UNTYING THE KNOT Read online

  ‘Poor Jessie,’ said Magnus. ‘She hates to lose it like that. All that messy emotion…’ He shook his head. ‘It’s bad for your health.’

  Fay recognised the bait from long experience, but still rose to it. ‘You know, I don’t know how the English got lumbered with their reputation for stiff upper lips. You Scots make the English seem positively Latin in temperament.’

  ‘Ah! There he is!’ Emily exclaimed. She laid her hand on her father’s arm. ‘Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.’

  Fay watched as Emily hurried across the gallery. ‘Now what?’

  ‘I suspect we’re about to meet her young man.’

  ‘She sounded very excited. Is this one serious?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘You’ve met him?

  ‘Aye, a couple of times.’

  ‘Do you approve?’

  Magnus shrugged. ‘Would Emily care? Do you, for that matter?’

  ‘No, not really. Is that him over there? He looks older than her.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be difficult. She’s twenty-two.’

  ‘He looks smart at least.’ Fay craned her neck. ‘His suit actually fits.’

  ‘You should see him in a tux.’

  ‘You have?’ Fay abandoned her scrutiny of Emily’s new man and turned to Magnus. ‘Where?’

  ‘Em dragged me to a concert in Perth. She met him there when he was rehearsing at the Concert Hall. He’s a post-grad student here in Glasgow, at RSAMD. Training to be a singer. A classical singer. Funny way to earn a living, if you ask me.’

  ‘Not as funny as being blown up for a living. And nobody did ask you.’

  ‘I see age has not yet begun to mellow you, Fay,’ Magnus replied, gazing at his ex-wife with a gratified smile. ‘Brace yourself, now. You’re about to meet the man who may become your future son-in-law.’

  She turned to him, aghast. ‘You’re joking! Emily’s twenty-two!’

  ‘At which age you were married to a soldier and had a wee bairn.’

  ‘You’re saying a capacity for disaster is passed down through the genes?’ Fay snapped.

  Magnus folded his arms and sighed. ‘You know, there are times when I miss your douce tones and calm reasonableness.’

  ‘Like hell you do. Look, tell me this is just an example of your macabre sense of humour. She isn’t really talking marriage, is she?’

  ‘Hinting, certainly.’

  ‘She’s twenty-two!’

  ‘Aye, so you said. Maybe she’s in love. It happens, I gather... Here they come, now. Look pleasant. You can do it if you try.’

  ‘Magnus, did anyone actually invite you to this event?’

  ‘No. In fact the blonde Amazon on the door informed me my name was on a blacklist.’

  ‘Morag? She said that?’

  ‘Well, no, she didn’t, but she wouldn’t let me in without an invitation, so I went round the back and found an unlocked door. Smile, Fay. You’re on camera.’

  Emily approached her parents, her arm linked through that of a fair young man, solidly built and of upright bearing. As he stood facing Emily’s parents, his colour became heightened and his confidence seemed to ebb. He glanced at Fay, who wasn’t smiling, then looked anxiously at Magnus, who was. The men exchanged a hearty handshake. Still clutching the young man’s arm, Emily said, ‘Mum, I’d like you to meet Rick. Rick, this is my mother, Fay Austin.’

  Rick extended a large hand and murmured something polite without meeting Fay’s eyes. As if dazed, she let go of the empty wine glass in her right hand and Magnus (whose lightning reflexes had preserved his life on more than one occasion) caught it as it fell. Ignoring Rick, Fay stared for a moment at the two glasses in Magnus’ hands, then looked up into his eyes. He frowned at her and jerked his head slightly in Rick’s direction. She drew herself up to her full height, turned and offered her hand with a gracious, if fixed smile.

  ‘Rick, delighted to meet you! Have you come far?’

  The empty gallery echoed with the tap of Fay’s heels as she collected up the last few wine glasses. She placed them on a tray and carried them into a tiny kitchen where a tall, fair woman was washing up.

  Fay set down the tray. ‘That’s the lot, Morag. Thanks for staying to clear up. It’s very good of you.’

  ‘Och, no bother,’ Morag replied comfortably. ‘I don’t have to be in again until lunchtime tomorrow. And it’s good to wind down after all the buzz.’ She tossed her improbably blonde locks, grey at the roots, and added wistfully, ‘It’s not as if I’m keeping George Clooney waiting.’

  ‘Some day, Morag. Some day your prince will come.’

  ‘It’s not so much the prince I’m waiting for, more his gold Amex card. Much more reliable.’ She turned on the tap and began to rinse glasses. ‘It went really well tonight, Fay. You must be feeling pleased with yourself.’

  ‘I am rather. We didn’t sell that much, but there was a lot of interest.’

  ‘That’s what you want. It leads to commissions.’ Morag submerged more glasses in the washing up bowl. ‘Who was the tall guy? He seemed very interested.’

  ‘Tall?... Possibly my daughter’s boyfriend.’

  ‘No. Different generation. The good-looking guy with all the crazy hair.’

  ‘Oh, him.’

  ‘He tried to charm his way in at the start of the evening. He didn’t have an invite, so I said a firm but polite “No”, but it fair broke my heart to turn him away. Did you let him in?’

  ‘No. I think he sneaked in round the back.’

  ‘Is he a fan of yours?’

  Fay smiled, picked up a glass from the draining board and started to dry it. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Did he buy anything?’

  ‘No. He’s family. Well, he was. Magnus is my ex.’

  Morag turned to Fay, her eyes wide. ‘So that’s Magnus? Och, if I’d known, I wouldn’t have turned him away! He told me he’d lost his invitation, but I thought that was just a line.’

  ‘It was. I didn’t send him one.’

  Morag shot Fay a sidelong glance and said, ‘I see... That bad, huh?’

  ‘Yes. Well, no, not really. Not any more. But we don’t see each other socially. We both have our separate lives now.’

  ‘But he still takes an interest in your work? That’s nice.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Fay replied, polishing the glass and peering at it for smears.

  Morag, twice divorced herself, was not deceived by Fay’s air of preoccupation. She said gently, ‘But you’d rather he hadn’t come.’

  ‘Afraid so. I don’t know quite how he does it, but Magnus always brings out the worst in me. And I really didn’t need any more distractions tonight.’

  ‘Aye, he looked like a pretty distracting kind of guy,’ Morag said, shaking her head. ‘Was there trouble?’

  ‘No, not really. I descended into Queen Bitch mode, but Magnus always goads me until I do. My daughter turned up out of the blue and I hadn’t seen her for ages, so that was nice. But... well, she brought her new boyfriend along too. So there were introductions to be made. It was all a bit strained.’

  ‘Well, it’s over now,’ Morag said, emptying the washing up bowl. ‘And you were a big success! How about sharing a taxi home? It’s late. And we’re worth it.’

  ‘Good idea. I was going to get the bus, but I’m dead on my feet. Can’t wait to get these shoes off.’

  ‘They were worth suffering for,’ said Morag, admiring Fay’s small feet, encased in beaded and embroidered satin. ‘They’re gorgeous.’

  Fay looked down and pointed a sparkly toe. ‘Shoe porn from Helen Bateman in Edinburgh. My secret vice. When I’m not wearing them they live in a glass case, locked and burglar-alarmed to protect them from envious girlfriends.’

  Morag laughed and shook her head. ‘If I wore those, I’d be taller than most of the guys in Glasgow. And that would be kind of counter-productive.’ She looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, ‘Is Magnus single?’

  ‘You’re too
late, I’m afraid. He lives with a primary teacher in a Perthshire castle. The kind with running water. It runs down the walls. I don’t know how she puts up with it. Or him for that matter.’

  ‘Well, teachers have a lot of patience, don’t they?’

  ‘She’d need it,’ Fay replied, putting the last of the glasses away in a cupboard.

  Morag removed her apron and flung it over a hook on the back of the door. ‘Ready then?’

  ‘Will you lock up while I order the taxi? Ten minutes?’

  ‘Make it five. I need my bed. And for once,’ Morag added, stifling a yawn, ‘I’m glad it’ll be empty. I’m jiggered.’

  Some time after midnight Fay turned the key to the door of her flat. As she entered, she paused on the threshold and thought of Freddie. He’d not been far from her thoughts all evening. She closed the door behind her, kicked off her high-heeled shoes and padded toward the kitchen area where, out of habit still, she filled the kettle for two. She turned away from the worktop and faced the large, open-plan living space where she lived, worked and ate. Visible through floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights winked and sparkled like Christmas decorations, their number doubled by their reflection in the River Clyde. Light pollution meant that city dwellers rarely saw stars, but Fay never felt deprived when she looked out at the illuminated cityscape that formed the fourth wall of her flat.

  The kettle switched itself off and she decided to make herself a pot of camomile tea. She only wanted one cup, but whenever she made the mistake of boiling water for two, she dealt with the resultant sense of loneliness by making a pot, as if this were a special treat, instead of yet another reminder that she was a middle-aged woman living alone and – mostly – sleeping alone.

  Freddie…

  Freddie had been another of Fay’s famous mistakes. A humdinger. Freddie was a very enjoyable mistake, a mistake that did her a power of good at the time, but a mistake nonetheless. She could see that now. Pushing Freddie’s image to the back of her mind, Fay poured hot water into the teapot and took out a blue and white Japanese mug, her favourite. She arranged teapot and mug on a tray and carried them over to the sofa, positioned to face the view of the Govan shipyard on the opposite bank of the river. Fay always sat at one end of the enormous sofa, as if someone else might sit at the other. This habit of hers irritated her so much, she’d considered getting a pet to share the sofa, but she was allergic to cats and travelled too much to keep a dog. She also feared that if she had one, she might actually start talking to it.

  Fay stared out at the river, its surface quilted by waves and now stippled by the heavy rain that had begun to fall. The ship opposite was almost finished. She’d observed its construction, a process so slow as to seem imperceptible, like the growth of stalactites. Every day the great hulk of the ship looked exactly the same, as if nothing had been achieved in the previous twenty-four hours, despite the efforts of a hundred men in hard hats and boiler suits. But now there it was, almost finished, looking like a proper ship, not a metal skeleton. When had it happened? Fay only ever noticed progress if she went away for a week. It was like that children’s game, except in Kim’s Game, you took something away. In Fay’s version, she would study the ship-in-progress and try to spot what had been added. She rarely could, but the ship grew nonetheless.

  The scene before her was like a spectacular stage show, something performed for an audience of one. At times men swarmed like insects up and down scaffolding staircases, spot lit beneath long, sinister shadows cast by four gigantic cranes. Even through double-glazed windows, she could hear the agonised shrieks of sheet metal being tortured into submission. Mighty crashes and clangs conjured up armoured dragons engaged in mortal combat, their death throes the eerie whine and rhythmic boom that accompanied the invisible work of the shipyard, which went on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

  It was a noisy place to live, but the sounds of creation bothered Fay less than rowdy neighbours or traffic. The noise was stimulating, a clamour that heralded the birth of something tremendous: a steel Leviathan that would slip into the river, then glide on out to sea. Fay would never see the ship again, a ship she’d watched being built from the ground up, a ship she felt was partly hers. When it was gone, she knew she’d miss it. The riverbank would look empty and she’d feel a sense of loss, of loneliness almost.

  Ships that pass in the night . . .

  Freddie.

  She leaned forward and pulled the tea tray toward her, in need of something soothing, something to smooth away the irritations and fears she always experienced around Magnus. Why had he shown up at the gallery? Why hadn’t he asked her if he could come? Presumably because she hadn’t sent him an invitation. And why hadn’t she invited him? Because she’d supposed he wouldn’t come. And did that matter? Yes, dammit, it did. She wanted Magnus to see she was successful now, that she’d been right to leave him and go her own way. She wanted him to know she was a person in her own right, not just somebody’s mother and somebody’s wife. She wanted Magnus to see that.

  Or maybe she just wanted to see Magnus.

  Fay tilted the teapot and a stream of clear water flowed into her mug. She’d forgotten the teabag. She banged the pot down on the tray and flung herself back on the sofa, suddenly close to tears. Couldn’t she do anything right?

  She got to her feet and, leaving the tray where it was, turned off all the lights and headed for the bedroom. As she undressed, she thought of Freddie again. It was too late now. What’s done is done. She would just have to live with the consequences. Livid with herself, she scrubbed at her face with cleanser and cotton wool and brushed her teeth until her gums bled. As she tossed about in the middle of her defiantly king-sized bed, Fay thought again of Freddie as she wrestled with two questions.

  Should she tell Magnus?

  And, even supposing she could, would she?

  Fay

  Everyone makes mistakes, but I sometimes think I’ve made more than most; that when it comes to making big life decisions, I’m what you might call emotionally accident-prone. Perhaps that’s why I take such care with my work. To compensate. (Being prone to error and a perfectionist doesn’t make for an easy life, either professionally or personally.) I will re-arrange fine, woven threads to conceal my mistakes from the casual observer, but I don’t know – have never known – how to re-arrange the threads of my life to mitigate domestic disasters. People aren’t as resilient as antique linen. When life needles us, the puncture holes remain. They might be small, but they’re there. A disturbance in the weave. A distortion of the threads. A weakness.

  When I work, I sometimes subject the cloth to processes that fade or discolour it. The fabric might be torn or frayed, even burned. This manipulation of the cloth is called “distressing”. What life did to Magnus was distressing. It left a trail of holes in his mind and some in his body. What Magnus did to me was also distressing. It too left a hole. Not in my life. That was easily filled with work. (Magnus had always been more of an absence than a presence anyway.) The hole that couldn’t be filled was in my heart.

  I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my time and marrying Magnus was one of them. I suppose the biggest mistake I ever made was divorcing him. That didn’t leave a hole, it left a crater. A bloody great bomb crater.

  Chapter 3

  Wind and weather made little impression on Nina Buchanan. She was a hardy young woman, the product of an affluent Anglo-Scottish upbringing that had inured her to damp and discomfort and discouraged any tendency to complain. A fondness for sport and keeping herself busy meant that, despite a perpetually ravenous appetite, her figure remained firm, even a little muscular. This was not immediately apparent to an observer since she tended to dress in bulky, oversized jumpers and fleece-lined trousers. Personal vanity wasn’t an option if you lived, as Nina had done for the past year, in Tullibardine Tower. Of necessity, you dressed for warmth.

  Summer was over and it would soon be time to don the woollen hat she wore on winter days, even in
doors. Her long blonde hair hung down in an unbecoming but practical plait. Magnus liked to unwind it, marvelling at the soft, kinked cascade of hair as it spread over Nina’s shoulders. In jest, he’d called her “Rapunzel” and the name had stuck.

  They’d met at a meeting of the local history society. Nina, an archaeology graduate, unable to find a job on a dig, had moved back home to Perthshire to live with her parents. She’d finally trained as a primary teacher, relegating her love of history to her spare time. It was in that spare time she’d gone to hear Magnus give a talk about the restoration of Tullibardine Tower, a project to which he’d dedicated six years of his life.

  Nina was already in love with the idea of Tully Tower, which she’d known as a ruin for as long as she could remember. She’d dreamed of what it must have been like in the sixteenth century, had wished it could be rescued and restored, but locals said Tully was beyond repair and totally uninhabitable. Only a madman would take it on. An English madman, they added with a wink.

  But Magnus McGillivray had proved them wrong, living with his family on site while he and a small army of local builders and craftsmen set about turning what appeared to be a pile of rubble into a family home. Predictions were confidently made that the McGillivrays wouldn’t last a winter, then that they wouldn’t last a second winter. Some took satisfaction in the fact that Mrs. McGillivray didn’t last a third, but others claimed to be shocked when she left, especially since her teenage daughter stayed behind.

  It was Emily McGillivray who’d suggested her father try to raise much needed cash by giving talks about the restoration of the tower house. These proved popular. Nina had attended one and, entranced, approached Magnus to ask if he’d consider giving a talk in school. Magnus, equally entranced, suggested they discuss it in the pub. By the end of the evening, he’d agreed to give a talk on Life in a Sixteenth-century Tower House and Nina had agreed to dinner and a tour of Tully Tower. It was as she leaned out of an upstairs window, her long golden hair spilling over the edge, that Magnus had smiled and called her “Rapunzel”. Nina, at twenty-five not an overly sophisticated young woman, had been impressed by the romance of this; had been even more impressed by the romance of Magnus, who resolutely refused to discuss his former career, although his partial deafness and a variety of scars on his body (with which Nina soon became familiar) told their own story, albeit an incomplete one.