Alien Wife

‘Luke will do,’ responded the younger man easily, taking an immediate liking to his host.

‘You’re not a Scotsman, Luke,’ observed the priest, leading the way back into the room he had just left.

‘No,’ Luke agreed. ‘I came from Liverpool, actually, although I live in London now.’

‘Ah!’ McGregor nodded. ‘Well, let us make ourselves comfortable, shall we? It’s a chill day, and you’re no doubt feeling the cold after all that central heating you have in the south. No such refinements here, I’m afraid. A fire is all we have. But it’s cosy, and it keeps you warm.’

The room they entered was a comfortable study, pleasantly illuminated by the fire burning in the grate, and lined with shelves of books. There was the scent of pine logs and pipe tobacco, and indicating that Luke should take the armchair at the opposite side of the fire from his own, McGregor issued the hovering housekeeper with orders for afternoon tea.

‘Unless you’d like something stronger?’ he queried, raising his eyebrows, but Luke said tea would be fine.

After they were seated, Luke added: ‘It’s very good of you to accommodate me like this. I mean, Scott tends to expect everyone to jump to his bidding at the studio, and I guess he lets the feeling carry him away.’

‘Any friend of Scott Anderson’s is a friend of mine,’ McGregor assured him warmly. ‘And you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I enjoy a bit of company, and there’s a little enough goes on here at the best of times. Tell me, do you play chess, by any chance?’

Luke looked apologetic. ‘Not very well, I’m afraid.’

‘Ah, well. That’s a pity.’ McGregor reached for his pipe. ‘And you’re here to consider making a film of Ardnalui?’ He lit a spill from the fire. ‘Scott told me that you are a writer. Should I know your name?’

Luke grinned. ‘It’s possible. It depends what kind of literature you read. My books are not masterpieces, but I’ve been lucky enough to have a couple of them filmed, and now they’re wanting to make a television series about the third. That’s why I’m here. Scott commissioned the book, you see.’

McGregor chewed thoughtfully away at his pipe. ‘Do you know Scotland at all?’

‘No.’ Luke was honest. ‘This is my first visit.’

‘And yet you wrote about it.’

‘It’s not difficult, sir. I have been to Austria, and the scenery is not too dissimilar. And people are people, the world over.’

‘I doubt the people here would agree with you,’ remarked McGregor dryly. ‘But I know what you’re trying to say.’

‘Inverleven—the imaginary place in my book—isn’t intended to be Ardnalui,’ Luke explained quietly. ‘But I used Scott’s descriptions of the place, and it was his idea that I should come to see it for myself.’

‘With a view to filming here.’

Luke shook his head. ‘Somehow I doubt it. It’s too far off the beaten track, I’m afraid. I think Scott just wanted me to see this place—where he was born.’

The priest nodded. ‘I can’t deny you’ve somewhat reassured me. I don’t know that I like the idea of Ardnalui being overrun with film people.’

He made them sound like a different species, and Luke smiled. He had had similar reservations when his first book was bought for the screen. But he had met a lot of decent people in his association with the industry, and they offset the seamier side.

‘Are you a married man, Luke?’

McGregor had a priest’s healthy interest in the personal lives of his acquaintances, and Luke shook his head. ‘Not now. I was. I got married when I was about—eighteen. It didn’t work. We were divorced twelve years ago.’

‘Divorced!’ The priest looked regretful. ‘There is no divorce in the eyes of God, my son.’

Luke shrugged. He had expected that. ‘Jennifer’s dead now,’ he said flatly. ‘She married again, but she and her husband were killed in a car crash five years ago.’

The housekeeper returned with a tray of tea and some delicious-smelling scones and sandwiches. While McGregor took charge of the teacups, Luke looked round the room with interest. His host’s interest in chess was evident in the exquisite set of chessmen, set upon a board table to one side of the fireplace, but he obviously enjoyed fishing, too, for there were rods and a creel basket, and several boxes of flies.

While they ate, McGregor described the village. He was interested in its history, and mentioned how the Jacobite cause had been strongly supported in these parts. He talked about Prestonpans and the bloody defeat of Culloden, and it was with reluctance that Luke eventually pulled himself up out of his chair and explained his desire to take a walk around the village before supper.

‘Can it not wait till the morning?’ suggested McGregor hopefully, and Luke guessed the old priest was trying to prolong his stay. After the lazy relaxation of the last hour, Luke was not so averse to that as he might have been. His life in London was inclined to be hectic, and it had been good to loosen up and let time take care of itself for a change. And after all, he had nothing to hurry back to town for.

‘Well …’ he began, and guessing he was weakening, McGregor added: ‘You could take a walk down to the loch. Then tomorrow, I’ll accompany you on a tour of Ardnalui.’

‘All right,’ Luke nodded. ‘But I promised to phone Scott later.’

‘You can use the phone in here,’ said McGregor at once. ‘Now, I expect you’d like to see your room before you take your walk. I’ll have Mrs Tully show you.’

Luke collected his overnight case from the car, secured its doors and windows, and then followed the ample proportions of the housekeeper upstairs. The panelling of the staircase was continued along the landing. There were several doors, and a half frosted glass one which Mrs Tully explained was the bathroom.

‘There’s a wash basin in your room, sir,’ she said, opening one of the bedroom doors and preceding him inside, ‘but I’m afraid we only have the one bath.’

Luke assured her that he didn’t mind, and after she had departed, he walked to the low windows which overlooked the loch. It was quite a view, and he turned back to face the room with resignation. It was reasonably large, but chilly after the warmth of his apartment, and although the bedroom suite was large and old-fashioned, the bed was a modern divan, and singularly ungenerous in its proportions.

He left his room and used the bathroom, amused at its antiquated fitments. The bath had claw feet, and the cistern made peculiar noises when one turned on the taps. Back in his room again, he washed his face and hands, ran a rueful finger over his roughening jawline, and then deciding that shaving could wait until later, he went downstairs.

He let himself out of the house, and stood for a moment, bracing himself against the cold evening air. Perhaps he should have put on his overcoat. The leather jacket was little protection against the mist that was now rising from the loch. Still, he wouldn’t stay out long, he decided briskly, and ran lightly down the steps.

As he did so, a figure straightened from the far side of the Lamborghini, and used to the ever-present menace of car thieves in London, Luke checked and turned about, reaching the youth before he could get away. ‘What do you think you—– Good God! Ella!’

The girl turned to face him and he saw at once he had made a mistake. This girl was tall but slimmer than Ella, and her long silky black hair had none of the chestnut lights he was used to. Her eyes were different, too—dark, instead of blue, her mouth wider and more generous. Besides, she was casually dressed in tight-fitting jeans and a red wool sweater, the kind of attire Ella would never dream of assuming. Nevertheless, there was more than a resemblance.

She frowned at his recognition, and said flatly: ‘My name is Abby Rodriguez. Should I know you?’

Luke stared at her helplessly, and then shook his head. ‘I’m—sorry. I thought you were someone else. You have a definite—look of someone I know. But I realise now, you’re younger than she is.’

And more attractive, he realised incredulously, his senses stirring. How Ella would dislike the knowledge that there was someone else with her particular brand of beauty, someone with youth and innocence on her side.

The girl’s face cleared. ‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘You must be Mr Jordan. You—know my aunt.’

‘Your—aunt?’ Luke was confused.

‘Yes. Aunt Ella—Ella McKay.’

‘Ella McKay is your aunt?’

‘Yes. Didn’t you know she had a niece?’

‘I—why, no.’ Luke could not have been more astounded. Why hadn’t Ella ever mentioned the girl?

‘I was admiring your car,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘It’s beautiful! How fast can it go? Over a hundred?’

Luke endeavoured to grasp his thoughts. ‘Well over a hundred,’ he agreed dryly. ‘Do you drive, Miss Rodriguez?’

‘Call me Abby, everyone does. And yes, I can drive. Uncle Daniel taught me.’ Her expression was rueful. ‘You look as if you could do with a drink. I think Uncle Daniel has some fire-water, as well as the sherry he keeps for his parishioners. Shall we go inside?’