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Get Published on Female First
Robbie had watched the photographer arrive from an upstairs window. Yes, he remembered him from his last visit. What was his name? Idly he mulled over the possibilities, knowing that he could always check the name on the email booking before dinner. The photographer and his girlfriend – she couldn’t be his wife; the photographer didn’t look the marrying kind, lucky sod, – were unpacking their gear from the boot of the car, a sleek, metallic Porsche that he recognized as being state of the art. Now he remembered. This guy was a car photographer. He’d been here about a year ago with a group of motoring journalists, all blokes. They’d been laddish at dinner but very professional the following morning. The connection made, he turned away from the window, bored once more, the familiar dread of having to go downstairs to do the usual ‘meet and greet’ resurfacing. To his relief he heard staccato footsteps in the hall and Ginnie’s bright “Hello, Mr. Foulds. Welcome back to Fauconberg House.” So she had already checked the email.
Simon Foulds, thirty-something, pony-tailed and craggily handsome was unpacking his overnight bag onto the bed in the pleasant, front-facing room that Ginnie had allotted to him. “Sorry, babe, it’s not the same room after all,” he said apologetically to the slim blonde who was indeed his girlfriend rather than his wife. Currently engaged in making a cup of tea, she was eager to make the most of this trip, seeing it as a romantic getaway, even if for Simon it was work.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said sweetly, bringing him his tea. She settled back on the bed with her tea and smoothed the blanket that was laid artfully over the duvet. “I wonder which tartan this is,” she mused. “Is it Black Watch? I’ve always wondered what that looks like.”
Simon was more concerned with the room. “It’s a lot smaller than last time. But Robbie said it was all they had at this time of year.
“When were you here before? Was it on a shoot?” asked the girl, the slight edge to her voice betraying the fact that she was hoping against hope that it was, and not a romantic trip with another woman.
“Yeah, for Top Gear magazine. With Jeremy Clarkson and some of the others. The owner here, Robbie, is a great guy. He’ll make us really welcome. You’ll meet him at dinner. The food’s fantastic too, by the way.”
Finally, he turned to her. It was what she had been waiting for and his slow smile seemed to her to fill the whole room with warmth. “Now, how can we while away some time before dinner?” His grin was irresistible to her. Putting down his mug on the bedside table, he gently took hers from her and pulled her up and into his arms. His hands slid beneath her cream sweater. She wanted to close her eyes and relax into the moment, but, as always when with him, she was unsure of herself. She couldn’t help looking over his shoulder at their embrace, only to see her anxious reflection in the mirror of the dressing table.
On the floor above, Robbie prepared to leave the room. He’d left it as late as he possibly could without getting a bollocking from Ginnie, who would be at her most stressed in the kitchen right now. As it was, he’d be a bit rushed to print out tonight’s menu and check the bar before the first guests appeared for their pre-dinner drinks. And he fancied a single malt himself. Turning back to the mirror to adjust his white, ruffle-necked shirt, he looked at himself reflected back. Wrong side of thirty, ruddy complexion, fair, wavy hair worn slightly longer than his collar. He allowed his blue eyes – his best feature, Ginnie always said – to rove over the rest of his reflection. Not slim, but tall enough for the fact to be disguised, especially when wearing the kilt. This tartan was red, but he had no idea of its name or significance. He winced almost perceptibly as he looked at himself in full Scottish costume. Turning away, he made for the door, realizing just in time that he’d forgotten an essential accessory. “Oh, God,” he moaned, as he snatched the sporran from where it hung on the back of the door.
At dinner, Robbie watched Simon Foulds and his girl-friend closely while serving the six other guests in the dining room that night. They made a good-looking couple, he had to admit. They had both ‘dressed’ for dinner. Simon had on a well-cut jacket over a smart pair of jeans. The girl was a little self-conscious in a silky, wrap-around dress that showed a bit of cleavage. Every now and again he saw her covertly check that her bra or camisole or whatever was not showing under the bodice of the dress. Robbie felt almost certain that the photographer would have bought this dress for her. It seemed to be that kind of relationship. He chastised himself mentally for even contemplating what she would look like undressed, trying to remember the last time he and Ginnie had made love. He couldn’t, and the third single malt of the evening was making it seem unimportant anyway. By the time they’d cleared up after dinner and set the tables for breakfast he was usually too drunk and she was too tired.
The photographer’s conversation with his girlfriend seemed to be based on mutual teasing. Robbie guessed miserably that they’d had fantastic sex before coming down to dinner and would probably repeat the experience when they reached the privacy of their room again this evening. They seemed in no hurry to leave the dining room, though. The other guests had shuffled off to their rooms but Simon and the girl still sat chatting, having finished their dessert. They were holding hands across the table now, enjoying a last drink.
Robbie dragged his gaze away from them with an effort and barged through the swing door into the kitchen to find his wife wiping down the surfaces with an almost ferocious energy. It angered him that she did not reserve this energy for him and instead fell, night after night, exhausted and limp, into bed, too tired for conversation, for sex, sometimes even to wash.
“I think they enjoyed that,” he said, tersely. “Come on, leave it. Sit down and have a drink with me.” He reached for the Talisker again, swiftly sweeping some crumbs off the kitchen table. He put his own glass down unsteadily and stretched up to the dresser for another.
“Don’t do that!” Ginnie had seen him. “I’ve just cleaned the floor. And no, don’t pour one for me, I’m shattered.” Looking in the mirror propped up on the dresser she passed a red, raw-looking hand across her forehead, which still looked hot and shiny from the cooking. Her chestnut-coloured hair, which he had always said was her best feature, was held severely back by a large clip, her strained face devoid of make-up.
“God,” she said, quietly, “what a state.”
He felt a sudden, unexpected stab of pity for her. This was the reality of her dream. Pity was extinguished immediately, though, as she said, sharply, “You’re going to drink us out of Talisker. Get a glass of water and come to bed.”
Robbie felt a sense of despair mixed with what he knew to be undeserved anger directed at Ginnie. She probably was tired. Let’s face it, she did twice as much as he did. But then the whole thing had been her idea. And anyway, who was she to tell him that he couldn’t have another drink? Controlling his anger, he waved her away. “No, you go. I’ll just clear this away and then I’ll check that those two don’t want anything else.”
“OK.” Ginnie untied her large, stained apron and hung it on the back of the door.
“Thanks. Don’t be long,” she said, shortly, before disappearing through the door in the kitchen that led up their private staircase to the top floor. Robbie could hear the wooden stairs creaking as she slowly made her way upstairs.
He was conscious of a ridiculous feeling of elation now that he was alone, late at night. He smiled cheerily at himself in the mirror, trying to force a feeling of responsibility for the guest house. He failed. On a whim, he carried the bottle of whisky through into the dining room. They were still there, both nursing the single malts that he had brought them earlier. Simon was telling a story and the girl was hanging on his every word.
“How about another one, on the house?” asked Robbie, jovially, holding the bottle aloft in an imitation of a genial, ‘mine host’ kind of character.
“Oh, thanks, Robbie. Actually, we were just about to turn in, but…what the hell. Let’s have one more shall we, babe? We can always start a bit later tomorrow.” Simon offered his glass up to Robbie. “Tell Ginnie that was a fabulous meal. I told Cheryl all about the food at this place on the way up, and I was hoping I hadn’t built it up too much, you know?”
“You didn’t. It was absolutely gorgeous, Robbie,” added Cheryl quickly, with a smile. The over-familiarity rankled. He forced himself to maintain his happy innkeeper role.
“So, what are your plans for tomorrow?” he asked with apparent glee. My God, he was rubbing his hands together, now. How long could he keep this up?
“Well,” said Simon, lazily, leaning back in his chair, “I’ve got a shoot to do. I sussed out the location last time I was here. You know that pretty little loch down the road with the old jetty?” Robbie nodded, trying not to feel envy. “Well, the Porsche’ll look superb backed up there with the loch and the mountains behind. And Cheryl at the wheel,” he added, flashing his attractive smile at his girlfriend. They exchanged a glance that made Robbie feel superfluous. “It just depends on the light as to when we do it. Have you heard the forecast?”
“Cloudy and windy with the odd shower,” replied Robbie automatically. He had not, of course, heard the forecast, but this was the stock answer that he gave guests each time they asked. He was always right.
“Have you and your wife been running this place for long?” Cheryl asked, earnestly.
“It’ll be three years this August,” Robbie replied, allowing the Talisker to make its slow, luxurious, burning way down his throat. He felt the need to let the mask slip, to be himself for a change. “They say you don’t make any money in the first five years and it’s all blood, sweat and tears. Well, I can vouch for that. So let’s drink to the August of 2015!” He raised his glass. Simon and Cheryl raised theirs, a little doubtfully.
“Did you always want to run your own guest house, though?” Cheryl persisted.
Inwardly, Robbie groaned. This was the last kind of conversation he wanted.
“Well,” he fudged, “not really. I mean, after school in Guildford, anything seemed adventurous. And it was Ginnie’s dream really…” he tailed off, bored.
“I was in Guildford. Which school?” Simon was leaning forward, more interested than he had been all evening.
“The C of E, on the council estate. Nothing special, believe me.”
“My God,” Simon exhaled sharply. “I went there too. Left in ’79. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before when we met last year.”
“Good grief, I must have left just as you went into the sixth form,” said Robbie.
“Small world,” they both added, simultaaneously.
“Fascinating, isn’t it,” said Cheryl, over-brightly, desperate not to be left out, “how one’s life takes different turns. You two are almost contemporaries yet you’ve chosen such different lives.”
Simon laughed with the confidence of someone who knows that he has the upper hand. “Yeah, I can’t see myself doing Robbie’s job. Too much like hard work.”
Robbie downed his whisky and immediately poured himself another, not bothering to offer the bottle to his guests this time.
“Has it really been that hard to get this business off the ground, though?” asked Cheryl. “I mean, the location’s wonderful, the house is gorgeous. You and your wife must adore being here.”
It was her sincerity that did it. She truly believed, he realized, that he did love it. He had fooled them. He realized that he was crying. Great tears of self pity and rage were sliding down his cheeks and landing on their table.
“God. Sorry,” he managed.
Simon and Cheryl were looking at him with a mixture of embarrassment and concern.
“Hey, Robbie, come on. What’s the problem?” Simon was saying, his hand on Robbie’s arm.
Robbie could not say “You are. I want your life.” Instead, he laid his head on the table and gave himself up to huge, racking sobs. It was such a relief.
“I hate this fucking place,” he gulped, wiping snot from his nose with his sleeve. “I hate having to dress up like a bloody Scotch ponce every night and be nice to people. I did it for Ginnie. But it’s crap. I can’t keep doing this. For God’s sake,” he sat up and looked at them, “my name isn’t even Robbie. It’s bloody Barry.”
“Barry Deacon,” Simon muttered quietly, remembering. “No, I never had you down as a Scot.”
They were desperate to leave for the safety of their room, Robbie could see that. He stood up shakily, clutching the bottle to his chest. “Sorry, OK?” he whispered, unable to look at them. “Too much of this,” and he pointed to the bottle and did a sad little mock stagger. “I’ll be alright in the morning. Don’t worry, OK?”
Glad to be absolved, the couple crept from the room.
Contrary to Robbie’s forecast, the next day dawned bright and sunny, although there was a scudding wind coming off the loch as Simon and Cheryl arrived for their shoot. Hundreds of small ripples broke up the surface of the water, and the mountains loomed huge and harsh on the other side. Simon backed the Porsche onto the little jetty, expertly manoeuvering it until he had it in exactly the right position. “We’ll have to wait until there’s a bit of cloud,” he said as they began to unload his equipment from the back. “I’ll set up the stuff now, though, then we’re ready. Can you help?”
Obediently, Cheryl helped to unload the car. She was unsure where to put things or even what some of the items were. Afterwards, for something to do, she ferreted in her handbag for some lipstick and a mirror. She was going to play the part of a model today and she wanted to do it well.
“I hope Robbie’s alright. Or Barry,” she said, absent-mindedly. “Funny that you both went to the same school. Wasn’t it embarrassing, last night, though? I’m not surprised we didn’t see him this morning.”
“Oh, he was just a bit pissed,” said Simon, absent-mindedly, fiddling with one of the many cameras he’d brought with him. “Last time we came, I told you, he was great. Life and soul. And Ginnie said he was fine when she came in with breakfast.”
“I know he was drunk, but I think he was genuinely fed up. Quite a sad person,” replied Cheryl. “And to be honest, I could see him looking at you and feeling envious.”
“Why, because he hasn’t got a glamorous blonde to help him out at work?” said Simon, right on cue, pausing, to her pleasure, to kiss her quickly. “No, you’ll see. He’ll be OK tonight at dinner. Just hope he doesn’t remember last night.” He hoisted up his tripod and attached his Canon to it. “That would be even more embarrassing. OK, babe, get in. I think I’m ready for you.”
Sharon looked at him flirtatiously, hopeful of signs of innuendo, but Simon was serious, intent on his task. “Come on, baby, the cloud’s just about to move. I need to get this done now. Get in and look sexy.”
Cheryl got into the driver’s seat, put her hands on the wheel and assumed what she hoped was a sexy pose. Simon often worked with real models, of whom she was insanely jealous. She smiled, uncertainly, but felt suddenly miserable.
“Oh, bugger. The sun’s come out again. Just stay there, babe. Another cloud’s coming. Don’t move, whatever you do.”
Cheryl sat motionless, watching Simon as he clicked away. Bored, she cast a quick glance at her face in the rear view mirror. She pouted at herself, wondering how long this was going to take. Then, in the reflection behind her pretty, lipsticked mouth she saw something that rendered her motionless, whatever Simon’s instructions. Out in the loch behind them, a strangely-shaped bundle was floating. Powerless to speak, she turned and looked behind her.
“Oh, Cheryl! Don’t bloody move!” she heard, just as she registered that, billowing above the bundle like a ghastly, garish sail, was a red tartan kilt.
I am 51 and live in Alnwick, Northumberland with my ten year old daughter, Palesa, Zara, a very attention-seeking chocolate Labrador, Twilight, a rescued tabby moggy and Bluebelle, an extremely beautiful and knowingly-superior Ragdoll cat. I returned to England in 2008 after spending a decade teaching in Lesotho, Southern Africa and then a year in Jordan as a non-working spouse. I first started to write in my final year in Africa when I was forced to stop work due to ill health. My main themes are the theatre, Africa and fictionalised autobiography. I am currently writing a memoir of the ten years I spent in Africa. My husband still works in Jordan and visits us when he can. This leaves me plenty of time – supposedly – to get on with the things I love doing: writing, cooking and theatre. I am currently directing a show for Alnwick Stage Musical Society, ‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood’ which is a comedy based on the unfinished novel by Charles Dickens. I write in my garden in a recently-erected blue and cream-painted summer house – the idyllic environment!