Set Me Free (18 page)

Torcuil

My brother's talent always manages to surprise me, even if I've listened to him a million times, even if I grew up hearing him play. His violin speaks and sings and cries, and the whole hall is silent and enraptured. Margherita is not here yet. I keep looking at the door, hoping she'll walk in at any moment . . . And finally she does, all dressed in red like an exotic flower. Her hair is down – I hadn't realised it was so long, it nearly reaches her waist, a cascade of black. Suddenly, my life seems as if it were a sea of muted colours, the grey of the loch and of the stones of Ramsay Hall, the grey in my mind – until she arrived like a little flame, to set everything on fire.

The music keeps going and nobody stirs at her entrance, while it seems to me that everything should stand still now, everything should be ablaze, because that's how it feels in my mind. The fire she kindled in me when we had dinner together in Aberdeen, and on the loch shore, is burning again, even stronger.

She catches my eye and smiles, and I look down. She comes to sit beside me, and her perfume – something flowery and deep, something that makes me think of night in a warm country – envelopes me. She closes her eyes as Angus's bow dances on the strings, and I see her melting to the music. I have to resist taking her hand – too many eyes watching – and all my muscles freeze in the effort not to touch her.

When the concert is finished an insane amount of people want to say hello to me. That is what happens in small villages, especially if you don't show your face that often. Finally, I manage to extricate myself and reach my brother, who's standing with the band, his violin still in hand. Though he lives twenty minutes from me, he's always travelling and we don't see each other as often as we'd like. What happened years ago with Izzy left no trace in our relationship – not on my part, anyway. I have no resentment, but I know he feels guilty towards me. But he shouldn't. He didn't look to destroy my happiness, he never meant it to happen.

“That was wonderful, Angus,” I say, looking into his eyes. Angus looks straight out of a history book – he's a Viking, with reddish-blond hair, ice-blue eyes and a straight, proud nose.

“Ah, I don't know. Thanks anyway.”

My brother never accepts a compliment.

“This is Margherita . . .”

“Hello, how are you?” They exchange hellos and nice-to-meet-you's, while my gaze goes from one to the other and I wonder if my brother
knows
.

I wonder if he knows that I'm falling in love.

Shit.

I'm falling in love.

“. . . so I'm not here often . . .”

“. . . it's my mum's coffee shop, yes . . .”

Angus and Margherita are having a conversation, but I have no idea what they're saying. I can't follow. I hear myself saying “See you tomorrow” to my brother, and find myself outside the village hall under a sky full of stars.

“So, thanks for coming,” I scramble.

“It was lovely. Really, really lovely. I haven't heard live music for ages, and I've never heard Scottish music before, I don't think, unless you count the
Rob Roy
soundtrack and that was a tragic film, wasn't it, but then I love a good tear-jerker and . . .”

Wait a minute. She's rambling. She's
nervous
!

I'm not the only one who's nervous!

That's a relief.

“Are you walking?” I ask her.

“Yes. I mean, it was too close to take the car
—
”

“But too far to walk on your own at night.”

She laughed. “It's not night. It's not even ten o' clock. Check your Peppa Pig watch.”

“I bought a new one, see? This one is not pink and has no pigs on it.” I show her my new grown-up watch, feeling like an idiot. “Anyway, let me walk you home . . .”

“Yes, that'd be safer. You never know what might happen in Glen Avich, with its criminal underbelly.”

“Was that gritty drama not set in Glen Avich, what was it,
The Wire
?”

“
The Chicken Wire
, you mean.”

“Oh, yes, that one. Like
24
, with Malchie McNally standing in for Jack Bauer.”

“Terrorists threaten to kidnap Mrs Gordon . . .”

“Who's a secret agent in disguise . . .”

“But Malchie whisks her away with his post van and saves the day.”

We chat as we walk. Music, food, how Scotland gets these incredibly beautiful summer days and then it pours for three days after . . . All throughout I keep trying to catch a glimpse of her profile without looking like I'm staring. This is all extremely complicated and not at all straightforward. If only there was a rulebook . . .

“Well. Bye, then. Thanks for a lovely night.”

Oh. We are in front of her house. Oh no. She's going to go now.

How do I stop it?

“Oh, no problem. Bye, then,” I say, and then another little “bye”.

And then she turns around, and without a word she takes me by the hand. She leads me away from the houses and the streets, across the bridge and into the woods.

Margherita

It happened. I fell into him.

It must have been the music. Music always does strange things to me. Life was flowing through my veins and I couldn't stop it. I was full of joy and fear all mixed together, and I didn't care about anything but that moment. We stood alone in the shelter of the woods, and the night was so still, like we were the last two people on earth. From a distant tree came the hoot of an owl.

I kissed him, my eyes closed and my heart wide open, and it was perfect – there was no way I could have stopped myself – and then, all of a sudden, he pushed me away.

Gently – but he pushed me away.

“I'm sorry, I can't do this,” he whispered.

To feel him going away from me left me
mourning
.

It left me freezing, like my heart was going to ice over and then break into a hundred pieces. Why? Why was he pushing me away? I couldn't possibly have misunderstood what was happening between us.

“No. Of course. Of course, sorry,” I forced myself to say.

“You don't understand . . .”

“Of course I do. I
completely
understand . . .” I was mortified as tears began to fall down my cheeks. Oh, the shame. How could joy turn into humiliation so quickly?

And most of all, what was I doing?

What was I doing here in the Scottish night, away from my children and kissing someone who wasn't my husband?

“No, you don't.”

“I do! I do! I'm sorry. Honestly, it's okay. I'm just going to go home
—
”

“You need to let me explain. I don't want to do this because
—
” He shook his head.

“Because it's wrong, I know!”

“No. Because it's
right
. Margherita, when you and I are together, I feel . . . alive. Like I haven't felt in years. I've already fallen too far. If we do this now, and then you go, I couldn't bear it. I will only do this when you promise me you won't go. Can you promise me that?”

I stood in front of him, my mouth agape.

“If I kiss you now, if I take you home with me, if you stay the night, can you promise me that tomorrow morning you won't go away from me?”

Slowly, I shook my head.

I couldn't. My life was completely up in the air, and I couldn't make promises. To anyone. Not even to myself.

I couldn't take this kind, kind man's heart in my hands and then let it fall.

“That's what I thought.”

“I'd better go,” I whispered desolately.

“Let me walk you home
—
”

“No. No, it's okay. I'm fine on my own, honestly.”

Tears were still flowing down my face as I stepped away from him, and then a hand closed around mine and pulled me back. Without a word, Torcuil held me close to him, like he never wanted to let me go. I nestled against him.

“I can't promise what you asked,” I said. I wanted to, but how could I?

“I know. But you can't stop me from hoping.”

Lara

Dear Kitty.

I have been kissed.

My first kiss.

Apart from when that boy in summer camp tried to smooch me when we were seven, and caught my nose instead, and then he tried again and I whacked him with a Frisbee. Yes, I know I'm nearly fifteen, how come it never happened before, etc. I have no idea why. I've only liked Ian since we started High School, and he never really saw me, let alone fancied me.

But now Mal is in my life.

With Mal, everything is different.

Everything makes sense to my heart. Everything makes sense in my life.

We were beside the water, really really close to each other. He seemed so sad.

“I'm cold. Will you hold me?” he said. So I did: I wrapped my arms around his neck and I held him close, trying to warm him up. We stayed like that for a while, and I could feel him trembling.

“You won't let me go back there?”

What
back there
? Whatever it was, it didn't sound good.

‘No. Never. You'll stay here with me.”

And then his lips looked for mine, and he kissed me.

Mal's lips were very soft and cold, but his hands were rough. Not like
he
was rough, not at all – he was so gentle, and sweet, and perfect. I mean, his skin was rough, like someone who works with his hands.

I think I DIED there and then.

I am so thankful I had no glasses on. It was so much better with him being able to touch my face without knocking my glasses off or leaving fingerprints on my lenses and everything turning from beautiful to embarrassing.

The Ian thing seems so childish now: this is
serious
.

I'm not sure if we are together as such, though. I'm not really sure if he's my boyfriend, but I'd like him to be.

We kissed for a little while, and then he said he had to go, that he couldn't stay long. He was shivering and looking quite ill. Maybe he caught something. If he did, now I have it too, but I don't care. What's a cold when you've just been kissed by someone who is perfect?

Like he's come out of a dream.

Oh. I'm not sure I like that thought. Because dreams end when you wake up, and I never, never want to wake up from this one.

Margherita

Torcuil left me on my doorstep with one last, heartbreaking embrace and a kiss that was too quick, too gentle.

I was reeling. I couldn't find peace as I stepped through my mum's house quietly, careful not to make too much noise. Leo was sleeping with Nonna tonight, because I'd been out for the evening, while Lara slept in the cottage. I wished I could just switch all the lights on in the kitchen and start cooking, to drain away some nervous energy, but I couldn't wake everybody up.

I felt my lips with my fingers – they were still tingly and soft, and it was torture.

I was too old for all this. I was supposed to be settled at my age, and there I was, having left my husband, pining for someone else, with two children whose well-being depended on me. I looked through the window up at the sky – it was full of stars, not a cloud in sight, which was uncommon for Glen Avich. The beauty of the sky brought tears to my eyes again, and I hated myself for it. I'd turned into a heroine from one of Lara's books, crying and swooning. This wasn't me. I had to pull myself together – and then my phone rang, impossibly loud in the silence of the night, making me jump out of my skin. I rummaged in my bag to find it and switch it off as quickly as I could, and my heart sank as I saw Ash's name flash on the screen.

I couldn't believe it. He hadn't phoned me in weeks. Why now? Did he have some strange radar that told him I had actually got close to another man?

As the thought formed in my mind, the full realisation hit me.
I kissed Torcuil.
I had kissed a man who wasn't Ash.

I'd never thought I could do something like this, never. Not with the way I'd been brought up, not with the way I'd planned to live my life.

And yet, it happened. And it had been magical, and perfect.

How long had Ash and I not kissed, anyway? Apart from a peck on the cheek at Christmas and birthdays? We were always too busy, or too tired, or just not thinking of it at all.

So now my phone was off; Ash couldn't reach me any more. But then I felt terribly guilty. Maybe something had happened. Maybe he needed me. He did have my mum's number, of course, but would he use it?

And anyway, I had to speak to him sooner or later. I couldn't just blank him. It might as well be now, when the guilt I felt was at its highest. I deserved to be struck back into reality. I walked to the back of the cottage and switched the phone back on. As it came to life, I was surprised at how intensely
I didn't want
to speak to my husband.

I didn't want to hear his voice.

I didn't want to be plunged back into self-doubt and loneliness and recriminations, which was the effect he always had on me.

And yet I couldn't just ignore his call.

I braced myself, my heart pounding as I pressed the little green icon.

Hello, Ash Ward here, I
'm not available right now but leave a message and I'll call you back. Ta.

For a moment, I wanted to put the phone down. But I resisted the impulse.

“It's me. I'm sorry I missed your call. We are all well . . . I hope you are okay. Right. Speak soon.”

I dragged myself inside and took off my bright-red tunic – a thought flashed through my mind, a memory of a film I'd seen about an adulterous woman forced to wear a scarlet letter. I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror.

I looked different. It wasn't just the red-rimmed eyes and that my lips were a bit swollen after his kisses; it was something in my eyes.

I'm not sure what.

I brought my fingers to my lips once again, remembering Torcuil's kiss . . . And then a loud chirp made me jump. I had forgotten to switch the phone off again, and the bathroom was the only place inside the cottage where it worked. It was a text from Ash.

Sorry, the phone was in my pocket. I called you by mistake.