Ann Cleeves - White Nights

When she had left Duncan, the temptation had been to run back to live in London, to her gang of friends, the anonymous city streets where nobody knew of her humiliation. But there’d been Cassie to think about. Cassie was nearly six now, had more freedom here than she’d ever have had in London. She had a right to know her father. And Fran had come to love Shetland, despite its bleakness, so she’d moved into a small house in Ravenswick, rented it over the winter to give herself time to make up her mind about where she wanted to be. Three months ago she’d bought it. She’d committed to Shetland. She wasn’t sure, though, whether she could commit yet to Jimmy Perez. It was all too much to deal with at once.

Safer to concentrate on the failure of the party at the Herring House. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected of the exhibition opening, but she’d certainly hoped it would be more of an event. Even with Roddy Sinclair trying valiantly to bring a sense of occasion, the evening had been an anticlimax. The room half empty. Very few of her friends had been there to share the celebration. She had dreamed of having the chance to show her work for so long that she felt cheated. And what would people remember? Not the art at all, but a strange man having hysterics.

Yet the residual disappointment, the childish ‘It wasn’t fair’ couldn’t prevent her thoughts drifting back to Perez. To the first, slightly clumsy, coffee-tasting kiss. To the line of his back, just as she’d imagined it, the knots of his spine against her fingers.

The phone rang.

She assumed it would be Perez and got quickly out of bed, walked naked into the living room which was also her kitchen, thinking she would tell him she had no clothes on. That would excite him. Wouldn’t it? She had so much to learn about him. The dress she’d worn to the opening was lying in a heap on the floor. On the table the dregs of coffee in a jug, two glasses.

She picked up the phone. ‘Hello.’ Keeping her voice low and inviting.

‘Frances, are you all right? You sound as if you’ve got a cold.’ It was Bella Sinclair.

She’ll blame me, Fran thought, for the disappointing turnout last night. If Bella had been the only person exhibiting, they’d have come. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘A bit tired.’

‘Look, I need to talk to you. Can you come here? What time is it now? Eleven-thirty. Come for lunch then, as soon as you can.’

What does she want? Fran knew it was ridiculous but she was starting to panic. Bella had the ability to intimidate. Perhaps she wants money from me, she thought. Compensation for the expenses involved with setting up the party and the lack of sales. And she had no money. But of course she would obey Bella’s summons.

‘Shall we meet in the Herring House café at twelve-thirty?’ she suggested tentatively. It would take her at least that long to dress and drive north.

‘No, no.’ Bella was impatient. ‘Not the Herring House. Here, at the Manse. As quick as you can.’

Driving to Biddista, Fran thought she should have put up more of a fight, arranged to come another day. Just because she admired Bella’s work didn’t mean she didn’t have a mind of her own. Once she’d been known as strong-willed, assertive. But that had been in the old days when she had a proper job and a bunch of friends and she lived in London. Now she was struggling as an artist and to find her place in the community. As she drove past the Herring House she was wondering what the girls from the magazine would have made of Perez, so she didn’t register the cars parked at the jetty or the small group of men standing outside the corrugated-iron hut. They were part of the landscape. Men planning to get out fishing. My friends would say he wasn’t my type, she thought. Not strong enough to take me on. They’d say the relationship would never last.

The Manse was a square, stone building, imposing, on a slight rise, looking down to the sea. Fran had seen it from outside but never been in. All her previous meetings with Bella had been in the Herring House café, with Martin Williamson dancing attendance with coffee or tall glasses of wine. Bella must have heard the car on the gravel because she had the door open before Fran had climbed out. She was wearing jeans and a loose linen shirt. Even at home she had style.

‘Come in.’

Once there had been a kirk standing between the house and the beach, and the architecture of the Manse reflected the religious connection. Inside, the staircase was lit by a tall thin window, two storeys high, a church window but with clear glass which let the sunlight in. Fran stood just inside the door and took it all in. ‘What a wonderful house!’ She saw at once that was the right thing to say. Bella knew it was a wonderful house, but she liked to be told. She relaxed a little, became less imperious.

‘Come into the kitchen. It’s last night’s leftovers, I’m afraid, but there are plenty of those.’

‘I’m so sorry so few of the people I invited came. I had asked them.’

‘Don’t blame yourself,’ Bella said. ‘Oh no, you mustn’t blame yourself.’

Fran expected some explanation then, but Bella was moving on and talking about Biddista and the house, not about the party.

‘I grew up in Biddista, you know. Not here in the Manse, but in one of the council houses down on the shore. They were council houses then. They’ve all sold now. None of the people I grew up with could afford them. Willy was the last of them to live there and even he wasn’t a council tenant in the end.’

Fran was a little flattered that Bella assumed she knew who she was talking about, was treating her as a Shetlander. She hadn’t a clue of course, but she let Bella continue.

‘There was still a minister living in the Manse in those days. An Englishman who’d been a missionary in the Far East and treated us as natives who needed educating. The kirk had already gone by then and he held services in the dining room. Sometimes in the middle of a dinner party, I think I can hear the hymns.’

The kitchen, at the back of the house, seemed a little dark after the sunlight in the hall. It too still had something of the church about it. A dark wood bench under the window which could have been a pew, a high ceiling. All the ceilings seemed very high to Fran. She was used to being able to reach up and touch hers. Bella lifted plates covered with clingfilm from the fridge and Fran recognized the buffet food from the night before.

‘I need wine,’ Bella said. ‘Let’s see if Roddy has left any. He was still up when I went to bed last night, but I doubt if even he could have drunk his way through everything that was left. There are cases still in the Herring House.’ She returned to the fridge and came back with a bottle. ‘Would you like a glass? This one’s rather good.’

Fran shook her head. ‘Will Roddy be joining us?’ Despite herself she was attracted by the celebrity of Roddy Sinclair. Being a Shetlander was his trademark and his unique selling point, but for her he represented life away from the islands, her old life of wine bars and serious shopping and tabloid gossip. She told herself that world was shabby and vulgar, but she missed it. She found it alluring, caught herself reading Hello! magazine when no one was looking.

Bella looked at the clock. ‘I don’t think Roddy’s been out of his bed before mid-afternoon since he left school. Unless he had a plane to catch.’ She set plates and cutlery on the table, lifted cling wrap from the trays of food.

Fran still didn’t understand the reason for the urgent summons. Was it just Bella reminding herself that she had the power to make things happen? ‘You said you wanted to talk to me. It sounded important.’

‘Perhaps I overreacted.’