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relationship, she might be ready to move on sooner rather than later.
     
    ‘Darling, could I possibly have some more Badoit?’ Sylvia Lascelles was being saintly about the delay to lunch, but subtly so that it was hardly noticeable how saintly she was being.
    Marcus, who had refilled his own glass with wine more than once, leaped to oblige. ‘I’m sorry, Sylvia. I can’t think what’s keeping Jaki. I tried ringing, but she’s switched off.’
    ‘Very sensible, when she’s driving,’ Sylvia said sweetly. ‘Don’t worry. I’m happy just sitting here and looking out at that divine view.’
    The conservatory at the back of Tulach House had an elevated position, making it possible to look out on one side to the Irish Sea and on the other to Luce Bay. The sun was shining but a strong wind was seeking out the gaps around the window panes where the putty had perished.
    Sylvia, a veteran of Tulach weekends, had come armed with a soft blue-grey cashmere throw – by some happy coincidence, almost exactly the colour of her eyes. Marcus was wearing a thick-knit navy Guernsey sweater and even so his hands were red with cold. He was further away from the radiator than she was.
    The sound of a clanging bell brought him to his feet, relief showing in his face, though Sylvia judged, clinically, that this had more to do with the delay to lunch than with loving anxiety.
    ‘Great! That’ll be Jaki. I’ll introduce her, and check that the food – not just food, M & S food –’ he parodied the advertisement, ‘hasn’t been reduced to a crisp.’
    Sylvia sighed as he left. This tedious girl, butting in on her idyllic weekend in Laddie’s glorious house with her darling Marcus! She didn’t think the relationship sounded serious, though, and she’d just caught the faintest hint that he regretted asking Jaki down early. She’d seen the girl on the box and she wasn’t Marcus’s type at all – a common little floozie, Laddie would have called her. His son might well find his impression of her changed now she was here at Tulach, still so much infused with Laddie’s personality.
    She could hear their voices now, the girl’s high-pitched and querulous. Marcus wouldn’t like that, especially since she should be apologetic about keeping them waiting. Sylvia swivelled in her chair, prepared her high-wattage smile and beamed it at the girl who came in.
    ‘Jaki, darling! Come and say hello.’ She held out her hand, heavy with rings. ‘Have you had an absolutely ghastly journey? Poor love!’
    The girl did indeed look a little dazzled. ‘Miss – Miss Lascelles,’ she stammered, and came to take the bejewelled, twisted hand. She was wearing skinny jeans, green suede ankle boots and a short-sleeved, low-necked smock in olive, burnt-orange and brown, and she was shivering.
    However much it might be ‘in’ this year, it wasn’t a good look – muddy colours with that slightly sallow complexion and goose-flesh on her bare arms.
    ‘But you’re freezing!’ Sylvia exclaimed. ‘Come and huddle by the radiator, and Marcus shall run and get you one of his huge cosy sweaters. Quick, Marcus darling, before she dies of hypothermia!’ Marcus departed.
    ‘Now, what you need is a dram. Over there – the decanter.’ She indicated a tray with a silver-topped crystal decanter, tumblers and a bottle of Badoit.
    Obediently, Jaki went over to it. ‘Is there any vodka and tonic?’
    ‘Goodness, sweetie, here you have to drink the vin du pays ! It’s the only thing that keeps out the cold. That’s Bladnoch, the local malt.’
    Dubiously, Jaki poured some into a tumbler and came to sit as close to the panel heater as she could, sipping it uncertainly.
    Marcus reappeared, holding a huge, very thick, scratchy-looking oatmeal sweater. ‘It’ll look a bit odd, I’m afraid, but it’s the warmest thing I could find.’
    He pulled it over her head and surveyed the result. ‘Oh dear,’ he laughed. ‘It does rather swamp you. But Sylvia