Christmas at the Island Hotel - Jenny Colgan Page 0,20

strict tellings off—who knew where she had even learned them, given that Innes was useless at it and the primary school specialized in encouraging play, not discipline) without including Dead Uncle Colton in the family lineup and was absolutely convinced that he watched every single thing she did. Fintan found it an unending comfort. Flora, watching the little sprite, with her white-blond hair and tiny dancing figure, sometimes wasn’t entirely sure she didn’t see ghosts.

“That’s enough.”

Agot lifted her stubborn little chin and stared out the window crossly, pausing briefly en route to shoot Douglas an utterly filthy look. Flora sighed inside. They were meeting Pam and Charlie there too, so they could “discuss menus.” Please, please, let it go well.

Chapter 15

Meanwhile in the kitchen, all was chaos. Gaspard was shouting, and everyone, it felt like, was crying. The last week had been an absolute trial for everyone, like Big Brother without the calm, cooperative atmosphere. The Norwegian guy was absolutely hopeless, so there was never a pot or pan when you needed it. Kerry wouldn’t do anything without checking with Gaspard first and would stand around doing nothing except eating crisps, which meant Isla being in charge of cakes and puddings and going nuts. Tam was fine, but his job was bringing in supplies; he wasn’t around for long enough to help with anything really useful.

Also, slightly worse, Isla’s initial coldness with Konstantin after the way he’d behaved had hardened into an awkward stiffness. He hadn’t done anything really awful since, just ignored her, and she didn’t know how to talk to him except to tell him how to peel potatoes without skinning himself when he was helping with food prep, or how garlic actually worked, something Gaspard had found so astonishing he’d actually stopped cooking to watch. There was a bad attitude in the kitchen, and they all knew it.

“Okay. Tonight. Try not to be idiots, non?” Gaspard was saying, just as Konstantin dropped the most enormous pan on the stone floor. The noise sounded like a bomb going off, and Isla even let out a tiny shriek. There were French expletives, and Konstantin, white as a sheet, looked like he was going to walk out of the kitchen, even as a pot literally boiled over just behind him. Everyone froze as Gaspard marched toward Konstantin.

“You want work in thees kitchen or not?” he snarled.

“Not,” snarled back Konstantin.

“Well, you can leave.”

“Well, I can’t,” said Konstantin.

It was unbelievable but true. His phone and his debit and credit cards had all been stopped. He’d called the bank to absolutely no avail, because he didn’t know any of the passwords. His friends and relations had been warned by his father not to sneak him any dough, and given that most of them were also completely funded by their parents, and were absolutely terrified by the amount of attention their mums and dads were paying toward the elder Konstantin’s experiment, meant they were very much toeing the line as well.

He couldn’t quite believe it, but he was somehow meant to survive—and feed Bjårk—on the tiny pittance he got, which wouldn’t quite cover a single restaurant meal back home but here was supposed to last him a week.

It was a joke. A stupid, ridiculous joke, and he was near constantly tempted to storm off and tell them all where to stick it.

Except he couldn’t. He had literally no way of paying his way off the island, and even if he got off, by the time he’d saved up for a plane ticket, what would he do—sit at his father’s feet and beg for forgiveness? His pride wouldn’t let him do that.

Well, okay. It wasn’t so much that, because in fact he’d already tried it. And his father had graciously said, “Thanks for the apology. Now get on with your work and I’ll see you in six months.”

He was stuck and mutinous, and he stared at the pan on the floor. The room went silent.

“Pick that up or you go now,” said Gaspard unwaveringly.

They all glanced at the windows. Hail was hurling itself against the glass. A lovely night to be cozy in front of a roaring fire with a good book and a glass of whisky. A frankly ludicrous night to storm off in a snit. The atmosphere in the room grew as icy as the windows.

MEANWHILE, THE DINING room looked as beautiful as ever, the big wooden fire crackling merrily away, its light gleaming off the tinsel. “Scots Nativity” was playing gently, and