Christmas at the Island Hotel - Jenny Colgan Page 0,69
boy who was laughing and looking at something over by the foot of the statue. Her eyes narrowed. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Nonetheless, her journalistic instincts were tingling.
She marched up to him confidently. “Hi there! I’ve heard this is your doing?”
AT FIRST KONSTANTIN found it hard to break Isla’s gaze. Why, he was thinking, had he not noticed before? How lovely she was. How sweet and shy and . . . just so different from the people he knew.
“Candace Blunt? Daily Post?”
The blond girl standing next to him was looking cross. He noticed she was wearing expensive high-heeled boots that could not have been less suitable for walking up a Mure hill at midnight. She stood confidently next to him, in no doubt she was about to claim his attention.
“Yes?” he said reluctantly.
“So is this your doing?”
“Well, I had a lot of help.”
“And the council funded it?”
Konstantin wasn’t really listening; he was looking for Isla, but she’d disappeared back into the crowd. He frowned. “The council?”
“Yes, the council.”
Konstantin shrugged. He knew they’d had something to do with letting them have the space.
“Sure,” he said, and Candace smiled happily.
“Wow, amazing,” she said, jotting it down in her notebook. “You must be very proud.”
“It’s a great thing,” said Konstantin. “It needs brightening up, ja?”
He meant, of course, the Christmas lights. This was not what it sounded like to Candace.
“Well, it’s a pretty dark, cold, miserable place,” she said, looking round.
“Hmm,” said Konstantin. Isla had disappeared from his line of sight. Where on earth had she gone?
“And what’s your name? You’re Norwegian, right? What brings you here?”
“I’m just working in the hotel.”
“The new hotel?”
“Yes. Excuse me, I have to go.”
“Perhaps I can come talk to you there tomorrow? And can I just take a picture of you next to the . . . That’s right,” said Candace, bringing out her camera. She caught Konstantin mugging and sent it immediately to the pictures desk. They had people on there who were world experts at recognizing faces. If his rang a bell with anyone, they would let her know.
Chapter 47
But who . . . who is she married to?”
Saif shrugged.
“And they think he’s . . . a jihadi? A terrorist?”
“Perhaps.”
The silence sat between them. This was absolutely ridiculous, thought Lorna. She was a primary school teacher in a tiny village in the Scottish islands. She didn’t get mixed up with horrific political situations in the Middle East.
She looked at Saif’s head, still bowed. Nobody did, she thought. Nobody asked to get mixed up in this. But war could come and burst through the gates of peace; it could crawl in any window, sneak under the cracks of any door, just when you thought you were safe.
And they were safe. They were.
But oh: Amena.
“Will they let her come?”
Saif shrugged again.
“Do you want her to come?” she asked, more quietly this time.
He let out a muffled sound that was more howl than anything else.
Lorna drew closer to him and encircled his waist with her arms, sitting behind him, her knees on either side of him.
“There, there,” she said.
“I have to get back to the boys.”
“Not yet, my love,” said Lorna, so quiet it was almost a whisper. “Stay awhile.”
He took hold of her hands, lifted them to his face, which was wet with tears, and kissed her hand gently.
She shifted round to face him, so now she was crouching between his knees. Looking into his face, she felt suddenly, overwhelmingly filled with desire, desperate to feel his strong arms around her, his long body jolting against hers.
She moved closer toward him, gazing into his dark brown eyes.
“Stay awhile,” she said again, and he closed his eyes and rested his entire face in her hair, breathing her in, trying to surround himself with her, the only thing that made him feel better. She moved even closer toward him, until he entirely engulfed her in front of the flickering firelight.
“Darling,” she whispered, and moved in to kiss those sad, soft lips.
He pulled away, furious with himself, with the world, with everything. Shaking his head forcefully, he stood up. She stood up too, looking at him, their two bodies still touching.
“You can be angry,” she said, barely recognizing herself, her voice cracked and hoarse. She had never been so desperate for someone, never in her life. It was absolutely crazy what he did to her, what he did to her body. “You can be angry. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re with me.”