don’t want a cup of tea before you go?’

‘Honestly, I’m fine. I’ve just remembered something I wanted to get for the girls.’

Pulling on her coat and grabbing an umbrella, she set off into the rainy Cambridge street. She didn’t quite know where she was going; on autopilot, she marched towards the centre of town,
which only a few months ago would have brought immediate comfort in the shape of a friendly Starbucks and a bit of retail therapy. After a few minutes’ walk she found herself in the Grafton
Centre. It was thronged with last-minute shoppers, songs blaring through the loudspeakers. Shop workers were busy dismantling the displays and Sellotaping huge ‘Sale’ signs across the
windows.

Christmas here seemed tawdry, chaotic and commercial, compared to back on Auchenmor. She looked at her watch. At this time two days ago she’d been sitting on the beach, watching the seals,
chatting on the mobile to Mark about Flora, the seal pup. He’d been excited to tell her that Flora had managed to eat her first herring, and that she was swimming happily in the bigger pool.
Kate had promised to go back after New Year and visit.

Apologizing for tripping on the wheels of yet another pushchair, she veered left, escaping through a side door and up to Midsummer Common. It was empty in the rain, the willows whipping against
the River Cam in the wind. She sat down on a bench, looking down the river at a solitary mallard. Strange to think that she’d sat on this same river bank so many times with Ian, wondering if
life was meant to be quite as dull as it was.

The last few months had been anything but dull, she thought, picking at a piece of lichen on the stone end of the bench. Somehow she’d still managed to screw everything up. Roderick was
convinced that she was with Finn, thanks to the vile Fiona catching them in a perfectly innocent, if silly, embrace. And now, like the lichen that clung to the stone bench, Fiona was gluing herself
to Roderick, and he seemed to be okay with that. Perhaps coming home would be the best thing to do. But – ugh, the prospect of bumping into Ian and his new girlfriend, Jenny the accountant,
was gruesome. Emma had told her last night that Jenny had already moved into their old house. They’d spent ages sniggering childishly at the idea of the two of them making spreadsheets for
every household activity.

Cambridge no longer felt like home, but life on the island with Roderick back in Fiona’s clutches was a depressing prospect. She contemplated the possibility of living in the cottage with
Finn as an occasional nighttime visitor and a partner for any social events, but, laughing to herself, dismissed it. There had to be some kind of middle ground.

‘Are you lost, love?’ An elderly man, flat cap pulled down against the wind and rain, bent down to look at her.

‘A little bit,’ she admitted, confusing him when she said she didn’t need directions.

The rain had soaked through her coat by the time she got back to the house. The girls were sitting at the table making elaborate Christmas dinners from Play-Doh.

‘Bloody hell, Kate, you’re soaking. Where did you walk to – Ely?’ Emma looked at Sam, who stood up from the table and disappeared upstairs. ‘Hang up your coat, for
goodness’ sake. You’re not on this planet at all, are you? It’s all very
Wuthering Heights
, this marching around in the pouring rain, but if your mother arrives tomorrow
and you’ve come down with the flu, I’ll be the one getting it in the neck.’

‘I’ve run you a bath,’ said Sam, reappearing.

‘I’m not six years old,’ muttered Kate mutinously.

‘No, but you’re acting like it,’ said Emma, propelling her towards the hall. ‘Now go and get yourself warmed up. You’ve got the Christingle to get through
yet.’

Kate groaned in mock-horror, before opening the door of the bathroom and breathing in the lavender-scented steam.

Emma looked at Sam, raising her eyebrows. ‘Apparently she’s not remotely interested in Roderick.’

‘I can see that. Thank God we never have to go there again, eh?’ said Sam, folding Emma into his arms as Kate surrendered.

Christmas morning flashed past in a flurry of wrapping paper, excited squealing from the girls, and Emma’s visits to the loo. Kate had taken over her share of the cooking
and was basting the turkey when Emma reappeared, grey and shaking.

‘Urgh! That smells vile. No offence, guys – it’s just me.’ She had her hand over her mouth, nostrils held closed. ‘It’s fine as long as I don’t breathe
in.’

‘All this throwing-up is a great sign – it just means the pregnancy hormones are doing their thing,’ said Sam comfortably, from the sitting-room floor. He was helping Katharine
to build a Playmobil castle, and was surrounded by hundreds of tiny pieces of plastic, all in separate, equally tiny bags.

‘So you say,’ said Emma, bolting out of the room once again.

‘Is she actually being sick?’ asked an interested Jennifer. ‘What happens if she’s sick and the baby comes up out of her tummy and through her mouth and into the
loo?’

‘I promise you one thing,’ said Kate. ‘That will definitely not happen.’

Emma returned, sitting down at the kitchen table. She sipped at a mug of cold peppermint tea before looking up at Kate. Her friend looked happier now that she was distracted – perhaps
Kate’s mother was right, and they ought to try and persuade her to come home.

‘So have you heard from anyone on the island today?’

‘Morag rang earlier, and Jean sent a text.’ Kate laughed to herself, knowing that it would have taken Jean about fifteen minutes, and a lot of cursing under her breath, to achieve
the brief message that she’d received on her mobile.

‘Nobody else?’ Emma raised her eyebrows, then laid her head down on the cool of the table, waiting for the next wave of nausea to hit.

Half an hour later the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of Kate’s mother, complete with bags of beautifully wrapped presents.

‘Just in time for dinner.’ She breezed in. ‘Darling, can you manage that gravy? Shall I take over?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Kate weakly, as her mother grabbed the wooden spoon. Really, it was easier not to argue. She picked up the box of crackers, laying the table around the
sleeping Emma, who was still sprawled, head down.

‘That’s not very hygienic, is it?’

‘No, Mum, but she’s feeling a bit sick. We thought she needed the rest.’

‘Sick?’ said her mother, turning to Sam. ‘She’s not . . .’

‘She is.’

‘Good grief! But you already have two – why on earth would you want another one?’

‘Mum!’ Kate hissed, horrified.

‘Oh, well, I mean, congratulations. It’s . . . well, it wouldn’t be my choice.’

‘That doesn’t make it wrong, you know.’ Kate turned back to the vegetables, feeling rather pleased with herself. She’d spent years backing down and doing what her mother
thought was right, just for an easy life. She stabbed a Brussels sprout with a knife, thinking uncharitable thoughts as she did so. ‘These will be ready in about two minutes. Can you wake
Emma up, please, Sam? And, girls, can you two go and wash your hands without flooding the bathroom, please?’

Poor Emma couldn’t face any dinner, but sat looking seasick and sniffing at a lemon. ‘I’d love to have some, but it just smells like dead bird.’

‘That’s because it is!’ chorused the girls in delight.

‘Urgh, Emma, you’ve put me right off this,’ said Kate, pushing her plate away and standing up to clear the dishes.

‘I suspect the reason
you
can’t eat any more has more to do with the gigantic plateful you’ve just devoured,’ offered Sam helpfully.

‘Yes, darling, I think you’ve had more than enough. I have to say, I think island life is making you a little bit tubby.’ Kate’s mother patted her bottom as she leaned
over the table. ‘In fact, I think I’ll come up and see what you actually do there. Next week would be convenient?’

Kate caught Emma’s eye and breathed out slowly, nostrils flaring. ‘Count to ten,’ mouthed Emma, helpfully.

‘Pudding, anyone?’ asked Kate, through gritted teeth. ‘I fancy a big slice with extra brandy butter, myself.’

She gathered up the last of the plates and fled to the kitchen, where she emitted a silent scream. I want my dog, and my bonkers orange carpet, and my fire, and my beach, and my seals, and my
island, she thought. And I have no idea how long it will last, but anything’s got to be better than living with Mum.

Willow galloped joyfully down to the shoreline, chasing her ball. Seagulls wheeled overhead in a cloudless azure sky. It was bright, clear and freezing cold, but it was
beautiful, and there wasn’t another human being to be seen or heard anywhere. Kate laughed out loud for joy, bending down to scoop up her puppy as she hurtled towards her, soaking wet and
covered in sand.

‘Willow – yeuch!’ she cried, as the puppy tried to lick her face.

They headed back up the hill through the trees and the frost-bleached bracken, towards Bruar Cottage, where the fire was lit and waiting. A figure stood at the top of the path, waving
vigorously.

‘Morag!’ Kate started to run, realizing as she grew closer that her friend wasn’t alone. Jean and Susan were standing just over the crest of the hill, peering into the
three-wheeled pushchair, talking to Mhairi.

‘We’ve missed you,’ grinned Susan. ‘You’re our fourth Musketeer.’

‘It’s so lovely to be back.’ Kate opened the door, and the warmth of her little cottage welcomed them in. Five minutes later they were all installed in the sitting room, Mhairi
lying on a play-mat, chewing happily on a set of plastic keys. The tea had been made and was brewing in a pot by the fire, covered by one of Helen’s hand-sewn tea cosies. Morag had come
bearing biscuits and gingerbread.

‘We thought you’d like a wee welcome-home party.’

‘This is lovely,’ said Kate, touched. She’d missed the island desperately, despite having been gone for less than a week. It was nice to know that some small part of it had
missed her, too. But, more importantly, she was dying to know all the news. ‘So, what’s happened?’

‘Well,’ began Jean, ‘I was having a coffee at Bruno’s place on Christmas Eve when none other than
herself
came in with her mother, acting like the Queen of
Sheba.’

‘That’s Fiona, in case you hadn’t worked it out,’ added Susan, unnecessarily.

‘I was sitting at the end booth, and they didn’t see me. So I just carried on reading my paper, as you do, and you’ll never guess what?’

‘Will you two fishwives just spit it out?’ Morag poured the tea, adding milk and sugar without having to ask who took what. Kate smiled to herself at that little sign of
friendship.

Jean rolled her eyes at Morag. ‘Will you let me get on?’

‘At this rate you’ll still be getting to the point by next year,’ said Morag, passing her a cup of tea and nudging her, laughing.

‘Well,’ began Jean again, ‘so in come Fiona and her mother, and they sit down at the booth in front of mine, and they don’t see me.’

‘So you just happened to overhear, and you weren’t actually eavesdropping, right?’ asked Kate.

‘I wouldn’t dream of such a thing,’ said Jean, primly. ‘Anyway, herself is up to something. She told her mother that she’s got big plans – plans that involve
the island and the Duntarvie estate.’

‘Is she planning to ensnare Roderick and steal the estate away from him?’ Kate was confused.

‘I don’t think anyone could persuade Roderick Maxwell to do something he didn’t want to do.’ Jean looked at Morag, who nodded sagely. ‘But that girl is up to
something.’

Susan raised her eyebrows at Kate. ‘Never a dull moment up here, is there? I bet this is riveting, after an exciting week in the bright lights of Cambridge with all those shops and people
and lovely things.’

‘Believe it or not, I was dying to get back.’ Kate stood up, looking out of the sitting-room window. Through the bare trees she could see the waves breaking on the little shingle
beach far below, and in the distance beyond the silver-streaked sea were the snow-topped purple hills of the surrounding islands. ‘There’s something about this place. It draws you
in.’

Jean and Morag exchanged another glance, but said nothing.

Hogmanay arrived. Kate had managed to wangle her way out of wearing the hideous yellow tartan. While in Cambridge, she and Emma had spent a lovely girly day shopping
(punctuated by loo visits, sniffs of lemon essential oil, and a small impromptu nap for Emma in a corner of Costa Coffee). They had found the most beautiful midnight-blue velvet dress, which clung
to Kate’s newly enhanced curves. Admiring herself looking glamorous in the mirror, she was tempted to send a photograph to her mother, to show her that she really didn’t look tubby at
all, thank you very much. Her hair had been curled into shining waves at the new hairdresser in Kilmannan, and her make-up applied with Susan’s artistic flair. Her ridiculously high new shoes
were safely stored out of reach of Willow this time, and she pulled them on quickly, hearing a firm knock at the door. She grabbed her coat from the hook.