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Ihavegot that right, haven’t I? He bought the house — and the rest of the estate — because
it used to belong to his grandfather, who owned pretty mucheverythingaround here, back in the day. He’s not just beenpretendingto be the Laird all this time… has he?
DON’T TRUST JACK.
I swallow nervously. I’m not sure whose voice that is inside my head, but I really wish it would zip it.
“Rose and I grew up in Edinburgh,” Jack interjects. “We only visited Heather Bay a couple of times as kids. Rose would’ve been too young to remember much about it. My father was born here, of course, but Edinburgh’s always been our home — until now, anyway.”
He glances at the portrait above the fireplace, which shows the famous grandfather, wearing his military uniform and looking off into the distance — probably dreaming of hot tubs and Eco-friendly resorts, if everything Jack says about him is true.
“Well, until Jack got filthy rich and bought Mum and Dad a house in St. Tropez,” says Rose, who’s clearly had more than her fair share of the champagne. “But then he decided to move up here. Weirdo.”
She sticks her tongue out at him, and they start bickering good-naturedly, while I look back up at the portrait, noticing again how alike Jack and his grandfather looked at roughly the same age.
I’d heard some of this story before, but it’s only just struck me how odd it is that Jack’s family ownedan entire Highland estatefor decades, but never bothered to actually visit it. When I was growing up, the estate was completely abandoned. Frankie and I used to break into the grounds sometimes, and peer through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, trying to scare ourselves with totally made-up stories about the ghosts who lived here.
We’d never really stopped to wonderwhyit was like that, though; why none of the family ever wanted to come back and live here, until Jack came along? The more I think about it now, though, the stranger it seems to me. Jack’s dad was born here, after all; by rights,heshould really be the ‘Laird’.
So why has he never shown much interest in the place?
My phone pings loudly in my pocket, interrupting my chain of thought. I pull it out and look surreptitiously at the screen, my hands shaking at the thought of another creepy warning. Thankfully, though, it’s just Frankie, messaging the group chat I have with her and McTavish.
FRANKIE: How’s the mackerel, McT? Have you told Jack about that message yet, Emerald?
I put the phone down beside me, but it pings again almost immediately.
MCTAVISH: Terrible. It reeks. I cannae stand the smell.
MCTAVISH:I bet she hasn’t told him yet.
Jack gets up to fetch another bottle of champagne, and Rose decides to go with him to see some of the house, so I take the opportunity to type a quick reply.
EMERALD: I haven’t had a chance! His sister is here — Rose. She wants to help plan the wedding!
FRANKIE: Wait. Jack has a sister called Rose? As in, Jack and Rose?
MCTAVISH: I told ye it wiz just like Titanic!
FRANKIE: But how come he’s never mentioned her before? Does she live in France with his parents?
EMERALD: He has mentioned her, and no, she lives in a flat in London that I’m pretty sure Jack bought for her.
FRANKIE: Oh. Right. So how come she’s never come to visit before?
I slide the phone hastily under a cushion as Jack and Rose (I’m never going to hear the end of this from McTavish. He’s seenTitanicat least 15 times.) reappear, freshly filled champagne glasses in hand.
“I mean, it’s a lovely house, Jack,” Rose is saying doubtfully, “But you can’t expect people to want to come all the way to the back of beyond for a wedding. This whole “Highland lodge” thing you’ve got going on doesn’t exactly scream “society wedding” to me. I still think you should consider New York.”
They start bickering again in that brother-and-sister way of theirs, and I accept another glass of champagne from Jack, then sit there sipping it slowly, trying not to feel left-out. Or to think about the fact that I’m apparently having a “society wedding,” whatever that is.
She’s his sister. He hasn’t seen her in a while. Of course they’re going to want to catch up.
My phone pings again, and, seeing as no one’s paying the slightest attention to me, I dig it out from the sofa cushions and glance at the screen. Frankie and McTavish are back to debating mackerel again, it seems.
McTAVISH: It isnae just the mackerel, though. She willnae let me watchNeighbours, either. She says it’s a load o’ pish.
FRANKIE: Have you considered that she might be right?
