have complained. Last time you told me it gave you a headache, because of “all the sugar” added in the standard brands. Only the finest stuff for Miranda Adams.’
Talk about pot calling bloody kettle black. It always has to be a bit extra with him, that’s the thing. A bit more extravagance, a bit more cash. A hunger to have more than his fair share … and his job hasn’t helped with that. If in doubt, throw money at it: that is Julien’s go-to solution. Fine … mine too, if I’m being completely honest. I often like to joke that we bring out the worst in each other. But it’s probably truer than I let on.
I let him buy the bloody champagne. I know how much he wants to forget the stress of this year.
As I expected, the woman, Heather, isn’t drinking it. She’s taken one tiny sip, to be polite, and put it back down on the tray. I imagine she thinks it’s unprofessional to have more than that, and she’s right. So, thanks to Julien’s ‘generosity’ we’re going to be left with a wasted glass, tainted by this stranger’s spit.
Heather runs us through arrangements for the weekend. We’re going deer-stalking tomorrow: ‘Doug will be taking you, he’ll come and collect you early in the morning.’
Doug. I’m rather fascinated by him. I could tell he didn’t like us much. I could also tell that I made him uncomfortable. That knowledge is a kind of power.
Giles is asking Heather something about walking routes now. She takes out an OS map and spreads it across the coffee table.
‘You have lots of options,’ she’s saying. ‘It really depends on what you’re looking for – and what sort of equipment you’ve brought. Some people have arrived with all the gear: ice picks, crampons and carabiners.’
‘Er, I’m not sure that’s really us,’ Bo says, grinning. Too bloody right.
‘Well, if you want something very sedate, there’s the path around the loch, of course’ – she traces it on the map with a finger – ‘it’s a few miles, completely flat. There are a few waterfalls – but they have sturdy bridges over them, so there’s nothing to tax you too much. You could practically do it in the dark. At the other end of the scale you’ve got the Munro, which you may be interested in if you’re planning on “bagging” one.’
‘What do you mean?’ Julien asks.
‘Oh,’ she says, ‘like a trophy, I suppose. That’s what it’s called when you climb one. You claim it.’
‘Oh yes,’ he says, with a quick grin. ‘Of course – maybe I did know that.’ No, he didn’t. But Julien doesn’t like to be shown up. Even if he has no artistic sensibilities to speak of, appearances are important to my husband. The face you present to the world. What other people think of you. I know that better than anyone.
‘Or,’ she says, ‘you could do something in the middle. There’s the hike up to the Old Lodge, for example.’
‘The Old Lodge?’ Bo asks.
‘Yes. The original lodge burned down just under a century ago. Almost everything went. So not a great deal to see, but it makes a good point to aim for, and there are fantastic views over the estate.’
‘Can’t imagine anyone survived that?’ Giles says.
‘No,’ she says. ‘Twenty-four people died. No one survived apart from a couple of the stable hands, who slept in the stable block with the animals. One of the old stable blocks is still there, but it’s probably not structurally sound: you shouldn’t go too near it.’
‘And no one knows what started it?’ Bo asks. We’re all ghoulishly interested – you could hear a pin drop in here – but he looks genuinely alarmed, his glance flitting to the roaring log fire in the grate. He’s such a city boy. I bet the nearest Bo normally gets to a real fire is a flaming sambuca shot.
‘No,’ Heather says. ‘We don’t know. Perhaps a fire left unattended in one of the grates. But there is a theory …’ Heather pauses, as if not sure she should continue, then goes on. ‘There’s a theory that one of the staff, a gamekeeper, was so damaged by his experiences in the war that he set fire to the building on purpose. A kind of murder–suicide. They say the fire could be seen as far away as Fort William. It took more than a day for help to come … by which time it was too late.’
‘That’s fucked-up,’ Mark says, and grins.
I notice that Heather does not look impressed by Mark’s grin. She’s probably wondering how on earth someone could be amused by the idea of two dozen people burning to death. You have to know Mark pretty well to understand that he has a fairly dark – but on the whole harmless – sense of humour. You learn to forgive him for it. Just like we’ve all learned that Giles – while he likes to seem like Mr Easy-going – can be a bit tight when it comes to buying the next round … and not to speak to Bo until he’s had at least two cups of coffee in the morning. Or how Samira, all sweetness and light on the surface, can hold a grudge like no one else. That’s the thing about old friends. You just know these things about them. You have learned to love them. This is the glue that binds us together. It’s like family, I suppose. All that history. We know everything there is to know about one another.
Heather pulls a clipboard from under her arm, all business, suddenly. ‘Which one of you is Emma Taylor? I’ve got your credit card down as the one that paid the deposit.’
‘That’s me.’ Emma raises a hand.
‘Great. You should find all the ingredients you’ve asked for in the fridge. I have the list here. Beef fillet, unshucked oysters – Iain got them from Mallaig this morning – smoked salmon, smoked mackerel, caviar, endive, Roquefort, walnuts, one hundred per cent chocolate, eighty five per cent chocolate, quails’ eggs’– she pauses to take a breath – ‘double cream, potatoes, on-vine tomatoes …’
Christ. My own secret contribution to proceedings suddenly looks rather meagre. I try to catch Katie’s eye to share an amused look. But I haven’t seen her for so long that I suppose we’re a bit out of sync. She’s just staring out of the big windows, apparently lost in thought.
I check the list. I don’t think they’ve got the right tomatoes – they’re not baby ones – but I can probably make do. It could be worse. I suppose I’m a bit particular about my cooking: I got into it at university, and it’s been a passion of mine ever since.
‘Thank you,’ Heather says, as I hand the list back.
‘Where’d you get all this stuff?’ Bo asks. ‘Can’t be many shops around here?’
‘No. Iain went and got most of it from Inverness and brought it back on the train – it was easier.’
‘But why bother having a train station?’ Giles asks. ‘I know we got off there, but there can’t be many people using it otherwise?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘Nor have there ever. It’s a funny story, that one. The laird, in the nineteenth century, insisted that the rail company build the station, when they came to him with a proposal to put a track through his land.’
‘It must have been
