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face sullen with bad temper. His black mood had been coming on for several hours now.
        At last we reached the ferry. Under a grey and black sky a mountainous sea came hurtling towards us, thundering, moaning and screaming, and dirty with flying foam.
        ‘Hello, Mr. Balniel,’ said the man on the gate. ‘I wish you’d brought some better weather. It’s been raining six weeks in Irasa, even the seagulls are wearing sou’westers.’
        On the boat the sky darkened noticeably, the temperature dropped and the gulls were blown sideways like pieces of rag in the wind.
        I’m not sure Scotland’s quite me, I later thought disloyally, as we bumped along one-track roads with occasional glimpses of sulky-looking sea.
        On our left a huge forbidding castle lowered out of the mist.
        ‘Nice little weekend cottage,’ I said.
        ‘That’s where Buster and Coco live,’ said Rory. ‘This is us.’
        I suppose it had once been a rather large lodge to the castle - a grey stone two-storey house, hung with creeper, surrounded by a wild, forsaken garden.
        I started to quote Swinburne, but Rory shot me such a look.
        I shut up.
        I decided not to make any flash remarks, either, about being carried over the threshold. Rory was extraordinarily tense, as though he was expecting something horrible.
        He certainly got it. I’ve never seen such shambles inside a house: broken bottles, knocked-down lamps and tables, glasses strewn all over the floor, dust everywhere, thick cobwebs. The bedrooms looked as though someone had used them as ashtrays, the fridge like a primeval forest, and someone had written ‘Goodbye forever’ in lipstick on the mirror.
        The house consisted of a huge studio, a drawing-room almost entirely lined with books, two bedrooms upstairs, a kitchen and a bathroom; all were in absolute chaos.
        ‘Oh God,’ said Rory, ‘I left a message with my mother to get someone to clean the place up.’
        ‘It’s all right,’ I said faintly, ‘it’ll only take a few hundred years to put to rights.’
        ‘I’m not having you whisking around like Snow White,’ snapped Rory. ‘We’ll sleep at the castle tonight. I’ll get someone to come in tomorrow.’
        I looked out of the bedroom window. The view was sensational. The house grew out of a two hundred and fifty foot cliff which dropped straight down to the sea.
        ‘I hope we don’t fall out too often,’ I joked weakly, then I saw a cellophane packet of flowers on the bed. ‘Oh look,’ I said, ‘someone remembered us.’ Then I shivered with horror as I realized it was a funeral wreath of lilies. Inside the envelope, on a black-edged card, was written ‘Welcome home, darlings’. ‘How beastly,’ I said in a trembling voice. ‘Who could have done that?’
        Rory picked up the card. ‘Some joker who’s got it in for me.’
        ‘But that’s horrible.’
        ‘And quite unimportant,’ he said, tearing up the card. He opened the window and threw the wreath out, so it spun round and round and crashed on the rocks below.
        Startled I looked into his face, which glowed suddenly with some malice I couldn’t place.
        ‘Come here,’ he said softly.
        He pulled me against him, pushing my head down onhis shoulder, one hand tracing my arm, the other moving over my body. Then he smiled and closed his long fingers round my wrist where the pulse pounded.
        ‘Poor little baby,’ he whispered. He could always do this to me. ‘Let’s go next door,’ and he pulled me into the dusty spare room with the huge window on to the road and began to kiss me.
        ‘Shouldn’t we draw the curtains?’ I muttered. ‘They can see us from the road.’
        ‘So what?’ he murmured.
        Suddenly I heard a scrunch of wheels on the road outside. Swinging round I saw a blue Porsche flash by. In the driving seat was a red-headed girl who gazed in at us, a mixture of