Christmas at the Island Hotel - Jenny Colgan Page 0,76

who came in late, as ever, after closing up the school, and instantly poured her a very large drink and dragged her into Flora’s old childhood bedroom, now full of coats and scarves.

“Tell me everything,” she said, and unable to help herself, Lorna told her everything.

“Oh my God,” said Flora when she’d finished.

“I know,” said Lorna.

“I mean that’s just . . .”

“I know.”

“On the other hand,” said Flora, “it means you haven’t done anything . . . technically wrong.”

“Apart from sleep with a bigamist,” said Lorna gloomily.

“You don’t suppose it means . . . Does it mean he’s free?”

“I don’t think . . .” said Lorna. “I don’t think he can ever be free.”

And her voice cracked.

KONSTANTIN GRABBED ANOTHER two mugsful of the delicious hot cider and went and found Isla in a quiet corner of the kitchen. It wasn’t exactly private, but people were more or less heavily involved with eating and drinking and discussing whether the weather would keep the boats away, deliveries being increasingly important this time of year, as were trips to the mainland for everything you couldn’t necessarily get on Mure, which was, to be entirely fair, quite a lot of things. But Gaspard didn’t like them hanging about for too long and soon sent them into the little lean-to pantry at the back to start washing up, and they rolled their eyes at each other but somehow, even washing up was kind of exciting, Isla thought, when it was with someone you desperately wanted to wash up next to.

Isla thought it was a good chance to ask him more about himself, but he skillfully deflected every question.

“No—tell me about you.”

She shrugged. “There is nothing to tell about me. Well, I was born here. In the house my father was born in and his father and so on.” She smiled.

“And is your father still there?”

Her face changed immediately. “No,” she said. “He died. When I was small.”

Suddenly she had his full attention. “How small?”

“Eight,” she said, the very memory of it making her want to roll up in a ball all over again. It had lessened, of course, a bit. But one of the massive benefits of living on Mure was that everyone knew her, and everyone had known Roddy too and liked him very much. And she never had to tell anyone why she was so quiet—she didn’t used to be—and she didn’t have to explain how her world had been torn apart, because everyone understood.

She hid her face a little, carried on drying in silence. She didn’t want to see his pitying face.

But when she looked up, his face wasn’t pitying at all. He was nodding.

“I was fourteen,” he said, his voice sounding slightly strangulated.

“Your dad?” said Isla.

“My mum. Cancer.”

Isla nodded. They were both quiet for a little while. It was, somehow, oddly relaxing to be able to tell people who understood. Because most people went, “Oh, I’m so sorry, that must have been terrible,” which of course was true, but they didn’t feel it, didn’t really know what it was like to have your world cracked in two.

“How was your mum?” said Konstantin.

Isla bit her lip. She had to defend her mother. She knew other people had harsh words for how bitter Vera Donnelly had turned and how she’d taken it out on the wee lass. She wasn’t stupid. And she would never ever have spoken to anyone on Mure about it, not even Iona.

But somehow, in the presence of someone from somewhere else—someone who understood, someone who, for all his annoying ways, was clearly and very simply kind—she felt something she hadn’t felt for many years.

She wanted to talk. She wanted to speak.

“Very . . . very difficult,” she stammered.

Konstantin nodded and didn’t say anything, waiting for her to go on.

“I think,” she said, “she was so very angry at him for dying. He died young, didn’t leave us with much. And it was just me. I think she might have taken it out on me. I don’t think she meant to,” she added.

“Do you look like him?”

“Apparently yes,” said Isla dryly. “But not in a way she likes.”

Konstantin nodded again, adding more hot water to the suds. “Yeah,” he said. “Your looks come out in all the ways they hate. It hardly seems fair, does it?”

“I can’t help my stupid dad’s face,” said Isla, then laughed suddenly. “Sorry, that sounded so furious.”

“I get it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I like your face. Very much.”

There was a very long pause after that, as a flustered