Set Me Free (14 page)

We dropped by at La Piazza on the way back, to share the details of our horse-riding day. Leo and Lara were beaming.

“So you had a good time then?” My mum smiled.

“Yes! And we're going back next weekend!” Lara said, taking off her sweatshirt in front of the warm fire.

“Well, I think I might have to take you, then, because your mum might be busy.”

What? How did she know about my offer to do some extra work at Ramsay Hall?

“Well, I'll only work an extra day a week, I'll still be free at the weekends—”

“Work an extra day a week? What do you mean?” My mum was dumbfounded.

“I offered to help Torcuil with Ramsay Hall. That's what you were talking about?”

“No!” My mum smiled smugly, the
I know something you don't know
kind of smile.

“What is it then?” I was beginning to feel a spark of excitement.

“Well, remember those
torcetti
you made yesterday? This woman was here with her friend, and she loved them. She's doing a book launch in Aberdeen on Sunday afternoon and she asked me if you'd like to cater for it!”

I was speechless for a moment. “Seriously?”

“Oh Mum, that's fantastic! You have to do it!” Lara said.

“Of course she will!” My mum bent down and disappeared behind the counter for a moment, only to emerge with a card in her hand. “This is her business card. She said to call her for details and that she's sorry about the short notice, but it'll be a small event, so not to worry.”

I looked at the card. It was black with a bright yellow and pink bird in the corner.

“
Carlotta Nissen
,” I read. “
Author – reiki practictioner – life coach – yogini
. Oh, cool!”

“I
know
! It's for the launch of her latest book. Something about liquid sunshine, I can't remember exactly. She's Danish, by the way. Do you want to give her a phone now?”

“Oh yes, please!” I said and stepped into the back. The kitchen faced a little courtyard, and I sat on the stone wall around it to make my call. It was so strange, how things were happening for me.

“Carlotta?”

“Yes?”

“Hello, it's Margherita here, from La Piazza.”

“Oh, hello! I'm so glad you called!” She had the hint of an exotic accent, mixed with a Scottish lilt. “I loved your biscuits. What were they called . . .
Torseti
?”

“Nearly!
Torcetti
. Did you try any others I made?”

“I think I had some of those little cakes filled with coffee ganache . . . they were incredible!”

“Oh yes, the
bignole 
. . .”

“
Bi
 . . .”

“Bi-ni-ole,” I said.

“If you say so! I was hoping, if you're not too busy, maybe you could make a variety of cookies and little cakes for me? I'm launching my first book on Friday at the Waterstones in Aberdeen. I know it's short notice . . .”

“No at all, when I worked at the restaurant I had to rustle up desserts for eighty people in the space of a few hours! Really, there's plenty of time.”

“That's great! I was hoping you could do some savoury bites as well to be had with wine . . .”

“Sure! I can continue the Italian theme if you like?
Salatini
,
pizzette
?”

“I'm not sure what they are, but they sound good! Especially the way you say it . . .”

“And what about little mini favours in transparent bags? You know, with a nice ribbon and a thank-you-for-coming label . . .”

“That would be fantastic. If you could make, say, sixty of them? It'll be a small launch, but quite a few well-connected people . . .”

“Certainly. Thank you so much for this. It's such a great opportunity . . .”

“No, thanks to you. I can't believe I've been so lucky. I mean, when I tried those biscuits they were so good I thought the person who made these can't possibly have time to do my launch!” Carlotta's accent was lovely, like a cheerful sing-song, her voice going up at the end of every sentence.

“Well, I'm just here for a little while. I'm not working as such at the moment . . .”

“Yes, your mum said. But I think you should make some business cards to bring to my launch. I suspect you're going to need them.”

Margherita

I could barely sleep that night for excitement. I had enrolled Lara to design the thank-you-for-coming labels on Michael's computer, and I'd trailed the Internet for the equipment I needed – little transparent bags, ribbons, ink and printing paper. The next day I drove to the La Piazza suppliers and bought extra ingredients so that I wouldn't raid my mum's kitchen and leave her cupboards bare.

“There was no need to buy all this yourself, Margherita. You should have asked me to help . . .” Michael said, lifting a five-kilo bag of flour from the boot of my car.

“You're busy enough!”

“Never too busy for my stepdaughter,” he said.

“Thanks for letting me use your kitchen, Michael. I really appreciate it.”

“It's just so good to see you happy. And this is just the beginning!”

Was it? I thought about what Carlotta had said about preparing business cards, and butterflies fluttered in my stomach. It was all exciting, but a bit daunting too.

Just for a start, what address would I put on my business cards, if I decided to have them made?

Glen Avich was just temporary, of course, I said to myself. And then I recalled the short exchange I'd had with Torcuil at the stables, and once again I felt a hand squeezing my heart.

“If you need a guinea pig for your creations, I'm available!” Michael said as he rubbed his hands together after handling the floury bags.

“Noted. Well, I'm off . . .” My hands were itching to start experimenting, but I'd promised Torcuil an extra day at Ramsay Hall and I thought it would be better to just get that over and done with and concentrate on getting organised on the four days I had left.

“You are? I thought you were keen to start straight away.”

“I am, but . . .” I was about to say I needed to go to Ramsay Hall, when I remembered Michael's weird winking the day before. I didn't want to give him any more ammunition to make fun of me.

“I . . . have stuff to do. For a few hours.”

“Are you sure? Your mum is more than happy to look after Leo, I'm sorted at La Piazza, so you can get going . . .”

But I had already placed a quick kiss on his cheek and was out of the door with a heartfelt
thank you
.

Catering for a sixty-person event was nothing compared to what needed to be done at Ramsay Hall. The short guided tour that Torcuil had given us had revealed only a fraction of the mansion's wonders. I was determined to convince Torcuil to open it to the public, whatever reasons he had not to, whatever real concerns his jokes about ghosts wanted to hide.

I was sitting in the kitchen in front of a pile of botanical prints I was cleaning one by one, making a mental list of the cookies I wanted to include in Carlotta's favours. I had already done so much work that morning and I was very satisfied with myself. It mainly involved getting rid of tons of dust to help with Torcuil's asthma and opening dozens of windows to let the fresh air in. In the next few days I planned to tackle the windows. I had taken the chance to sit-down with a cup of tea when from the pile of wood-framed prints came a cheery tune that bounced against the walls and resounded all over the house. I jumped out of my skin and it took me a few seconds to realise it was my phone, sitting on the table beside me as I wiped the prints' filthy frames. It was Torcuil.

“Lord Ramsay?” I said, a hint of teasing in my tone.

“Margherita. Thank goodness you replied.”

I was alarmed. “What's happened?”

“I need to ask you the biggest favour ever. A
huge
favour.”

“You can try,” I said, resting a picture of a petunia on the never-ending pile. How many prints of plants, flowers and roots can a family own?

“I'm doing a guest lecture today at the Scottish Medieval Society. It's a mega-important gig and it took me weeks to prepare. The notes for the lecture are saved on a memory stick, which I left at Ramsay Hall. And I am in Edinburgh. You can see the problem. The lecture is in . . .” – a little pause – “. . . two hours and twenty minutes, so I couldn't drive there and back again.”

“Did you not save the notes on your laptop?”

“No.”

“Why?” I decided to leave him on a knife's edge for a minute.

“Because I'm an idiot. And I also need my handwritten notes too, which are in the same folder. Please save my life. I'd ask Inary, but she's on deadline with her manuscript and—”

“And you thought, hey, what would Margherita have to do this morning apart from cleaning seventy-two botanical prints from my family collection?” I laughed, screwing the cap back on the wood polish.

“Seventy-two? Do we have that many?”

“Yes. I counted them. Anyway, sure, no problem. I'll just give my mum a phone to let her know and I'll drive down. Where is the memory stick and your notes?”

“On my desk, in a bright blue folder.”

“Oh,” I sighed, as I began to make my way towards Torcuil's study.

“Yes, I see where you're coming from, but I tidied up a few weeks ago, or was it before Christmas? Anyway it should be—”

“Torcuil? Torcuil?” I called. The line had gone down. The signal was funny at Ramsay Hall: it came and went in waves and you could never predict where it would pop up or go down next. As I walked into the almighty mess that was Torcuil's study, my phone rang again.

“Yes, hello again. I'm looking for the folder on your desk. It's like an archaeological dig here . . .” I said, moving around the piles of paper and books.

“It's bright blue. You can't miss it.”

“Torcuil, you could miss a fluorescent-orange
tractor
in this mess. Oh, wait . . .” All of a sudden, the piles of documents and printouts seemed to shuffle and rearrange themselves, and a glimpse of bright blue appeared among the papers. I blinked. Was my mind playing tricks on me, or had the papers just moved?

“Did you find it?”

“Not yet. I need two hands to dig into . . . this. I'll call you back.”

“Okay.”

I eyed the piles of paper suspiciously, then moved them around some more until I could see again the flash of cobalt blue peeking from in between printed sheets. I grabbed hold of it quickly as if to stop it from moving – as weird as it might sound – and looked around me.

It wasn't the first time that something like that had happened. My cleaning materials never seemed to be in the same place. And something had happened with my handbag a few times now: it was never where I'd left it when I first arrived at the hall. If I left it on the kitchen table, I would find it on the window seat. If I left it on the window seat, I would find it by the door. It played musical chairs by itself. I hadn't mentioned anything to Torcuil or to Lara. I was worried in case they said I'd gone mad. I didn't want Lara's imagination to run away with her, especially after her jokes about a Mrs Rochester locked in the attic.

I refused to believe there was anything untoward going on, apart from me forgetting where I'd put things. But I'm not the forgetful type. Or maybe it was Torcuil's cats. Though cats don't really get hold of handbags and move them around.

There was a little alarm bell going off in a corner of my mind, but I couldn't allow myself to listen to it. The whole thing was too weird.

With the folder safely in my hands I walked back to my mum's house to get the car. There was nobody home – they were probably all at La Piazza. I texted her quickly to let her know where I was going and to check that everything was fine with the children.

We are all well. Have fun with Torcuil,
she replied. It was exactly what Michael had said when I'd taken the children horse riding –
have fun with Torcuil
.

I decided to ignore her too.

The drive to Edinburgh was beautiful. The colours of August, especially its lush, heavy, vital green, painted a landscape right on the cusp and about to fall, its ripeness a sign of an impending end. There was a hint of autumn in the air even if it was just early August – or maybe the Scottish summer was so chilly this year it was fooling me into thinking it was already over.

I negotiated my way around the city and managed to locate somewhere to park, which felt like a bit of a miracle because the place was packed with tourists. Torcuil had arranged to meet me in front of the Scottish Medieval Society, a beautiful Georgian building in what they called the New Town.

“I can never thank you enough,” he said. “Listen . . . If you have to go back to Leo and Lara it's fine, it's okay, really it's okay, but . . . No, you probably have to get back. You do, don't you?”

“Well, not really. My mum has the children, and I was due to be out working at yours anyway.” I shrugged, and looked around. “I think I'll take some time to have a walk.” I'd never been to Edinburgh before. The little I'd seen was so beautiful and atmospheric, I wanted to see more.

“Oh. Oh, that's good. So maybe you could wait for me somewhere . . . and maybe we could meet up . . . and maybe we could have a spot of lunch? Maybe?”

I hoped for him that his oratory skills would be better during the lecture than those he'd just demonstrated.

“That's a lot of maybes! Sure, why not?”

“Good! Great.” He ran a hand through his hair, his nervous gesture again. “Do you have a good sense of orientation?” he said in a serious way that made me laugh.

“I'm a homing pigeon. See the woman in the satnav? That's me.”

“Really? I could get lost in my own house.”

“Most people could, given where you live.”

“I suppose that's right. So, anyway, I'll be finished around one, maybe we can meet somewhere away from the madding crowd. I think I know just the place.”

“Perfect.”

“Good! So I can unleash you on the city and see you back here at half past one?”

“You certainly can. See you later. Good luck with the lecture!”

“Thank you,” he replied, lifting the little memory stick for a moment, as a thank you. I recalled the way the papers on his desk had seemed to move, revealing the memory stick underneath, and I wondered once again if I should tell him.

A couple of hours later we were sitting in the Dovecot Studios, an art gallery with a coffee shop tucked away from the main tourist haunts. Edinburgh was full to the brim with tourists and performers – the Fringe festival was about to start. The atmosphere was exhilarating, chaotic and full of life and excitement, with its startling contrast between the buskers and entertainers and the grey, heavy buildings.

“It's like a carnival has exploded in a cathedral, if you know what I mean,” I said to Torcuil.

“That's exactly how it feels like and looks like! Lots of people complain that the festivals are a hassle, the city just fills up and you can't move for people shoving leaflets in your face, but I love it. It's so . . .”

“Vibrant.”

“Exactly!” Torcuil's face was animated as he spoke. It was the first time we had sat down face to face for a long time, so I had the chance to notice how his eyes changed colour with the light. Sometimes they were light blue, sometimes green . . .

Oh.

I wasn't really supposed to notice the changing colour of his eyes, was I? Or how the dark-blue woollen jacket really suited him. And I wasn't really supposed to be so happy we had some time together.

A sense of unease filled me for a moment, but Torcuil kept chatting and somehow I forgot. I forgot to feel awkward. I forgot to feel inappropriate.

To be with him, to speak to him, was just so easy.

“. . . so I sort of stopped there for a moment, but thankfully I recovered myself. I've been doing this for years and I still get nervous. I don't know how Angus does it, getting up on stage with all those people looking at you . . . Oh, here we are. Thank you,” he said to the waitress, who rested two steaming bowls of Cullen skink, a smoked-fish soup, in front of us. “You are going to love this, Margherita. I can't believe you've never tried Cullen skink before.”

“It smells beautiful. I want to try haggis soon too. My stepfather is going to cook it for me.”

“Hmm. I tend not to eat stomachs, really.”

I laughed. “You don't eat the stomach! It's just offal and oatmeal cooked inside the sheep's stomach. I shouldn't be explaining this to you, you're the native, not me!”

“I don't eat guts either. What do you think of the soup?”

“It's beautiful. We have something like this where I come from. It's called
minestra bianca
. . . soup made with milk, rice and vegetables.”

“Sounds good. So, you were a chef?”

“In a previous incarnation, yes. A pastry chef. And by the way, I've got news in that department.”

“Tell me.”

“I was asked to cater for a book launch in Aberdeen this Friday coming.”

“That's fantastic! You haven't been here a month and you're already in demand.” He wasn't flattering me – he sounded honest, truthful.

“This girl tried my biscuits at La Piazza and, well, she loved them. I'll still do what needs done at yours this weekend, of course . . .”

“Don't worry about that. As long as I get to see you . . .” A heartbeat as we both realised what he'd just said – and then he hung his head, confused, as soon as the words came out of his mouth.

As long as I get to see you
.

“Well, I'm sure . . .” I began, equally flustered.

“Why did you leave in the first place?” he interrupted, and I was grateful for a change of topic.

“You mean why I did I leave my job? To be at home with the children.”

“That's what my sister did. She lasted a year before she was tearing her hair out with boredom. I'll rephrase that . . . before she was tearing
our
hair out with
her
boredom.”