“Of course.”
“And my brother, very generously, says he doesn’t want it. Right? My mother is in a home. Yep? The island therefore belongs to me, my wife, and my daughter. Yes?”
Daughter. Singular.
“Indeed—”
“So that’s that. Surely? We want to move. We really want to move. Yes, it’s in a state. Yes, it’s falling down. But we’ll cope. We have, after all”—Angus sits back—“been through worse.”
I look, quite intently, at my husband.
If I was meeting him now, for the first time, he would still be very attractive. A tall, smart guy in his thirties, with three days of agreeable stubble. Dark-eyed, masculine, capable.
Angus had a tinge of stubble when we first met, and I liked that; I liked the way it emphasized his jawline. He was one of the few men I had met who could happily own the word handsome, sitting in that large, noisy Covent Garden tapas bar.
He was laughing, at a big table, with a bunch of friends: all in their mid-twenties. Me and my friends were at the next table over. Slightly younger, but just as cheerful. Everyone was drinking plenty of Rioja.
And so it happened. One of the guys tossed a joke our way; someone came back with a teasing insult. And then the tables mingled: we shifted and squashed, and budged up, laughing and joking, and swapping names: this is Zoe, this is Sacha, this is Alex, Imogen, Meredith…
And this is Angus Moorcroft, and this is Sarah Milverton. He’s from Scotland and he’s twenty-six. She’s half English, half American, and she’s twenty-three. Now spend the rest of your lives together.
The rush-hour traffic grows louder outside; I am stirred from my reverie. Andrew Walker is getting Angus to sign some more documents. And oh, I know this procedure: we’ve signed so very many documents this last year. The paperwork that attends disaster.
Angus is hunched over the desk, scribbling his name. His hand looks too big for the pen. Turning away, I stare at a picture of Old London Bridge on the yellow-painted wall. I want to reminisce a little more, and distract myself. I want to think about Angus and me: that first night.
I remember it all, so vividly. From the music—Mexican salsa—to the mediocre tapas: luridly red patatas bravas, vinegary white asparagus. I remember the way other people drifted off—gotta get the last Tube, got to get some sleep—as if they all sensed that he and I were matched, that this was something more important than your average Friday-night flirtation.
How easily it turns. What would my life be now, if we’d taken a different table, gone to a different bar? But we chose that bar, that night, and that table, and by midnight I was sitting alone, right next to this tall guy: Angus Moorcroft. He told me he was an architect. He told me he was Scottish, and single. And then he told a clever joke—which I didn’t realize was a joke until a minute later. And as I laughed, I realized he was looking at me: deeply, questioningly.
So I looked right back at him. His eyes were a dark, solemn brown; his hair was wavy, and thick, and very black; and his teeth were white and sharp against his red lips and dark stubble, and I knew the answer. Yes.
Two hours later we stole our first drunken kiss, under the approving moon, in a corner of Covent Garden piazza. I remember the glisten of the rainy cobblestones as we embraced: the chilly sweetness of the evening air. We slept together, the very same night.
Nearly a year after that, we married. After barely two years of marriage, we had the girls: identical twin sisters. And now there is one twin left.
The pain rises inside me: and I have to put a fist to my mouth to suppress the shudder. When will it go away? Maybe never? It is like a war wound, like shrapnel inside the flesh, making its way to the surface, over years.
So maybe I have to speak. To quell the pain: to quiet my thoughts. I’ve been sitting here for half an hour, docile and muted, like some Puritan housewife. I rely on Angus to do the talking, too often; to provide what is missing in me. But enough of my silence, for now.
“If we do the island up, it could be worth a million.”
Both men turn to me. Abruptly. She speaks!
“That view,” I say, “is worth a million by itself, overlooking the Sound of Sleat. Toward Knoydart.”
I am very careful to pronounce it properly: Sleat to rhyme with slate. I have done my research; endless research, Googling images and histories.
Andrew smiles, politely.
“And, ah, have you been there, Mrs. Moorcroft?”
I blush; yet I don’t care.
“No. But I’ve seen the pictures, read the books—that’s one of the most famous views in Scotland, and we will have our own island.”
“Indeed. Yes. However—”
“There was a house in Ornsay village, on the mainland, half a mile from Torran…” I glance at the note stored in my phone, though I remember the facts well enough. “It sold for seven hundred and fifty thousand on January fifteenth this year. A four-bedroom house, with a nice garden and a bit of decking. All very pleasant, but not exactly a mansion. But it had a spectacular view of the Sound—and that is what people pay for. Seven hundred and fifty k.”
Angus looks at me, and nods encouragement. Then he joins in.
“Aye. And if we do it up, we could have five bedrooms, an acre—the cottage is big enough. Could be worth a million. Easily.”
“Well, yes, Mr. Moorcroft, it’s worth barely fifty thousand now, but yes, there is potential.”
The solicitor is smiling, in a faked way. I am struck with curiosity: why he is so blatantly reluctant for us to move to Torran? What does he know? What is Peter Kenwood’s real involvement? Perhaps they were going to make an offer themselves? That makes sense: Kenwood has known of Torran for years, he knew Angus’s grandmother, he would be fully apprised of the unrealized value.
Was this what they were planning? If so, it would be seductively simple. Just wait for Angus’s grandmother to die. Then pounce on the grandkids, especially on a grieving and bewildered couple: shell-shocked by a child’s death, reeling from ensuing financial strife. Offer them a hundred thousand, twice as much as needed, be generous and sympathetic, smile warmly yet sadly. It must be difficult, but we can help, take this burden away. Sign on the line…
After that: a stroll. Ship a busload of Polish builders to Skye, invest two hundred thousand, wait for a year until the work is done.
This beautiful property, located on its own island, on the famous Sound of Sleat, is for sale at £1.25 million, or nearest offer…
Was that their plan? Andrew Walker is gazing at me and I feel a twinge of guilt. I am probably being horribly unfair to Kenwood and Partners. But whatever their motivation, there is no way I am giving up this island: it is my exit route, it is an escape from the grief, and the memories—and the debts and the doubts.
I have dreamed about it too much. Stared at the glowing pictures on my laptop screen, at three a.m., in the kitchen. When Kirstie is asleep in her room and Angus is in bed doped with Scotch. Gazing at the crystal beauty. Eilean Torran. On the Sound of Sleat. Lost in the loveliness of the Inner Hebrides, this beautiful property, on its very own island.
“OK then. I just need a couple more signatures,” says Andrew Walker.
“And we’re done?”
A significant pause.
“Yes.”
Fifteen minutes later Angus and I walk out of the yellow-painted office, down the red-painted hall, and exit into the damp of an October evening. In Bedford Square, Bloomsbury.