The dress is a showstopper. A thing of beauty. And something I would’ve never dared try on myself. Partly because of the label. Valentino.
That’s why I’d thought it was Isla’s. The label. And the fact that the cut of it would lend itself to both our body types. Except maybe the length, which is why I’d sought to add heels. Anyway, I’ve died and gone to designer heaven and in truth, finding this beauty on my bed is one of the main reasons I got in the car at all.
What girl doesn’t love to get gussied up like she’s going to a ball?
Once my domestic tasks are taken care of, I decide to have a wander around the castle. Let’s see if I can find out how the other (Hollywood) half live.
While Claish might be nowhere near the size of Kilbair, it’s still the kind of building I wish I’d brought a bag of crackers to so I could at least leave a trail back to my room. Hallway after hallway, door after door, but as I reach the first floor, I notice many people moving around confidently, so at least I can ask for directions if I get lost. Milling around, toing and froing, fetching and carrying, at second glance. So I decide to head on out to the gardens.
I lift my hand to shield my eyes as I step out onto a terrace furnished with teak Lutyens benches and tables shaded by huge parasols. A pair of weather-worn stone lions guard the steps down to a carpet-like lawn where a giant chessboard, complete with child-sized chess pieces, stands.
It looks more like the set of a period drama than the home of one of Hollywood’s big hitters, which I think is infinitely better.
“Oh, hi!” I offer as I notice the elderly woman sitting in a wheelchair in the shade of the castle’s walls. Delicate framed and silver-haired, she wears a pair of eggshell blue slacks and a matching knitted twin set. On her thin wrist is a tiny gold watch and at her neck a double string of pearls. The only incongruity in her whole outfit is her sunglasses. Large red frames with gold studs, the designer logo emblazoned on their thick arms. Balenciaga.
“I wish it was,” she replies, her voice papery.
“I’m sorry?”
“Hi,” she repeats, as though I’d misheard. And I had not. Just misunderstood. “I wish I was. High.”
“Oh. Right.” Weird. And unexpected in one that looks so neat and proper. But okay.
“Ye can get marijuana on prescription in California, you know?” Mari-joo-wana is how she pronounces it.
“Yeah? I mean, yeah. I heard that.”
“Aye.” I can feel her eyeing me through the dark frames. “I do like my holidays there. I thought you looked like an American.”
“You can tell by just looking?”
“You have’nae the right skin tone to be Scots. Not blue enough,” she adds with a sage nod.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” She’s going to be fun, I can tell.
“No, lassie, not at all. You’d be doin’ an old woman a favour by keeping her company. The name’s June, by the way. I’m Dylan’s concubine.”
I find myself hesitating as I sit. Maybe she’s going to be a little fun and a little crazy.
“Don’t be a daftie. Sit yourself down,” she scoffs. “I am his adopted granny. More like Ivy’s, but it’s himself that pays the bills.”
“I’m Holly.”
“A new friend of Ivy’s?”
“Well, I met Ivy and Dylan just recently.” When I served them haggis bonbons.
June’s gaze narrows. “That’ll have been over at Kilblair?”
“Yes. Do you know it?”
“Not really. Scotland has as many castles as some places have hovels. But Ivy told me she and the birthday boy had been invited.”
“So, you’re here for the birthday boy? The party, I mean?”
“Aye, I suppose. Truth be told, I am wherever anyone decides to wheel me.” She taps the arms of her wheelchair.
“Oh. Yes. I see.”
“But at my age, I’m just happy to still be here. And here’s my favourite wee men!” June holds out her arms as the Duffy boys come running along the terrace with Hugh and Archie in tow.
“June-y!” Harris, the younger of the two boys, throws his arms around the woman, almost climbing into her lap.
“Hello, my wee laddie! Oh, so strong you are. Such a squeeze! You’re like Arnold Schwartzhisface! Now.” She sets him back again, brushing the hair from his face. “Introduce me to your wee pals.”
“This is Hugh and Archie. They’re here for a sleepover.”
“Goodness, you are old!” Archie blurts out, his face turning immediately red as he slaps both hands to his mouth.
“Archie!” his brother hisses, pulling on his arm. “I apologise for my brother. That was unforgivably rude. You, you, don’t look old at all.”
“Oh, but I am old,” June replies, hunching her shoulders forward like an old crone.
“How old, exactly?” Archie asks, clearly fascinated.