Anne Douglas (19 page)

At the reception desk, when she slipped quietly in – not late, after all – she found Fionola stifling a yawn as she stood behind Mrs Atkinson, who was already declaiming from her clipboard.

‘Just checking on the arrangements for Saturday,’ she informed Lynette. ‘To make sure you’re both au fait with what we have to do.’

‘As though she hasn’t done that already half a dozen times,’ Lynette heard Fionola mouth under her breath, and managed to hide her smile.

‘First,’ Mrs Atkinson was continuing, ‘there’ll be the guests to advise on the change of dinner plans. Tables will be set in the conservatory for those wishing the usual meal, but quite a lot of people have already opted for the buffet at the ceilidh, so we need to finalize numbers there. And then I need one of you to tell Scott to let Mr Allan have his menus as soon as possible, so that he can go through them—’

‘I can do that,’ Lynette volunteered, and Mrs Atkinson gave a little smile.

‘Oh, yes, you get on well with Scott, don’t you, dear? I expect coming from the same city is quite a bond for you. And then I hear he’s been giving you a few cookery lessons – isn’t that right?’

‘Only in our free time,’ Lynette said hastily. ‘Which reminds me, would it be possible for me to be away tomorrow afternoon? I really need to buy some material to make a skirt for the dancing.’

Mrs Atkinson looked dubious. ‘I think you’d better clear that with Mr Allan.’

‘Oh, couldn’t you just give me the OK? I really don’t want to be bothering him—’

‘You could ask him now, he’s just coming over.’

Her heart sinking, Lynette turned her head to see the manager approaching, looking, as he so often did, like some very tall officer of the law, and making Lynette feel, as he so often did, that she’d just been found out in doing something wrong. Oh, well, if he wanted to turn down her request, so be it. Maybe she wouldn’t go to the ceilidh, after all, if he couldn’t be more cooperative . . .

‘Mr Allan, Lynette would like to take a few hours off tomorrow afternoon,’ Mrs Atkinson said crisply. ‘Is that all right?’

‘A few hours off?’ The gold-flecked eyes rested on Lynette’s defiant face, and a slight smile transformed the manager’s face. ‘I don’t see why not. Is there some special reason, Lynette?’

‘Just want to go to Kyle for some material,’ she answered huskily. ‘To make something for the dance on Saturday.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ he said lightly. ‘You haven’t a thing to wear. By all means, go to Kyle, Lynette. I’m sure Fionola will look after things here.’

‘Oh, yes, Mr Allan,’ Fionola said quickly. ‘No trouble at all.’

‘Fine, fine. Mrs Atkinson, I was just coming to look for you – could we go through your arrangements for Saturday again, in my office?’

‘Certainly, Mr Allan.’

‘Hey, what’s your secret?’ Fionola asked Lynette. ‘How d’you manage to get Mr Allan do what you want? And make a joke as well?’

‘Well, didn’t you say he was really very nice?’ Lynette countered. ‘To you, anyway. So, why not me?’

‘You used not to like him.’

And as Fionola’s almond-shaped eyes slid away, it dawned on Lynette that she might be interested in Mr Allan. Interested, though not in love, for she didn’t give that impression and usually you could tell if that was the case. Love will out, and so on . . . No, maybe she just wanted to set her cap at him? Maybe he had in fact, shown himself attracted to her, and she’d thought he might be quite a good catch? The idea that he liked to keep his eyes on Lynette herself might be purely a product of her imagination. All the same, it was plain enough that the younger girl was jealous of Lynette’s apparent power over him, which was a piece of nonsense, if ever there was one!

‘Are you bringing anyone to the ceilidh?’ she managed to ask in between work on routine tasks. ‘Any boyfriends, for instance?’

‘I have no boyfriend,’ Fionola answered shortly.

‘Don’t tell me there aren’t some fellows hanging around you in Shiel Bridge.’

Lynette knew, of course, that though Fionola had to live in at the hotel, her home being too far away for her to travel in every day, she did return there quite regularly. And for a girl of her looks, there must surely be a queue of young men somewhere in her life? Unless, she didn’t want them. Unless, she had her sights set elsewhere?

‘I’m not interested.’ As the telephone began to ring, Fionola took the call, her lovely face serene, and Lynette, turning to find a guest’s key, knew she would say no more.

Later, having coffee with Scott in the kitchen, Lynette told him she’d be out the next afternoon, shopping in Kyle. Mr Allan had said she could have a few hours off to buy material for a new skirt, for the ceilidh.

‘Oho, getting more and more pally with His Nibs, are we?’ Scott asked coldly, as his staff weaved around the kitchen, busy already with the lunch menu. ‘To think there was a time when you said you couldn’t stand him.’

‘I’m still not sure what I think of him. He can be quite friendly.’

‘If you ask me, he lives in a straitjacket, invented by himself. As I always say, what’s he got to complain about? In the meantime, spare a thought for me at the ceildih, stuck at the buffet. Story of my life.’

‘Oh, Scott! You’ll get some time off, surely.’

‘Enough to have a dance with you, I hope.’

‘You’ve only to ask me.’

‘As long as you know who doesn’t get in first.’

‘I’m wondering if he won’t be dancing with my assistant,’ Lynette said lightly, as Scott topped up her coffee.

‘Ah, our resident beauty.’ Scott shook his head. ‘Bet there’ll be a line up to dance with her.’

‘And you’ll be in it?’

‘No’ if you’re around,’ he said seriously, and finishing her coffee quickly, Lynette said she must be getting back to work.

On her way back to Reception, she found herself hoping Scott wasn’t getting interested. He was a great guy, someone she really admired and felt at ease with – not because, as Mrs A had suggested, he came from her own city, but because he was who he was. The last man, you might think, to be a chef, considering the reputation chefs had for being touchy, temperamental, even fiery, for Scott was quite the reverse. Not in the least touchy, or volatile, or likely to blow up if the soufflé went down, but just a likeable fellow you could always trust, with no hidden depths to worry about.

On the other hand – she felt guilty thinking it, yet knew it was true – he was not the type to fall in love with. And who was the type? Lynette drove the question from her mind, thankfully finding that the desk was busy when she got back and she had no more time for uncomfortable musings.

Thirty-One

Finally, it arrived, the night of the Talisman ceilidh.

Oh, the excitement! You could feel it before anyone even set foot in the long dining room cleared for the dancing, or the lounge beyond, where there were little tables and chairs, balloons and streamers, Scott’s buffet trestle at the end of the room and flower arrangements on corner pedestals.

But when the band – two fiddlers, an accordion player, a bass player, a guitarist and a pianist – took their seats round the dining-room piano and the first guests began to appear, Lynette felt things had really reached fever pitch.

‘It’s because we’re so starved of any entertainment here, we’re all ready to go mad just because we have a ceilidh,’ she whispered to Scott, who had surfaced from the kitchen for a moment. ‘I know I can’t wait to get on to that floor!’

‘Know how long it took the guys to polish it?’ he asked, just wanting to look at her in her thin white blouse and full scarlet skirt, clinched at her waist with a scarlet belt, her blue eyes sparkling, her lips parted, the image, it seemed, of youth, vitality and beauty.

‘Lynette, you look so terrific tonight,’ he said in a low voice. ‘How am I going to leave you?’

‘You know you’re just dying to show off that buffet of yours,’ she answered, her eyes now on the door, searching for Frank and Monnie, and after a moment or two, Scott had no choice but to take himself away.

Still no sign of them, thought Lynette, hoping her father’s car hadn’t broken down. She had been all day at the hotel herself, only changing into her dancing clothes in Fionola’s room after kind Mrs Atkinson had relieved them shortly before eight o’clock. Och, they’d surely be along in a minute, and she was already, in spite of herself, looking out for someone else. Someone she’d seen quite recently, still in his dark suit, looking just the same as usual, would you believe? What a death’s head at a party . . .

‘Good evening, Lynette,’ a tall man in a dark red kilt said quietly, adding, as she stared, ‘don’t you know me?’

‘M-Mr Allan?’ she stammered.

‘Ronan.’

Of course, of course. His face was the same, his eyes were the same, his voice, his height . . .

‘It was just the tartan . . .’

‘The MacDonald of Clanranald, I am entitled to wear it. I hope you approve?’

‘Oh, yes, yes – it’s fine . . . suits you.’

‘Thank God you think so. You don’t know what it costs a fellow who’s not used to it, to show his legs.’

He laughed and she laughed too, but he was soon serious.

‘Lynette, you won’t need me to tell you that you’re looking most attractive tonight.’ He hesitated. ‘Most attractive . . . Is that the skirt you made from the material you went to buy?’

‘It is. Do you like it?’

‘I’m wondering if it’s meant to make a statement?’

‘A statement?’

‘Well, it’s red, isn’t it?’

Her eyes widened. ‘You’re not serious? Comparing this skirt to that red suit you told me not to wear? I never gave it a thought!’

‘I’m so glad,’ he said earnestly. ‘That was a bad disagreement we had. Will you believe me, if I tell you I’ve been sorry about it ever since. When I saw you in your beautiful red skirt just now, I thought . . . God, I don’t know, that maybe you hadn’t forgiven me.’

In spite of the guests now swirling around them, the chatter of voices, the tuning up from the band, they seemed suddenly to be quite alone, just two people, making peace, gazing into each other’s eyes.

‘I didn’t even know you wanted me to forgive you,’ Lynette said, so quietly he had to lean forward to hear her. ‘How could I, when you never said?’

He put his hand to his brow and shook his head.

‘You see how hopeless I am? I haven’t an idea what to do – how to go on . . . oh, Lynette—’

‘Lynette!’ came her father’s voice and there he was beside them, not only with Monnie, looking very pretty in a blue dress Lynette knew well, but also Ishbel MacNicol, coolly attractive in a pale pink blouse and tartan skirt.

‘We’ve been looking all over for you,’ Frank shouted cheerfully above the surrounding noise. ‘Sorry, we’re late. Had to change a tyre on the way.’

‘You didn’t!’ Lynette groaned, then, smiling, introduced her father and sister to Ronan, who, recovering himself well, welcomed them with ease and surprising charm, saying how delighted he was to meet them and he hoped they’d have a wonderful time.

‘Mrs MacNicol, of course, I know,’ he added, giving Ishbel a slight bow. ‘Sells the best fudge in the whole of Scotland, which is my undoing, I can tell you!’

He tapped his waist, grinning, as Lynette looked on in wonder, and Ishbel, turning as pink as her blouse, told him she’d be firm in future and ration his purchases.

‘Don’t your dare!’ he cried, but then asked if they would excuse him, he had to make a short speech of welcome.

‘What a charming fellow!’ Frank exclaimed, as Ronan made his way through the crowd to the band. ‘I thought you said he was some sort of ogre, Lynette? Why, he couldn’t have been nicer!’

‘Mr Allan an ogre?’ Ishbel exclaimed. ‘Never! He’s always very polite and pleasant when he comes to my shop.’

‘I must say, he’s not how I pictured him,’ Monnie put in, and Lynette, colouring furiously, threw back her head and said folks had to speak as they found, eh?

‘And I have to say that Mr Allan hasn’t always been the easiest of people to work with. He can be very nice, I know, but even Mrs Duthie said he was difficult.’

‘Speaking of angels, there is Mrs Duthie,’ Frank murmured, eyeing his cleaning lady, resplendent in orange blouse and Royal Stewart tartan kilt, chattering to the fiddler in the band, just as Ronan held up his hand for silence.

‘Of angels?’ Ishbel whispered. ‘I am not so sure about that!’

But the room full of people had fallen silent, waiting for the manager to say his few words and let them get on with the dancing, and he did not disappoint them. No sooner had he made his short welcome and reminded everyone that the buffet would be served at ten o’clock, he was turning to the band, waving his hand, and announcing that the first dance would be ‘Strip the Willow’. And could he see everyone on the floor –
please
!

‘Ishbel, may I have the pleasure?’ Frank asked, in courtly fashion, at which she gave him her hand, smiling, and away they went to join the couples already on the floor, while Frank’s daughters stood together, waiting.

‘Where is he, then?’ Lynette asked, while trying to see if a man in a Clanranald tartan was approaching.

‘You mean Torquil?’ Monnie’s tone was casual, as though she wasn’t at all concerned if her sister meant someone else.

‘Well, I don’t mean Tony, who’s just come in with Agnes. Oh, get that huge kilt she’s wearing! How many yards of tartan has it taken to go round her waist, then?’

‘There’s no need to be rude about her,’ Monnie retorted, but her eyes had begun to take on an anxious look as they raked the faces of people still joining the dancers. Until, suddenly, she saw him. Torquil, on the floor. Torquil, slim and elegant in the dark green MacLeod tartan. Torquil, waiting for the music, preparing to dance, but not with her.

‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. ‘He’s with that girl from the café. Oh, I can’t believe it.’