Dylan Duffy is, I surmise, the Hollywood actor we have staying this weekend. “How interesting.”
“I’m not supposed to know because it’s a big lollywood secret. But Fergus told me.”
“It’s Hollywood,” Hugh interjects with another roll of his eyes.
“You might need to see an optometrist, Hugh. The muscles at the side of your eyeballs might snap then you’ll end up looking at the inside of your head for the rest of your life. That wouldn’t be very interesting, would it?”
“Ha, ha! That’s because you have an empty head,” Arch taunts.
“How interesting,” the little shit intones. “That’s exactly what you say, Uncle Sandy, when you don’t give a stuff.”
“Have you been feeding these two raw meat?” I ask, turning to my sister.
“No, I think the Dalforth genes have just kicked in.”
I pull a face. Isla and I argued at least four times a day until we were at least sixteen.
“Only eight more years, give or take.”
“Give,” I reply over the strains of you’re mean along with the classic comeback of you smell like Gertie’s farty arse. “Give them away,” I say, glancing meaningfully their way. “Definitely.”
“That is enough,” Isla warns, hands on her hips. I’m almost certain she means her sons. Almost. And while the pair don’t stop sniping, they do bring the noise level down a decibel or two.
“How are our esteemed guests?” I ask with a grimace. I’m looking ahead to an evening of small talk like I would having a hole drilled in the head. At least Van and Matteo are here. It’s been a while since we spent a weekend together. Unfortunately, Portia is also here. She was a last-minute inclusion to the party after Isla said we were a female guest short.
“Fine. The director is very Hollywood, but his wife is pleasant enough. The big movie star, Dylan Duffy, is delightful. His wife is a fellow Scot,” she adds reflectively, her gaze almost turning inward. “He seems to love her very much.”
“A man being in love with his wife? How novel.” But she doesn’t answer. “Isla?”
“And their boys are lovely,” she adds brightly, almost shaking herself.
“Are you all right?”
In response, she sends a cautionary glance her children’s way.
“Later, then.”
“Much later. Drinks are at half past seven,” she adds brightly. “I’ll try not to be late, but I can’t make any promises. I need to find a trowel to help me apply my makeup tonight.”
“Rubbish,” I say, placing my hands on her shoulders. “You are as lovely as ever.”
“And you should save your flattery for women you might actually be able to marry.”
My answer is a placating smile because I have no intentions of doing so ever again.
HOLLY
I spend the rest of the afternoon hanging out in the kitchen, drinking coffee, and sharing morsels of food with old Gertie. I watch as people come and go, toing and froing, all for the benefit of the Duke of Dalforth and his fancy guests.
I decide Dougal is less like the captain of a ship and more like a regimental sergeant, presiding over a battalion of two, eager with their calls of, “Oui, Chef!” Because Dougal orders his minions about in French. Hearing French spoken with a Scottish accent is a treat, let me tell you.
Mr McCain, the butler, has spent most of the afternoon in the dining room, apparently with a tape measure, running an operation called mise en place, which I told mean put into place. So basically preparing the formal dining table. Starched linens, silverware, glassware, china, and so on. Table settings are, so I’m told, a serious business. Posh people are weird, but surely even they can’t tell if their water glass is half a centimetre off compared to the next place setting.
Meanwhile, every time I think about going to shower or to start getting ready, I push it off a little longer. And maybe that’s where things begin to go wrong.
“Oh, Holly dear,” Chrissy exclaims, her ample form bustling into the kitchen. “Thank goodness you’re still here, Holly.”
“What can I do for you?” My gaze darts around the room, almost expecting to see a fire that needs putting out. Or maybe an escape route.
“It’s Mari. She’s suddenly looking awful peely-wally.”
“I don’t know what that is,” I answer hesitantly.
“She means she’s sick,” supplies one of the chefs whose names I don’t know.
“Och, it’s bad,” she says heavily, “Very bad. She says she feels sick, and she can’t serve if she’s going to boak.”
“She means vomit,” the same young man adds next.
“Oh.” I pull a face. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Do you think it’s something she’s eaten?” I ask hopefully, while mentally calculating when I was last near enough to her to catch something viral.
“I don’t know,” Chrissy answers, exasperated. “I can’t think about that now. We’re short someone to serve.”
“And you want me to help out?”
“Could ye?” she asks hopefully.