Читать книгу The Family Secret - Tracy Buchanan, Tracy Buchanan - Страница 13

I heard Dylan before I saw him, the sound of his heavy boots on the still intact ice and his quick breath. Then I smelt cigars and whisky. He leaned over me, all coal-dark hair and eyelashes. There was a look of panic in his eyes. He wrapped one long arm around my chest, yanking me up from the freezing loch and carefully treading ice to walk me back to the loch’s banks.

When we got to the bank, I tried to wrap my arms around myself, the cold unbearable. Dylan placed his thick woollen coat around my shoulders then pulled me onto his lap and rubbed my arms. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked in a thick Scottish accent. ‘Tell me you’re okay.’

‘N-n-n-n-not the time to be m-m-m-making a pass,’ I managed to stutter.

Relief spread across his face. ‘If this is how men make passes at you, then God help you. Body warmth means life,’ he said with a quick smile that showed straight, white teeth.

I leant into him, exhausted, as he rubbed my arms. He was wearing a black jumper, its tough wool scratching at my freezing cheeks. We stayed like that a few moments before my trembling stopped. Then he leant over, one arm still wrapped around me, dragged a rucksack towards him and pulled a hip flask from it.

‘Whisky fixes everything,’ he said, biting the top off with his teeth and handing it to me.

‘Could you get any more Scottish?’ I asked, taking a sip and welcoming the warmth as it snaked through my insides.

His smile widened, his brown eyes sparkling as they explored my face.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said matter-of-factly.

‘For God’s sake.’ I shoved the hip flask into his chest and stood up, swaying slightly. I was used to this, men trying it on. Frankly, it did my head in and distracted me from what I needed to do: my filming. I shook my head, trying to disperse the icy fingers clutching at my mind, and half stumbled, half jogged to the water’s edge, where I knelt down so I could grab my camera from a worryingly thin sheet of ice nearby.

Dylan laughed as he stood, revealing his full six foot three. ‘It’s just an aesthetic observation, not a come-on,’ he explained. ‘Don’t take it so hard. Anyway, you’re not exactly in any position to look unkindly upon me. You trespassed on my land, after all.’

‘So that’s your house then?’ I asked, gesturing towards the lodge.

‘My family’s home, the magnificent and mighty McCluskys,’ he said with a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

‘That’s one mighty house,’ I said, checking my camera.

‘And that’s an impressive piece of kit,’ he said. ‘You make films?’

‘Wildlife documentaries.’

He raised an impressed eyebrow. ‘The female David Attenborough.’

‘I’m the one behind the camera. You know, the ones that do the hard work?’

As I said that, I felt my head go hazy. I swayed slightly and Dylan clutched my arm. ‘I think we need to get you inside,’ he said, all the joviality gone from his face. ‘Get you warm.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said, pulling my arm away from his grip. ‘I’ll get the engine started, turn the heaters on.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I have a warm house with access to a roaring fire, a bath and multiple clothing options thanks to my sisters … who will also be there, just in case you’re worried I’m an axe murderer,’ he added with a smile.

I couldn’t help but smile back.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘As long as your family forgive me for trespassing.’

‘Once they find out why, they’ll forgive you anything. This Christmas Eve will always be referred to as “that Christmas Eve the wildlife documentary-maker trespassed on our land”. Trust me, they’ll be delighted someone like you was the one doing it. What were you hoping to film here anyway, the bearded Scottish male?’ he asked, stroking his dark beard.

I shook my head. ‘I was filming a ptarmigan. I was actually lost and came across the loch.’

His handsome face lit up. ‘Beautiful birds. I see them a lot from the house, nestling up in the mountain there.’

We both looked towards the mountains and a hint of sadness flickered over his face. Then he turned to me, putting out his hand. ‘I’m Dylan, by the way.’

‘Gwyneth,’ I replied, taking his freezing hand and trying to ignore the spark of electricity between us.

As Dylan and I walked to the lodge, the sky turned a scarlet red, offering a stark contrast to the white of the lodge’s icy roof and the snow-fringed mountains beyond. It was really quite something.

‘It’s beautiful here,’ I said.

‘Yep,’ Dylan replied. But I sensed reluctance in his voice. I suppose he was used to the place.

When we got to the lodge, Dylan paused, taking a slug of whisky from his hipflask as he stared up at the windows. I couldn’t quite figure out the look on his face. It was like he was readying himself for battle. He turned and offered me some of his drink. I took his flask and had a quick sip before handing it back.

The lodge looked even bigger up close, fringed with a veranda and vast windows looking out over the lake. In one window was a Christmas tree that reached up towards a vaulted ceiling, scores of beautifully wrapped presents beneath it. A young boy of about four was sitting by a toy railway, watching in rapture as a small train letting out actual steam chugged by. Next to him, a black Labrador sat obediently. I wondered for a moment if the boy was Dylan’s son. Beyond the tree were two huge sofas facing each other, draped with fur throws, an ornate wooden coffee table between them, strewn with books and toys. Each window of the house had candles flickering in it, creating a warm, friendly glow.

As I took it in, I felt like a teenager again. After shifts at the hotel, I’d sometimes walk the streets of London at night, peering into the windows of the grand town houses nearby. I did it a lot at Christmas, imagining myself in there with my family. Remembering how it had once been, surrounded by the family I thought would for ever be devoted to me. I’d looked up the definition of ‘devotion’ once: Love, loyalty or enthusiasm for a person or activity. That summed up what being a parent is. Love, loyalty and enthusiasm … no matter what. But there had been a limit for my parents.

I noticed Dylan watching me, a slight wrinkle in his forehead. I forced a smile. ‘Very festive,’ I said, gesturing to the huge Christmas tree in the window.

‘The McCluskys don’t do anything by halves,’ he replied as we walked towards the front door. He opened it and gestured for me to step in before him. I was instantly struck by the contrast between the house’s chilly exterior and warm interior: inviting oak panelling, the smell of an open fire and Christmas spices, the delicious warmth of its air compared to the icy white setting outside. A large patterned rug lay in the middle of the hallway, and two wooden stairways swept up towards a balconied landing. Another Christmas tree stood at the back of the hall, so high the star at the top reached the top of the railing on the balcony. A stag-antler chandelier hung from the ceiling on chains, golden lights glistening.

It was just Dylan and me in the hallway, but I could hear talking in the distance, laughter, the faint trace of Christmas music tinkling from speakers. I could also hear people walking around on the floorboards above me. Perhaps they were getting ready for dinner in their rooms.

Now I felt even more like an impostor.

The sound of barking rang out and two glossy black Labradors came scooting through, nearly knocking me off my feet as they jumped up at me. ‘Down, down,’ Dylan said, shoving them out of the way. ‘Dad never trained them for anything but fetching game.’

‘I don’t mind,’ I said, fussing over them. ‘I love dogs.’

Dylan helped me shrug my wet coat off. ‘I’ll show you to the guest room,’ he said. ‘You can have a bath, shower, whatever you prefer. I’ll dig some of my sisters’ clothes out for you.’

I hesitated. ‘Are you sure this is okay?’

‘You’ve had a near-death experience. Go sort yourself out, and I’ll warn the others we have a trespasser in our home,’ he added with a faint smile. He placed the wet items on a radiator and led me up the stairs. I held onto the rail, looking around me. There were no family photos on the walls, just shelves containing beautiful wooden sculptures of trees, animals, the lodge itself.

‘These are good,’ I said, pausing in front of one that depicted a stag standing proud in the middle of an iced loch.

He picked it up, smiling at he looked at it. ‘Of course they are. I did them.’

‘Really?’ I said looking at him in surprise. ‘Is it what you do for a living?’

He placed the sculpture back down again with a thud. ‘No, just a hobby,’ he replied tightly. ‘I work for the family business.’

‘And that is?’ I asked as we continued climbing the stairs.

‘Building homes like this,’ he said, gesturing around him.

I wanted to ask him if he enjoyed it, or if he’d rather be creating wooden sculptures for a job. The latter, I guessed from the look on his face, but I didn’t get the chance as just then a young woman walked out of one of the rooms. She was delicately boned but tall like Dylan, dark-haired too. She was wearing all black: black leggings, a long, mohair black jumper. I couldn’t figure out how old she was. She held herself like a teenager, maybe seventeen or eighteen, but there was a look in her eyes that suggested she might be older.

She stopped abruptly when she saw me, tilting her head in confusion.

‘This is my little sister Heather,’ he said. ‘Heather, meet Gwyneth. She nearly died trespassing our land so I thought I’d extend her the courtesy of a warm bath and dry clothes.’

‘Did you shoot her like the last person who trespassed?’ Heather asked, eyes narrowing as she looked me all over.

‘Not this time,’ Dylan replied with a sigh.

I didn’t know whether to take them seriously. But then they both laughed.

‘Only kidding.’ Heather stepped towards me, putting out her hand. ‘Welcome to the madhouse, Gwyneth.’

I shook her hand. It felt very small and very cold, a surprise considering how warm it was in the house.

‘Gwyneth makes wildlife documentaries,’ Dylan said. ‘You should see her camera.’

Heather smiled in excitement. ‘Wow, really?’

‘Yes, that was why I was on the lake.’ I was in a rush to explain. ‘I wanted to film a bird, a rare one.’

‘That’s ace, Mum and Dad would love the loch to be in a documentary.’

‘Heather wants to make films,’ Dylan said, smiling affectionately at his sister. ‘She’s doing film studies at Leeds University.’

‘That’s cool,’ I said.

She nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, I want to direct them. Do you know anything about directing?’

‘A little.’

‘Excellent, we can talk about it over dinner,’ Heather declared as she went to skip down the stairs.

‘Oh, I’m not staying for dinner,’ I called out after her. ‘I’m just going to get out of these clothes then be on my way.’

‘Absolutely not,’ a deep voice from below said. I looked down the stairs to see a man in his fifties or sixties walk out from beneath the stair balcony. He was wearing an expensive-looking crimson cashmere jumper and dark blue cords. I could see Dylan in him: the dark, mischievous eyes, the handsome face and broad shoulders. I could see he was made of money too. There was something about people who had money; I saw it in the guests at the hotel who stayed in the presidential suite. A hands-in-pockets confidence that came with knowing the zero signs on your bank statement were a sign of good rather than bad.

Dylan leaned over the banister. ‘Dad, this is Gwyneth. She makes wildlife documentaries.’

‘So I just heard. Now this is what I call a welcome visitor.’ Dylan’s father walked up the stairs and put his hand out to me. ‘Oscar McClusky.’

I looked at his smiling face in surprise as I took his hand. ‘I trespassed on your land, you know.’

Oscar laughed. ‘As long as you got some good footage of that beautiful ptarmigan I saw gliding across the loch?’

‘You saw me?’

‘Who do you think told Dylan to go rescue you and bring you to dinner?’

I couldn’t help but smile, shaking my head in surprise. ‘So it was all part of your grand plan?’

‘I was intrigued,’ Oscar admitted. ‘A young lady with a camera like that. I didn’t realise the ice was so thin. We were skating on it only yesterday, weren’t we, Heather?’

He went to his daughter and pulled her close to him as she blinked rapidly. Then she smiled up at him, nodding. I had a flashback of my own father pulling me close for a cuddle. It was quickly replaced by a memory of us standing outside my aunt’s hotel all those years ago, avoiding each other’s gaze, unsure how to say goodbye.

‘You’ll stay for dinner?’ Heather asked me, eyes hopeful.

I looked at Dylan and he shrugged. ‘You might as well. The next place you’ll be able to grab a bite to eat is two hours’ drive away, as the village has shut down for Christmas.’

My tummy rumbled, trying to assert itself. Truth was, I was freezing and hungry. The last thing I wanted to do was return to my car. Plus the family intrigued me. ‘Thank you. That would be lovely,’ I said.

Half an hour later, I walked down the stairs in Heather’s jeans, smoothing down the ice-blue cashmere jumper she’d lent me. It still had its tags on it, the price too: £150! I bought most of my clothes from a cheap outdoors shop I’d found in East London, thick fleeces and trousers ideal for the work I did. I did have the occasional expensive dress for the awards ceremonies and industry events I was sometimes invited to, and the odd date too – when I had the time and felt like company. Expensive jumpers like this were alien to me though.

I stopped in the hallway, hearing the sound of laughter from behind one of the doors. I twisted my long blonde hair around so it fell over one shoulder to look more presentable before I entered the room. Then I pushed the door open to reveal a huge dining area, and several people smiling up at me from a long mahogany table laden with food. I quickly checked it to make sure there were some vegetarian items for me and there was. The ceiling sloped down one side of the dining room, spotlights travelling up it. At the other end was a triangle window that took up the entire wall and looked out onto the stunning snow-topped mountains.

Dylan stood up, pulling the chair next to him out for me. Heather sat on the other side of my chair, and Oscar was at the head of the table by the window. Next to Dylan were two men who looked like him. Opposite them were two women and the young boy I’d seen earlier. Sitting in front of me at the other head of the table was an older woman with dark hair in a plait down her back. She turned and looked me up and down, no smiles.

They were all dark, tall and Amazonian apart from one of the women who was petite with blonde hair cut short.

‘This is Gwyneth, Mother,’ Dylan said to the woman at the head of the table as I took the seat next to him.

‘The trespasser,’ Oscar said with a wicked smile.

I felt my face flush.

‘It’s fine,’ the man next to Dylan said. ‘You had good reason, so I hear. I’m Cole, by the way.’ He was clean-shaven and handsome, wearing a dark suit and sitting straight-backed in his chair. He looked very much like Dylan but had their father’s blue eyes instead of their mother’s brown ones. ‘And this is my wife, Rhonda,’ he said, gesturing towards the blonde woman sitting across from me. ‘And that there is our boy, Alfie.’

Rhonda smiled at me. ‘I hear you’re a documentary-maker, how fascinating. Did you hear that, Alfie? This lady makes films about animals.’

The boy looked up from playing with some toy cars and gazed at me curiously. ‘Do you see dinosaurs?’

Everyone laughed, including Dylan’s mother, whose face lit up. I could see Heather in her now, the more elfin-like features compared to Oscar’s Romanesque handsomeness. Slimmer and more ethereal too.

‘She’d have to travel all the way to the land before time for that,’ the man next to Cole said. He looked younger than Dylan and Cole, slimmer and more elfin-featured too, like his mother and Heather. But he was still tall, broad by most standards, handsome too. He was wearing a jumper, but it wasn’t plain like the others. Instead, it was black with primary-coloured blocks around the arms, and his black hair was spiked up. Clearly a lover of fashion like some of the younger editors I sometimes worked with in the States.

‘I’m Glenn,’ he said, waving at me.

‘The baby of the family,’ Dylan explained.

‘My baby,’ his mother said, stroking his arm.

He jokingly swept her arm away. ‘I’m twenty-five, Mother.’

‘Oh, so you don’t want that loan you asked me for this morning?’ she asked, raising a cool eyebrow.

He leant in towards her, pretending to gurgle like a baby. ‘Yes please, Mama.’

Everyone laughed.

‘I’m Alison,’ the woman sitting beside Rhonda said. ‘One of the sisters,’ she added. She was wearing a long flowing dress and a tribal necklace, henna tattoos on her hands. She looked tanned compared to the others and I guessed was the oldest of the siblings, maybe in her late thirties.

‘Nice to meet you all,’ I said. ‘I appreciate you inviting me into your home despite—’

‘Illegally entering our land,’ Dylan’s mother finished for me in a cold voice, all the warmth she’d just shown to her family gone.

Everyone went quiet. It was clear she was the head of this family.

‘Mother …’ Dylan said in a low voice.

‘But she did, didn’t she?’ she replied.

‘For the right reasons, Mairi,’ her husband said.

‘No, she’s right,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have done it. I get carried away sometimes. Someone I used to know …’ I swallowed, the memory of my recent loss still so painful. I looked down at my napkin, pulling at it with my fingers. ‘He told me there’s a fine line between determination and rudeness.’ I looked up into Mairi’s eyes, suddenly so desperate for her approval, for all of their approval. ‘I crossed that line today. This is your land, your home. I was wrong and I will leave now, if that’s what you feel is best.’

I went to get up but she raised her hand to stop me. Then she gestured towards the candles that flickered on the sill of a small window above. ‘Each Christmas, we place candles in our windows to let strangers know they are welcome. You are welcome,’ she said, gesturing for me to sit back down. I did so hesitantly. ‘Just don’t trespass again,’ she added with a wink. The tension in the room suddenly dispersed. She turned to her family. ‘Shall we eat?’

Over the next two hours, we ate dinner, drank wine too, lots of it, served by a middle-aged woman with white hair who I presume was their housemaid.

I learnt Oscar had worked his way up from being a builder and woodsman to run a multi-million-pound building company that supplied many business and private owners with wood-clad buildings like this. His oldest son, Cole, was the managing director, Oscar taking a back seat for a reason nobody made clear. But I guessed from the fact he didn’t drink more than a glass of wine and resisted second helpings that it might have something to do with his health, despite how fit he looked.

Glenn, the youngest brother, wrote and illustrated children’s books that could be found in bookstores around the country, and Dylan’s older sister Alison, after ‘the most God-awful divorce’, as she described it to me, was trying to figure out her place in life, travelling and taking photos for a book she was planning. Cole’s wife Rhonda dedicated her time to volunteering and being a mum.

Despite their clear advantages – the apparent wealth and freedom with which they were able to live their lives – they seemed very down to earth. Maybe it was because of Mairi, who clearly kept a tight rein on them, scolding them with a look if any of them said something out of turn.

As they all talked, I watched Dylan at times. He could be playful and charming like his father, but I could see a hint of the serious intent his mother possessed. I thought of what he’d said earlier – ‘You’re beautiful’ – and realised he was simply stating what he thought, as his mother seemed to do. There really was nothing seedy about it.

‘Where’s your next shoot, Gwyneth?’ Oscar asked me.

‘Iceland. There’s a beach there made of ice where seals like to flock. It’s in the southeast on the Jökulsárlón glacial lagoon.’

‘I know it,’ Oscar said with a smile. ‘In fact, the first lodge Dylan ever worked on is based an hour or so away in Kirkjubæjarklaustur.’

Dylan looked up, eyes alight. ‘God, I loved working on that place.’

I smiled at his enthusiasm. Maybe he did enjoy his job?

‘How did you get into making documentaries, Gwyneth?’ Cole asked.

‘I had a mentor, Reginald Carlisle.’

‘That man’s a legend,’ Oscar said. ‘In fact, I have his book upstairs.’

Surprise registered on Mairi’s face. ‘He passed away a few months ago, didn’t he?’

I nodded. It still hurt to think of it, holding his frail hand as his ninety-year-old body finally gave in.

Mairi fixed me with her dark gaze. ‘He clearly meant a lot to you.’

Dylan watched me, the whole table silent.

‘He did,’ I whispered.

I thought back to the first time I met Reg. Some of the wildlife documentary-makers at the hotel I worked at would talk of one particular man with reverent awe. I looked out for him and eventually discovered who he was, a man in his sixties who would always be the first down for breakfast at 6.30am. He barely said a word and would often be reading a wildlife book, hardly looking up as I served him his breakfast, thick silver eyebrows knitted in concentration.

One day, while I was at the library borrowing one of the books I’d seen him read, I was shocked to find one with his face on the back. In the Deep Alaskan Winter by Reginald Carlisle. It turned out he was one of the pioneers of wildlife filming, a legend in the documentary-making community. I read that book every night, disappearing into the beautiful but savage Alaskan landscape he described, a landscape that nearly claimed his life when he was trapped in heavy snow there for two weeks while making a series for the BBC.

When I saw him again, I placed the book on his table as he ate breakfast. He paused from his reading, his blue eyes rising to examine my face.

‘I was wondering if you could sign it?’ I said, trying to keep the stammer from my voice. The truth was, he’d become a hero of sorts to me. Other teenagers were into John, Paul, George and Ringo, but my rockstar was a wildlife documentary-maker. No wonder the other girls at the hotel didn’t talk to me!

Reg opened the book and after a brief pause, scribbled on it before snapping it shut and handing it back without a word, his attention quickly returned to the book he was reading. Only when I got back to my little room in the hotel’s attic that night did I see what he’d written.

Next time, buy a book instead of stealing one from a library.

The next morning, as I poured him his tea, I battled over whether to talk to him again. ‘I didn’t steal the book,’ I eventually managed in a small voice.

He gave me a silent look.

‘I extended the loan,’ I continued.

‘Then gave it to me to desecrate.’

I dipped my chin to my chest. ‘I know. I’d buy a copy except—’

‘You’re a poor waitress. How old are you anyway?’

‘Sixteen,’ I lied. Truth was, I was fifteen, just. And while it was fine to work at that age, my aunt didn’t like me broadcasting it. ‘I don’t get paid much.’

‘So? I used to be like you once, didn’t have two pennies to rub together,’ he said, fire in his eyes. ‘But I did something about it. And you can too if you set your mind to it.’

The next day was a rest day. I got one day off a week and usually spent it walking around London alone, visiting the free museums and attractions. But that day, I pulled on my hand-me-down winter coat and stomped out into the cold armed with a wood-effect Filmo camera I’d ‘borrowed’ off a documentary-maker. He’d been so distracted drinking the night before he didn’t notice me sneak it from his side. I was planning to return it to him when I finished. Well, to the hotel’s lost property anyway, in the hope he’d mention its loss to reception. Sure, I felt slightly guilty. But at least he’d get it back. There were many things in my fifteen years I’d loved and lost, never to be seen again.

The night before, I’d barely got any sleep, playing with the damn thing and trying to figure out how it worked until I finally cracked it at 3am.

As I stepped out of the hotel with it in my bag, I thought of the techniques Reg had mentioned in his book:

Shoot tight. Zoom in on a stabbing hoof. A pecking beak. Two stark wide eyes. These shots can be used to create a story in the editing room.

Get down to the animal’s level, even if it means lying in dirt on your belly.

Film with the sunlight on your back if you want to see the animal’s true colours.

I must have looked a right sight that morning, lying belly down on London’s grimy paths, camera pointing out towards the Thames as I filmed a grey heron diving into water. Or lying on a bench and looking up to the sky to film pigeons in flight. Of course, I wished I was in Alaska instead, filming polar bears, but this would need to do. As I made my way back to the hotel, I walked with my head held high despite the grime all over my skirt. This was the most exciting thing I’d done since leaving home.

I found Reg seated at his usual spot in the hotel’s restaurant at lunch, sipping tea as he read another book. I don’t think he recognised me at first without my black and white waitress uniform on, my long hair down when it was usually up.

I nervously placed the camera on his table. ‘I set my mind to some filming, like you advised.’

‘I did, did I?’ He looked down at the camera, face expressionless. ‘Where did you get this camera? Looks a lot like the one Gerald over there has lost,’ he said, gesturing towards the cameraman I’d borrowed it from who was talking frantically to the reception desk.

I swallowed, twisting a button on my coat between my fingers. ‘I plan to return it.’

That was the first time I saw Reg smile. ‘I’m tempted to say don’t bother; I’ve never liked the man. What do you want me to do with this then?’ he asked, gesturing to the camera.

‘I thought you might have some way of viewing it to see if what I’ve filmed is any good?’ I asked tentatively.

As I said that, I felt a presence behind me. Reg quietly slipped the camera into the bag at his feet and I turned to see my aunt smiling tightly.

‘Is this young lady bothering you, Mr Carlisle?’ she asked, flashing me a hard look.

‘Not at all,’ Reg retorted. ‘She saw me drop some money earlier and was kind enough to return it to me.’

My aunt relaxed. ‘Good, we ensure all our staff hold the highest of moral standards. Now come away, Gwyneth, let Mr Carlisle finish his lunch in peace.’

As she marched me off, I glanced over my shoulder at Reg who winked at me. I turned back, suppressing a smile.

I barely slept again that night, wondering if Reg had managed to watch the footage. When I walked downstairs, pulling at the stiff collar of my uniform, he was waiting for me in reception.

‘Come with me,’ he said.

I peered into the breakfast room. I was already running late.

‘Just five minutes,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

I took a deep breath and followed him towards the hotel’s small cinema. When we got in, the projector was all set up and on the screen was my footage.

‘Most of it is awful,’ he said as he gestured for me to sit down. ‘There’s nothing here we don’t know already about pigeons. The composition is terrible, not to mention the lack of focus.’ My heart sank. ‘Except this,’ he added with a smile as he leant forward to stare at the screen. ‘Now this, this is exquisite.’

I followed his gaze, seeing the brief footage I’d filmed of a large pigeon feeding three tiny baby pigeons.

‘We rarely see baby pigeons, as they remain in their nests until they are fully grown,’ he explained, ‘and many nests are so high, we humans don’t get the chance to see them. A sign of the bird’s devotion to its young.’

‘So it’s good I got a shot of them?’

‘Very good. I need an assistant. When can you start?’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘You want me as an assistant?’

He nodded and my heart soared with hope. I made a silent promise to myself then: I would never let him down, not like I’d let my parents down. And I didn’t, not in all those years I worked with him.

And now he was gone. I had nobody. I felt the grief rise up inside.

‘What about your family, Gwyneth?’ Oscar asked quietly as the maid poured me more wine. ‘Were you on your way to visit them for Christmas?’

I took a quick sip of wine. ‘I don’t have any family. In fact,’ I said, placing my napkin down, ‘I really better be heading back.’

‘Have you seen the time?’ Dylan exclaimed. I looked up at a large clock. Nearly nine. ‘You can’t drive back now.’

‘Yes, you must stay,’ Heather said.

I shrugged. ‘I’ve driven in the dark before, on ice too.’

‘Not on these roads,’ Dylan said.

‘You really must stay,’ Glenn said. ‘At least until dawn. Plus, you’ve been drinking. Right, Mum?’

Mairi examined my face then nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Only two glasses. No, really, I must get back,’ I said, pushing my chair back.

‘But it’s Christmas tomorrow,’ Alison said.

‘Exactly,’ Cole replied. ‘Gwyneth doesn’t want to be spending it with strangers. If she wants to go, let her.’

‘Better with strangers than alone,’ Heather said sadly.

‘I’m used to being alone,’ I insisted. ‘Anyway, Christmas Day is like any other day to me, really.’

They all looked at me in horror and Dylan laughed. ‘You have just uttered blasphemy in the McClusky household. Look,’ he said as he gazed at his family. ‘Cole’s right, if Gwyneth wants to go, we can’t stop her.’ He stood with me. ‘I’ll walk you to your car, Gwyneth.’

‘Thank you. And thank you again, everyone else,’ I added, looking around the table. ‘You’ve been so welcoming and so generous.’

I felt myself getting choked up, Jesus! I quickly turned away and walked out, catching a glimpse of everyone exchanging looks as Dylan strode after me.

I expected it to be pitch black when we got outside ten minutes later, but instead the moon, large and patient above the mountains, shed enough light to illuminate the narrow road ahead, my car a white blip at the end of it. It was cold though, so bitter I thought my eyelashes might freeze off right then and there.

‘You have such a great family,’ I said to Dylan as walked towards my car together.

‘They have their moments.’ He was quiet for a few moments then smiled. ‘So, what are your plans for tomorrow?’

‘I’ll probably go through my reels.’

‘Christmas Day really is just another day for you, isn’t it?’

I laughed. ‘Not everyone has this idyllic family life, Dylan.’ I got a glimpse of the colourful Christmas tree I used to have as a kid, red, blue and golden tinsel, baubles that kept falling off, my mother’s laughter. ‘Some of us are quite happy in our own skin, alone but not lonely.’

He put his gloved hands up. ‘No, I get it, you don’t need to explain yourself to me! In fact, I’m jealous.’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘Jealous?’

He pulled a grey woolly hat from his coat pocket and put it on. ‘I’ve thought about it once or twice, just getting away for Christmas.’

‘But you have a lovely family.’

His jaw tensed. ‘It can be overwhelming at times.’

We walked in silence until we got to the gate. Dylan opened the padlock with a key that hung from a heavy collection of them, then pushed the gate open, letting me through. As I passed him, I caught a hint of his musky aftershave and the whisky he’d been drinking. It made my breath stutter. I quickened my stride towards my car, opened the boot and put my camera inside as Dylan leant against the fence, watching me with his arms crossed.

‘Which hotel are you staying at then?’ he asked.

‘The Heighton.’

‘That’s a good two-hour drive.’

I felt in my pocket for the new updated map Cole had lent me and lifted the flask of coffee the maid had made me. ‘This will fuel me.’

Dylan stepped away from the fence, took his gloves off and put out his hand. ‘It’s been good to meet you, Gwyneth.’

I took his hand, felt it warm and calloused. It was double the size of mine. I looked up into his handsome face, the moonlight highlighting his distinctive cheekbones, the feline curve of his dark eyes. It felt like he’d walked in from another century, that he didn’t belong in the real world I knew, and suddenly I felt a surge of regret. Was I making a mistake leaving like this?

Ridiculous!

I quickly slipped my hand from his before I begged him to take me back to the lodge. ‘Good to meet you too, Dylan,’ I said. ‘And thank you for saving me.’ I walked around to the driver’s side and smiled at him over the car’s roof. ‘Have a good day celebrating baby Jesus’s birth, okay?’

He cracked a smile. ‘I sure will. You take care, Gwyneth.’

We held each other’s gaze for a few moments then I got into the car. I paused a moment, taking a few deep breaths in the safety of the car’s darkness. My hands were trembling slightly, my heart pounding. There was a voice inside me screaming Stay! Stay! Stay! but I’d promised myself a long time ago I’d carry on moving, not stopping, no people to tie me down, to disappoint me, to have me disappoint them. Only Reg had got through that. And now this man, this bearded giant who made me feel as warm as the whisky he drank. What was wrong with me? I barely knew him.

I quickly turned the key in the ignition before I changed my mind.

The car spluttered then died.

I turned the key again but, still, nothing.

‘You have to be kidding me,’ I hissed.

Dylan knocked on the car window and I unrolled it, ice cracking.

‘Won’t start?’ he asked.

‘Doesn’t look like it. I think it might be the fuel line, as it is turning over.’

‘You know your stuff.’

‘Don’t look so surprised! I have to when I’m in the middle of nowhere filming and a car is my only getaway.’ I grabbed the torch I always took with me when I travelled, got out of the car and opened the bonnet. I aimed the light at the fuel filter as Dylan stood next to me, leaning close to have a look too.

‘Looks like it is the fuel filter,’ he said, gesturing to the fuel seeping out of one of the pipes.

I sighed. ‘Yep. Not easily fixed. No flow, no go.’

‘Well, that’s decided. I’m not saying this place doesn’t make a great bedroom,’ Dylan said, gesturing to the backseat of the car. ‘God knows I’ve spent a few nights out here staring up at the stars, but I wouldn’t recommend it in the winter. And I’d offer to give you a lift but I’ve had a few drinks, as have the others.’

‘Taxi?’ I asked half-heartedly. Truth was, I wasn’t disappointed the car wouldn’t start. Something inside me was yearning to stay and anyway, my fate had been decided by a faulty fuel filter.

Dylan laughed. ‘On Christmas Eve? You have to be kidding.’

I stared up the road. There was a bell of excitement ringing inside, one I was trying to stifle. I could feel this might be the beginning of something, and, truth was, it scared me. Christmases reminded me of a time I had a family to celebrate with, a time before the fracture that opened up between my parents and me. But Dylan, Dylan with his gorgeous face and huge hands and that smile, beaming at me in that moment, tantalising, teasing …

‘Okay,’ I said in an exhale of breath. ‘If your family won’t mind?’

‘Won’t mind? It’ll make their Christmas. Come on.’

He hauled my overnight bag over his shoulder and I followed him back to the house, the twinkle of its golden lights and the sound of laughter within warming me up. When we stepped inside the house, Oscar was walking through the hallway with a tray of steaming mulled wine.

He paused, his face lighting up. ‘You changed your mind?’

‘Her car wouldn’t start,’ Dylan explained.

‘Ah, well then, it’s fate!’ Oscar declared, approaching me with the tray and gesturing for me to take a glass.

‘If it’s okay though,’ I quickly said. ‘I don’t want to impose. It is Christmas, after all.’

‘What did Mairi say about the candles in the window?’ Oscar said, gesturing towards the triangle of candles that flickered in the living-room window. ‘It’s Christmas, a time for welcoming guests into the house. It’s the McClusky clan way and frankly, we’ve been sorely missing being able to fulfil that tradition in recent years, this place is so remote. And now we have the most wonderful of guests, a beautiful documentary-maker. So come in, make yourself at home. Consider yourself an honorary McClusky.’

Dylan gave me an embarrassed smile at his dad’s speech. But as I took a quick sip of the delicious mulled wine, I felt a bit overcome at the generosity of Oscar’s words. There had been so many Christmas Days spent alone, or working, over the years. Sad memories too of that first Christmas in the hotel, yearning for my parents as I served Christmas lunch to guests, the feel of the delicate bracelet they’d sent me upon my wrist. ‘Christmas is a religious festival, Gwyneth,’ my aunt had barked when she’d noticed me crying. ‘Are you religious? No. So it’s just another day, another day to work and make money. The sooner you wrap your head around that, the better you’ll feel.’ So from that moment, I had wrapped my head around it. And I thought I was okay with it.

Until now.

I smiled up at the two men. ‘Thank you.’ Then I looked out at the loch, glistening beneath the moonlight. How strange to think nearly losing my life in that frozen lake had brought me here.