Page 44 of Duke It Out
The driver stops outside the Rosewood Sand Hotel three quarters of an hour later, reminding me that there are some advantages to living and working at Loch Morven. An effusive receptionist goes through a well-rehearsed spiel as he hands over my key and I bat away a concierge, taking my bag and heading for the elevator unattended.
Much as I hate to admit it, I know Theo’s right. After everything my father did to try and destabilise the foundation, it’s my job to pull it back into line, not for my sake, but for the sake of everyone else that’s relying on everything it stands for.
I’ve doneten days of corporate box ticking and it’s with a sense of relief that I shake Theo’s hand outside the door ofthe hotel. By anyone’s standards, that’s been quite enough schmoozing. And for someone who’s allergic to bullshit, well?—
“I’d say that was a win, wouldn’t you?” Theo loosens his tie slightly as he speaks.
“I hope so.”
I shift out of the way so the driver can lift my bag into the back of the car. All I want right now is to get on a flight back to Scotland, head up to the Highlands and see what’s happening at Loch Morven. Instead, I’ve got another ten days of the same in New York, where there will be less of the yoga and green juice and a bit more no-bullshit and cut the crap.
“One more thing before you go.” Theo pulls out his phone and scrolls.
The driver looks at his watch in a discreet but pointed manner. Even with priority we’re going to be pushed for time if the traffic’s not on our side.
“Can it wait?” I have my hand on the door, ready to climb in. Theo – determined to get his pound of flesh – is still going.
“Just had word from Rhona. The charity’s given the houses the nod, so when you get back, we need to arrange a meeting with the construction company and start getting things moving.”
“Excellent. Okay, I’ll get that sorted from my end. Email Pippa for me and tell her to sort out some meetings.”
“If only you were as enthusiastic about board meetings,” Theo says, shaking my hand. “Safe flight.”
Fortunately, the driver takes no prisoners, and we sail through to the private passport control with time to spare.
“Can I get you anything, Your Grace?”
I look up into the blue eyes of a flight attendant whosmiles at me expectantly. She leans over to place a napkin on my tray, angling herself carefully so I get a prime view of her impressive cleavage.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“I’m Sophie. Anything you want—” She smiles seductively and pauses a beat longer than necessary. “Anything. Just shout.”
The woman in the seat opposite cranes her neck to take a look at me. It’s the honorific. I need to work out a way to make it clear that there’s absolutely no need for it, but it’s the first time I’ve flown since my father died. He loved all that stuff, being waited on hand and foot and people tugging their forelock. It’s my idea of hell on earth.
The flight takes off and I watch San Francisco disappear beneath me as we soar upwards. As soon as the seatbelt lights flash off Sophie’s making a beeline in my direction with an expectant look on her face.
“I’ll have a whisky, please,” I say, heading her off at the pass.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
I open my laptop to take a look at the plans which Theo’s sent through already. Building five safe houses on the estate in conjunction with a women’s refuge charity in Inverness is something close to home, not only physically but emotionally. After what happened to Janey it seemed like the obvious way to try and make a difference, and the reports pay testimony to that.
“Rural poverty has reached record levels in the Highlands, and with it an increase in domestic violence…” I’m reading the report when the flight attendant returns, hovering a beat too long after handing me my drink.
“You must be very busy,” she says, smiling.
“I am, yes. No rest for the wicked, and all that.”
She seems to get the hint. She’s a pretty girl. I’m sure there are plenty other red-blooded men who’d take advantage when they landed in New York, invite her out for a drink and something to eat on the pretence of seeing where the evening took them when they both knew exactly what was on the cards.
“No more surprises, no scandals.” I can hear Phoebe’s brisk tones echoing in my ears. I’ve been discreet and careful for years now. Until Edie came along and blew it all out of the water. Phoebe’s new – only half joking – PR strategy is great in theory, but right now I’ve got exactly the sort of “messy entanglement” she insists we’re cutting out. Maybe I’ve got more of my father in me than I realise.
Except, of course – I down my drink in one, remembering the words that have echoed round my head for years – it’s not that simple.
I turn it over in my head as we fly across the country, the movie on the screen playing without a single moment registering in my head.
My father had been drunk, which wasn’t unusual, a half-full tumbler of malt whisky sitting on his desk when he called me in. The study had been strewn with papers, and the bottle was close by his hand. The fake bonhomie that drew people towards him had faded with my mother’s death after their divorce. I always thought of that night as the moment that something changed in him, that last glimmer of kindness was replaced with a twisted need to entertain himself with the discomfort of others.
