Mistakes We Make (31 page)

Molly snatched her hand away. ‘Not in the slightest. My marriage, as you once so clearly pointed out, is over.’

‘Ah. But are you still in love with him?’

‘No! Maybe a little. Well, what if I am? It won’t do me the slightest good. Now,’ she emptied her glass in three quick gulps and held it out for a refill, ‘you mentioned you’d met a man. I want to hear all about it – every gory detail.’

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T
he tin labelled ‘Summer Camp Fund’ was still very much on Caitlyn’s mind. It was an impossibly large sum for Isla May to have; she couldn’t imagine how the money had got there. She waited for the right moment and sat Isla May and Ailsa down.

‘There’s something I have to talk to you both about,’ she said.

‘That sounds serious,’ Ailsa said, laughing.

Ailsa had changed her hairstyle recently. It only fell to her shoulders now, instead of half way down her back, but it was stylish and sleek. It made her look more grown up. She almost was grown up. The night of Ricky’s attack had been a turning point – or perhaps that had come earlier and Caitlyn hadn’t noticed. Either way, dating Wallace had definitely improved her sister.

‘You’re not expecting a baby, are you?’ Isla May said, her little face earnest.

‘
What
?’

‘Mariella says you get a baby when a man sticks his thing into you. That’s what horrible Ricky did, isn’t it?’

‘No, darling, that is absolutely not what Ricky did,’ Caitlyn said, alarmed that Isla May’s childhood innocence appeared to be so soon at an end. She resolved to have a proper facts of life chat with her very soon, or to make sure her mother did it. ‘Thanks to Wallace and Ailsa, all he did was hurt me a bit. Anyway, that’s all over now and Ricky has said he’s sorry, so we don’t need to talk about that any more. No,’ she reached under the table and produced the tin, ‘this is what we need to talk about.’

Isla May’s eyes widened. ‘You found my tin.’

Ailsa said, ‘That was supposed to be a secret.’

‘How did you get this money, Ailsa? Isla May?’

‘It’s no great deal,’ Ailsa said carelessly. ‘It’s not like your fraud thing at the office or anything. Keep your hair on.’

Isla May wriggled her bottom on her chair and sat up very straight. ‘We worked for it. We did baking and I sold it at school.’

‘You did what?’

‘We set up a business,’ Isla May said importantly. ‘The Wallace Summer Camp Fund Cookery Company Limited. I’m the chief director.’

Caitlyn stared at her sister. ‘You’re six years old.’

‘I’m nearly seven,’ Isla May said indignantly.

‘I’m the accountant,’ Ailsa said, ‘and Harris and Lewis are both salespeople.’

‘You got the twins involved in this?’ Caitlyn asked incredulously.

‘They demanded ten per cent,’ Isla May said indignantly, ‘but we negotiated them down to seven, didn’t we, Ailsa?’

‘Let me get this straight. You baked things and sold them? Where?’

‘I told you: at school. Only we had to be a little bit careful, cos Ailsa says some teachers can get fussy about – what is it again, Ailsa?’

‘Food handling certification,’ Ailsa said gloomily. ‘It’s a real bore, you know, one of those stupid health and safety things, so we thought it was better to just sell it on the quiet.’

‘And the boys sold stuff at school too?’

‘Yes. They did really well, actually, though we had to make them account for it all or they’d have scoffed the lot. We did spreadsheets, didn’t we, Isla May? Most tray bakes were cut into twenty portions, and they either had to give us the money or give back the pieces they hadn’t sold.’

Caitlyn’s amazement grew. ‘Where did you get the capital, for heaven’s sake?’

‘I put up the money the first couple of times. It wasn’t very much. We put all the profits back into stock.’

Caitlyn’s hands were over her mouth. She was trying to smother her laughter. She’d been imagining heaven knows what – extortion, pilfering, stealing from Joyce’s purse, or her own – and here was a profitable small enterprise set up and thriving right under her nose.

‘What’s so funny?’ Ailsa asked belligerently.

She couldn’t contain herself any longer. ‘It’s not ... funny ... it’s brilliant! It’s just that I was thinking—’ she clutched her sides. Tears were streaming down her face. Laughter was unexpected, and with it came release. All of a sudden, nothing that had happened over the past months seemed quite so bad – not the fraud or her role in uncovering it; not the loss of her job; not the assault; nothing. All that mattered was her wonderful family.

The cashbox must have been worrying Caitlyn more than she’d realised. She felt so much better that she made up her mind to go into Fraser, Fraser and Mutch and find out what the job was, how much it paid, and whether she had the right qualifications to have a chance of getting it. And she resolved to see Malkie – to hell with the bruises, now showing more green than purple.

‘It’s general secretarial work,’ said the girl on reception, her tongue stud flashing.

What were they thinking about, letting her come to work like that? Caitlyn thought of the scruffy felt-tip notice in the window, took in the threadbare carpet with its dark stains and the shabby chairs for clients to wait in. OK, so maybe Blair King, with its sleek contemporary furnishings and gleaming cherry wood floor, had been a bit much the other way, but if she worked here, she’d have to get this sorted. She’d bet a million pounds that Fraser, Fraser and Mutch were men. Either young guys who had been students not so long ago or old men who no longer noticed such things.

‘That sounds all right.’

‘We’ve had loads of applications, so if you’re interested you’d better get something in quick. They’re starting to call people in for interviews.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Caitlyn asked, taking an application form. Now that she’d decided to try for the job, she really wanted it.

‘Sure,’ said the girl, stifling a yawn.

Goodness, she needed a bomb under her!

In the high street, she ran right into Adam Blair.

‘Sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

He peered at her eye. ‘Is that a bruise? What happened?’

‘Nothing. An argument with a door.’

‘You’re not being ... I mean, no-one’s ... at home?’

‘What? Oh, beating me up, you mean. No, you’re all right, there’s no man in our house. Well only Ailsa’s boyfriend Wallace, and he’s a pussycat. I didn’t know you lived in Hailesbank, Mr Blair.’

‘I didn’t till recently. I’ve started as manager at Forgie End Farm.’

‘Really? My gran used to work there.’

‘What did she do?’

‘Mostly housework and cooking. It was ages ago. There was some big feud, wasn’t there? The Blair brothers. Hey—’ she looked at Adam, startled, ‘—was that something to do with your family, then?’

‘It was. But it’s all a long time ago. Have you found a job yet?’

‘No. But there’s a post going at the lawyer’s down the road there,’ she tossed her head in the direction she’d just come from. ‘I’m putting in an application.’

‘If you need a reference, get in touch, OK?’

‘You’d be willing to do that for me?’ she asked, surprised.

‘You’re not still feeling guilty about what happened at Blair King, are you? What you did was upright and honest, and pretty damn smart. I’d be more than happy to recommend you.’

Caitlyn blushed as he walked away. He’d been all right, Adam Blair.

The sun was shining, the daffodils and crocuses in the tubs along the high street had shot into bloom, and it was suddenly spring – a time of regeneration and new beginnings. Nothing could stop her feeling upbeat.

She called Malkie.

‘You’re absolutely right, Malcolm Milne.’

‘Really? What about?’

‘You said we need to talk, and so we do. I need to get it through that thick head of yours that just because I said I wasn’t ready to move in with you doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.’

‘Right.’

He was clearly going to take a bit of convincing.

‘There’s something else I have to tell you about too, but you have to promise not to do anything.’

‘How can I promise not to do anything if I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about?’

‘You’ll see. Promise?’

‘I guess.’

‘Right then. Are we on? For seven, at the Duke?’

‘See you then.’

She spent the rest of the afternoon in WorldLink, the new internet café in Kittle’s Lane. Filling in the printed application form looked as though it would be straightforward, but she asked them to make two photocopies of the blank in case she made any mistakes. Finally, she spent an hour drafting her covering letter, and asked for it to be printed.

It was half past five. She hurried back down the high street intending to slip the envelope through Fraser, Fraser and Mutch’s door, but, just as she approached, a pleasant-looking man with silvery hair emerged and pulled the door to behind him.

‘Are you closed?’

He turned and smiled. ‘I was about to lock up, yes. Can I help you?’

She liked the man at once. He had smiley, intelligent eyes – not the kind of cold intelligence that she found intimidating, but a kind of gentle wisdom.

‘I just wanted to hand this in. I hope it’s not too late. It’s an application for the job. Are you a Mr Fraser or a Mr Mutch?’

He laughed. ‘Neither. I’m Harold Armstrong and I’m the only lawyer here. Good afternoon.’

His handshake was firm and warm.

‘No Frasers or Mutches?’

‘Not these days. Will you trust your application to me? I promise I’ll be in touch very soon to let you know whether we need to see you.’

‘Thanks.’

She had to stop herself dancing down the street because she could feel his gaze on her back as she walked away. She had a good feeling about this.

‘What the hell happened?’

‘I knew you’d be upset. It’s all right, Malkie, there’s been no harm done. If you get in the drinks, I’ll tell you.’

How long had it been since she’d seen him? Ten days? Was that all? Her life had turned cartwheels since then, and he didn’t even know.

‘Ricky bloody McQuade? I’ll kill him!’ Malkie raged when she finished telling him what had happened.

‘It’s all sorted, I promise you.’ She’d withheld the worst of the story and made the whole event sound almost comical. That took an effort, but it was worth it. She couldn’t have Malkie igniting some kind of feud that he could never win. ‘He came and apologised. Everything’s fine.’

‘He’s a little shite. I always thought so. I should—’

‘You should leave well alone. Honestly.’

Malkie finished his pint. ‘It’s all my fault.’

Caitlyn was prepared for that. ‘No. You must never think that.’

‘If I hadn’t gone off in a sulk and left you to walk home on your own—’

‘It could have happened any time, Malkie. I could have been out with my friends, or coming home late from somewhere, anything. You’re not to blame yourself. OK?’

‘I guess.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Have you thought about what I said last time? About moving in with me?’

His face was so full of earnest hope that she felt mean all over again. She had to find a way through this. She must lead him lightly towards a place of understanding and of agreement. She thought of the day he had run from her in the park, and she had chased him, laughing.

‘Bet my pace is quicker than your pace,’ he had said, but if he had understood what she had said that day, he had forgotten it now.

She took his hand.

‘I’ve thought about it, Malkie.’

‘And the answer’s still no.’ He tried to pull his hand away, but she held it fast. She would not allow him to sulk or be despondent. If they were to have a relationship, they would both need to move along the same path, inch by inch.

‘I thought, after Saskia, you might have been put off living with someone.’

‘Saskia wasn’t you. I hate going home to an empty house.’

‘But right now, that’s all I want. Can you understand that?’

His mouth was pinched and unhappy. ‘You obviously don’t feel the same way about me as I feel about you.’

Caitlyn stroked the back of his hand softly, liking its breadth and length. It would be easy to be swayed by Malkie, but it would be a mistake. She needed time. She needed to make her own way, and to live for a time in a place where she did not have to think about the needs of anyone else – not her mother nor her siblings, and certainly not a lover who would have a particular set of demands.

‘It’s not about that, Malkie. Don’t be grumpy, love. I need to live for myself for the first time in my life. I need to choose what I watch on the telly or whether I watch nothing at all and just stare at the ceiling instead. I need not to think about cooking for someone every night or cleaning up someone else’s mess. No—’

She laid a finger on his lips as he opened his mouth to object.

‘—I know you’ll say you won’t make a mess, that you’ll cook too, that you don’t mind what I watch on telly. I know you care about me, Malkie, and I’m happy that you do. You make me feel safe, and I love that feeling.’

She knew by the set of his shoulders that she had not won his understanding, not yet.

‘I can’t do it, Malkie. Not now, at any rate.’

‘Not now?’

She glimpsed hope in his eyes and was content to leave it there.

‘We haven’t known each other long. I don’t want to be another Saskia, making you dance to her tune then dropping you when she tired of the game. I want us to talk together, hand in hand, with love, and kindness, and optimism, and patience. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?’

‘I can still carry your bag?’

Her laughter punctured the tension and she saw a tremulous smile flit across his face.

‘You can carry my bag, Malcolm Milne.’

‘You’re that stubborn—’ he grumbled, still fighting.

‘So you need to know that, and think about whether you can live with it. And with my other many faults.’

‘Hah,’ he grunted.

But he kissed her cheek and then her eyelids, and then her lips, before the cat calls erupted across the room.

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M
olly met David Swift through Julian.