52

The kitchen table was covered with a paper cloth dotted with pink roses, on which had been laid a fan of matching napkins and the bone-china tea-plates with a gold border inherited from Stella’s mother – Jack recognized them immediately. Stacked on a willow-pattern charger in the centre of the table were tiny triangles of cucumber sandwiches circling bite-sized, square tomato ones – the white bread cut super-thin, crusts off. A round wicker basket containing cheese scones in the shape of hearts – courtesy of Morag’s Scottish baking skills – sat beside a Pyrex dish of hot chipolata sausages and a ramekin of ketchup and mustard dip. Sticky flapjack fingers, thick-sliced ham piled on a wooden breadboard, a dish of butter and a pot of raspberry jam completed the appetizing display.

Jack’s mouth watered. But he was anxious, thoroughly on edge as he greeted the McArdles and brushed his lips across Mairi’s petal-soft forehead as she lay in Eve’s arms. Almost unable to look at her, he gave Stella a neutral air-kiss, then quickly moved on to shake Iain heartily by the hand and pick up his grandson for a hug. His declaration to Stella the day before was tormenting him, eating into his joy at celebrating his granddaughter’s birth. But even more so was the conversation he needed to have with his wife.

In the hot kitchen, he observed Lisa chatting to Kenny over by the glass doors. He watched Stella pouring water into the big brown teapot. He saw Morag straightening the row of knives next to the tea-plates. He monitored Iain and Stella’s interactions, trying to fathom how they felt about each other. All he really wanted to do was talk to Stella – but she was avoiding contact with him, directing all her smiles and chat at Lisa, refusing even to meet his eye.

He found himself next to Iain at the tea table.

‘So, Stella tells me you’ll both soon be local,’ he said, attempting a casual grin.

Iain did not reply at once, only glanced at him – a look Jack did not understand. Not suspicious exactly, nor hostile in any way. Maybe ‘searching’ best described it, and Jack had the uncomfortable feeling the other man could see right into his soul.

‘Yeah, looking forward to it.’

Jack nodded. He thought Stella’s partner looked annoyingly fit – tanned and muscly, his dramatically white-blond shock of hair made him look almost heroic, in a Viking-marauder sort of way. Jack’s intense jealousy longed to label the man an idiot or a smug fuck. But he found he couldn’t. Iain seemed beyond reproach.

‘And Stella?’ Jack couldn’t help rising to the competitive urge this man unwittingly evoked. ‘She always used to say she loathed the country.’ He saw Stella raise her head at the sound of her name, and he gave her a small smile across the table. Mairi had begun to grizzle and Eve got up.

Iain laughed easily. ‘You could be right.’

‘But you two are getting a place together.’

‘That’s for her to decide,’ Iain replied, and there was that look again.

The man seemed to be talking in riddles. What is going on? Jack wondered, catching Stella’s gaze on him, which she quickly withdrew, turning to Eric beside her.

The tea party passed off smoothly enough.

It was only at the very tail end of the day, when Eve had taken the baby upstairs and the others were in the sitting room, that Jack managed to catch Stella alone in the kitchen.

She was putting the remaining flapjacks in a tin lined with greaseproof paper and wrapping the two leftover scones in foil.

‘Hi,’ he said when she didn’t look up or acknowledge his presence in any way.

He saw her take a deep breath and raise her head, her mouth set in a tight line. ‘What do you want, Jack?’

He was taken aback by her tone. It felt almost contemptuous. He didn’t answer, because he didn’t know exactly what he wanted now he had the chance to talk to her.

Stella straightened up and brushed a piece of fringe out of her eyes, put her hands on her hips, waited.

Jack quailed.

‘You and Iain … he seemed to imply …’

‘Not your business,’ she interrupted, her voice firm.

‘OK, well …’ he said.

Stella didn’t respond. She was at the sink, picking up the Pyrex dish in which the sausages had been cooked, drying it briskly with a red-and-white tea towel.

And that was that. No denouement. No resolution. No relief from the turmoil in Jack’s mind.