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SIXTEEN
1stFebruary 1958
Saw William today at the post office. When he comes in, you’d never know we were sleeping together. I don’t know if this is all part of being British and the stiff upper lip the English have, though I always wondered whether it really applied to Scots. He always greets me as “Miss McKinley” and I always say, “Hello, William,” because it’s all right for me to do that. Everyone knows we have known each other since we were bairns, more or less.
Sometimes he asks for some tobacco, sometimes the newspaper or he sends a letter and asks for a first-class stamp. I always give him what he wants with a smile, just like I do with everyone else. I always ask after the children, but I don’t mention Clara. The casual observer might think that I’m being kind by not mentioning her. That’s what people do, here – not mention difficult situations so they can pretend they’re not happening. But I’m not being kind. Even though I feel sorry for her, I try not to think about the fact that William is still married, and that what we’re doing is wrong in the eyes of God. Because I love him, and I don’t want to stop.
Bloody hell, Carrie thought, as she hulled strawberries in the restaurant kitchen. It was the day after the bread-making with Rory and she had Maud’s diary open next to her. She just couldn’t stop reading it. As a precaution, not wanting to make a mess of it with strawberry juice, she’d put the book inside a transparent zip-lock food bag. It was a pain having to reach inside the bag to turn the page every time, but she was wary of keeping Great-Aunt Maud’s diary in good condition. Especially because the entries were so fascinating.
‘Referring to your notes?’ Kathy came in and washed her hands in the sink. Today her hair was a striking yellow on one side and a vivid green on the other. Even her fringe had a poker-straight division in the middle now, where it had been all black before. ‘Do you need to, to prepare strawberries? Or has he given you such strict instructions you’re paranoid about getting them the wrong width?’
‘Ha. No, nothing like that. It’s an old diary belonging to my great-aunt,’ Carrie explained. ‘I didn’t want to get it dirty while I was working.’
‘How cool! Oh, by the way, Rory’ll be here shortly. He said he wants to brief us on the specials.’
‘Okay.’ Carrie put the diary to one side on the counter. As she did so, Rory strode into the kitchen, rolling up his chef’s white sleeves. Carrie found herself staring at his muscular forearms again, at his tanned skin and his dark hair. She blinked and looked away.
‘So, the specials,’ he said, placing a scrawled list of dishes on the counter in front of Carrie. ‘As usual, all fresh, local and seasonal. Roast Loch Cameron salmon with sautéed potatoes and fresh greens. I’m also doing a mussel in white wine linguine, if you can prep the mussels for me, Carrie—? I’ll show you how.’
Carrie nodded. ‘That’s fine.’
‘Okay, great. And then we’ve got organic chicken done as a casserole, local sheep’s cheese and beetroot salad with walnuts, and fresh bread. Like we did yesterday.’ Rory raised his eyebrows at Carrie. ‘Reckon you can manage that with me? I see you’ve started on the strawberries for the cranachan. I thought I’d mix it up and not use raspberries for a change.’
‘I love cranachan,’ Kathy sighed. ‘Hope there’s at least one left over at the end of service.’
‘Me, too.’ Carrie grinned. The traditional Scottish dessert made of cream, whisky, oats and raspberries was a delicious treat. Maud had often made it for her and Claire when they were children, without the whisky. Though, sometimes, Carrie and Claire would ask for a little bit of whisky to go into the cream, so that they didn’t feel like babies. Maud would give them a long look, smile, and then tip a few drops into the cream with a smile.
‘Well, it’s always popular, but I do have a tarte tatin on the menu too. So, you might be lucky.’ Rory looked up at Carrie, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘I have to say, I love a woman who loves food.’
‘Rory, don’t embarrass the girl. We all love food. That’s why we’re here. Let’s face it, it’s not for the wages.’ Kathy rolled her eyes.
‘Whaaaat? Are you saying I don’t pay you enough? I’ll have you know this is the best restaurant in Loch Cameron,’ he exclaimed.
‘The pay’s fine, and I appreciate the free food, for sure.’ Carrie laughed at his mock-outraged expression. ‘I’m not criticising.’
‘Neither am I, Rory. Keep your hair on.’ Kathy raised a comedic eyebrow. ‘Chefs, eh, Carrie? Dramatic types. Just like those cooking programmes you see on TV.’
‘Hardly. I don’t think I’ve ever raised my voice in the restaurant or the kitchen, what are you on about?’ Rory protested, grinning. ‘Also, I wasn’t always a chef, remember? I was trained to keep calm in high-pressure situations. Timing a perfect steak isn’t quite as stressful as defusing a bomb.’
‘Depends who you’re cooking it for. My grannie’s very particular about her steak,’ Kathy chuckled. ‘Real tough old bird, she is.’
‘Must be where you get yourjoie de vivre.’ Rory gave Kathy a beatific smile.
‘That feels like a veiled insult, hun,’ Kathy shot back.
‘Children, children!’ Carrie interjected, laughing at Kathy and Rory’s sibling-like banter. ‘Come on. Let’s concentrate on the menus.’
‘See, this is why Carrie’s my favourite. Focused on the food.’ Rory nodded.
You’re his favourite, Claire’s voice piped up in her head.That’s nice, isn’t it?
He didn’t mean anything by that, Carrie thought back.Stop being so sarcastic.
I’m not being sarcastic,Claire said.I was merely observing that Hot Chef Rory described you as his favourite employee. Can’t be bad.
There are only two of us, to be fair, Carrie replied.
Whatever. I’m a romantic,Claire replied.I believe in love, unlike some people.
