“I wholeheartedly agree.”
“Anyway, I came out to issue you an invitation. Kennedy is making margaritas, and I wondered if we might be able to tempt you.”
“I’d love to, but I’ve got to drive home when the boys get back.”
“Why don’t you stay the night? By the time they’re back, and we’ve sung ‘Happy Birthday,’ then stuffed our faces with cake, it’ll be late. Stay—swing by the house on the way to school in the morning for their books and stuff.”
It wouldn’t be the first time. I love being here with Sandy and Holland, though I take care not to outstay my welcome. They are newlyweds, after all.
“Aren’t you sick of the sight of me?”
“Totally.” Rolling her eyes, she links her arm through mine. “I just can’t get any peace in this tiny, overcrowded hovel.” We turn back to the castle as she makes an expansive gesture to the enormous façade. “This is your home,” she adds, giving my arm a squeeze. “It always will be. You could move in with a troupe of clowns, and I would have nothing to say.”
“Well, that’s just ridiculous, your grace. Clowns are creepy.”
“So is owning your own dungeon, Lady Isla. Come on, stay,” she says, pressing her head to my bicep.
What’s waiting back home is an empty house, once the boys have gone to bed, and probably some work on my website. Solitary. Boring. “Well, if you’re sure.”
“Yay! We’re gonna get a little drunk and share all kinds of girly secrets.”
“Is it too late to change my mind?” Holland laughs. “But I have to pop to the village store first.”
“Why?” Her arms slide from mine as we come to a stop. “They have like, seven things on the shelves.”
“And one of those things are birthday candles.” Dougal, Sandy’s chef, made Hugh’s cake this year, but there aren’t any birthday candles anywhere. “I meant to get them earlier but forgot,” I say, patting the back pocket of my jeans, checking for my car keys before remembering they’re in my bag by the front door.
“Can’t have birthday cake without candles,” she agrees with a shrug. “Can’t use candelabra candles, either.” We make out way up the steps and through the open French doors. “Want me to come with?” she offers.
“It’s fine.” I give a quick shake of my head.
“I’ll tell Kennedy to hold on.”
“No, you go ahead. I won’t be long.” I turn in the direction of the entrance hall.
“Hurry back,” she calls, heading the opposite way. “We might start without you, but you’ll have to catch up. We’ll probably be on the terrace,” she adds, spinning around to walk backward. “I’m lighting the fire and taking out furry blankets.”
“I hope you don’t mean the tiger skins.”
“Eww! I almost died when Alexander told me they were real. Those mangy old things are full of holes.”
“The word you’re looking for is antique, my love.”
“Mangy,” she retorts making me chuckle all the way to the front door.
Despite Holland’s plans for furry blankets, the weather is positively balmy for a Scottish spring. And by that, I mean it’s cardigan weather, not coat weather. Although watch this space because nothing is guaranteed in Scotland, least of all the weather.
The wheels of my elderly Range Rover crackle over the gravel as I turn right out of the West Gate, which no longer has a gate but still an imposing gray stone portico. A car is parked on the other side of the quiet country road I pull onto, but I don’t think much about it as, in my rearview mirror, the castle gleams in the sunlight, the Scottish flag lying limp above the ramparts. Very unseasonable weather we’re having. Even the rugged hills seem green and inviting instead of their usual misty gray.
The village consists of a corner store, a café, a pizzeria, two pubs, and a chip shop. I pull up outside of the store, the pungent smell of fish and chips floating down the street.
I’m pleasantly surprised to find, not only birthday candles, but number-shaped silver sparklers on a rotary stand filled with celebration items. I pick up and pay for a number one and a zero, then make my way back to the car when my phone rings.
NON-CUSTODIAL PARENT lights up on the screen. This is how Tom, my ex, is listed in my phone at the moment. But it’s likely to change. It often does after I’ve had to speak to him. Sometimes, he becomes Tom the Tool or Tom the Tosspot. Sometimes he’s just Sperm Donor. When I’m really cross, he becomes That Fucker. I only do it when the boys aren’t around. I try to keep my feelings about their father to myself.
Anyway, I think about not answering it, but the temptation is too great.
“How’s Paris?” It’s a better opening than I hope the Eiffel Tower falls on you.