One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘They live in the same flat, don’t they?’ This I know for a fact, but it doesn’t do to seem too knowledgeable. Rory can be like a scent hound. Very occasionally.

  ‘She hasn’t been around.’

  ‘Maybe she’s met someone,’ I respond, testing the waters.

  ‘Nah, she’s got a boyfriend, and she’s married to her job.’

  My heart sinks because this raises the question that if they’re through, why hasn’t she appeared to tell anyone she’s single now? Maybe it’s time to call her bluff.

  ‘Listen, I was thinking about what you said the other night. About doing dinner more often.’

  ‘Why, Christopher!’ Fuck it. I hate it when he uses my name like that. ‘Are you suggesting we double date?’

  ‘Kiss my hairy ball bag, Rory.’

  ‘That’s more your thing than mine. But I’m sure you know a man who can.’

  ‘You’re a dick.’

  ‘Why, ‘cause bro jobs don’t do it for me? I think it’s the idea of the brush of stubble against my ball bag that puts me off.’

  ‘You’re a bawbag,’ I counter. ‘Just forget I said anything.’ My words are expelled though gritted teeth. I’m really not in the mood for verbal sparring right now.

  ‘Absolutely not. I’ve got you on loudspeaker, and I’m texting this to Fin as we speak. This Friday good for you?’

  ‘I never said I was bringing anyone.’

  ‘No, but you are seeing someone. Call it twin-tuition.’

  I sigh. Heavily. ‘You sound like a cartoon budgie. You been watching kid’s TV again?’

  ‘Ah, you can scoff, but I know,’ he responds in an all-knowing and supercilious tone. And he absolutely isn’t serious. Taking the piss is our default mode.

  ‘Had your hand on your crystal balls, have you?’

  ‘I just know when someone special is polishing my brother’s set. Personal business, my arse crack,’ he adds, laughing. ‘I take it this fella you’re seeing is Scottish?’

  Why? Because I’m in Scotland? I suppose I could tell him I am here to fuck Bea—not that he’d believe me—and he’d still tell Fin. I sense that might be unwelcome. At this stage, at least.

  ‘Have I ever told you how you make fratricide so appealing?’

  ‘Heaps of times,’ he replies as quick as a flash. Because it’s true. ‘It’s about time you met someone. Just bring the fucker into the fold. It would’ve made Meg so happy to see us both settled.’

  I don’t have an answer. None. Meg was the one person who loved us both unconditionally, and that’s not likely to happen for me ever again. I swallow the sudden knot in my throat, not sure why this conversation would make me feel like this today. I don’t have an answer, but I do have some thoughts. Somewhat devious thoughts regarding the woman who has my attention right now.

  ‘You should invite Bea along.’

  ‘To a double date? She’d feel like a spare prick at a wedding, dining with two loved up couples.’

  ‘What about her boyfriend?’ I ask as blandly as I can, the knot in my throat suddenly calcifying. ‘Ask her to invite him. Tell her we’re both bringing along someone, and she should, too.’

  ‘See, I knew it! I knew you were seeing someone, ya’ bastard!’

  ‘Stay focused, Rory. I know you’ve got the attention span of a Border Collie, but try.’

  ‘What? Dinner. On it. A table for four for Friday.’

  ‘Inviting Bea,’ I add an air of long suffering.

  ‘Nah, her boyfriend lives in Dubai or something. He’s never around.’ After a beat, he adds, ‘Oh, hang on. Twin-tuition seems to be extending to Fin. She’s just suggested the same thing. Apparently, Bea’s boyfriend might be in town.’

  Could this be the reason she hasn’t told anyone she’s single?

  Fuck.

  What if she’s not?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  BEA

  Maybe I should have a word with HR because there must be some correlation between orgasms and productivity. Smiles, too. Can I just take this opportunity to say this weekend rocked!

  After Kit had left to visit his “grandmother”, whatever that meant, I’d spent most of Saturday lying across the bed and resting my newly formed aches and bruising while binge watching trite movies and surviving on the room service menu.

  It was like the holiday I didn’t know I needed. And this week, I’ve been all sorts of superwoman-esque. Totally on my game. I’ve barely thought of he-who-shall-not-be-named, and conversely, I’ve thought about Kit almost constantly.

  I suppose I should be worried, but I’m not.

  On Wednesday, I actually spent my morning off at home. No more stalking the hospital for me! I’m feeling refreshed and thinking with a much clearer head. After some stellar head, maybe? Anyway, I know it’s time to come clean to Fin and family about him.

  The asshole him, not the fabulous head him.

  I’m meeting Fin for lunch, so I’ll tell her then. Selectively, at least.

  As my ouma used to say, if it’s raining cereal, you must scoop.

  I go for an early run, shower, and then head to meet Fin on her lunch hour in a little café near her office. As I arrive, she’s folding the newspaper as the waiter delivers two coffees and a plate stacked with what looks like a couple of crispy Croque Monsieurs.

  ‘Do you have something to tell me?’ I say, kissing her cheek and sliding into the tiny tub chair on the opposite side of the table. ‘Eating for two, are we?’

  ‘No, she replies, poking me with the end of the rolled newspaper. ‘Two for lunch.’

  ‘Good job I went for a run this morning.’ I eye the calorific goodness, sliding a large triangle wedge onto my smaller plate.

  ‘I think you need to run less. With your work schedule lately, you’ll end up ill.’

  I immediately feel a pang of guilt. She doesn’t know the reason I’ve been running and working and generally avoiding life, but it’s clear she’s been worried.

  ‘It was just a gentle run. And work’s going to get better.’ Because I’m taking better care of myself from now on while also planning to let a certain someone take care of me in other ways . . .

  My eyes slide to the window as I remember the feeling of Kit’s hot breath between my legs. God, I hope we’ll be able to do it all again soon. When he’d kissed me at the door to my hotel room, whispering he’d like to see me again, I’d almost swooned. We hadn’t spoken since but had exchanged a volley of texts. He’d suggested we meet for coffee. Or drinks. Or anything. Those were his exact words.

  Swoon again.

  So the ball is in my court, but I’m not playing hard to get. Rather, I’m gathering the courage for the next step.

  My proposal.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ Fin asks, turning her head and following my gaze.

  ‘Nothing. I was just thinking.’ About him. About his cool grey gaze. About his piercing. Realising I’m doing it again—staring onto space—I blink innocently before taking a large bite out of my sandwich. The cheese oozes out from between the bread. ‘This is good.’

  ‘I know, right? They do takeaway for those days when I’m chained to the bed.’ A bark of laughter breaks free from my chest. ‘What?’ she says, her brow furrowing. ‘What are you laughing at? I know my work hours are nothing like yours, but—’

  ‘What kind of job has you chained to the bed?’

  ‘Oh, Lord.’ Elbows on the table, Fin holds her head in her hands. ‘Desk. I totally meant desk.’

  ‘Sure you did,’ I respond mischievously. ‘Where do I sign up for one of these positions? So. Many . . . positions.’ The last word I draw out in a licentious moan.

  ‘Please stop with the Meg Ryan-ing.’

  ‘So many . . . po-sitions. ’

  Yes, I’m imitating that movie scene but not so loud as to draw attention. I’m not thrashing or faux orgasming loudly. Just teasing. A little. ‘And Meg Ryan isn’t a verb.’

  ‘God, that man is so rubbing off on me
.’ She shakes her head, still held in her hands.

  ‘And just so you know? I don’t need to know about Randy’s rubbings.’

  ‘Rory,’ she corrects, lifting her head and sending me the gimlet eye. ‘But speaking of too much information or rather, too little, I realised you didn’t tell me where you’d disappeared to in the club.’

  I engage the innocent owl blinking thing again. ‘Club?’

  ‘You know, after dinner. After taking your jeans off—’

  ‘Ya, thanks for that.’

  ‘After dancing and drinking Kit-tails.’

  ‘Drinking what tails?’

  ‘Cocktails,’ she repeats. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you drink so much.’

  ‘You weren’t far behind me.’

  ‘That’s because Kit kept refilling my glass at dinner. Brandy,’ she adds with a full body shiver. ‘Anyway, you need to spill.’

  Saved by the bell. Or buzz. On the table next to her coffee, Fin’s phone begins to vibrate. As she turns it over, I don’t need to guess who’s calling. Her smile is a dead giveaway.

  ‘How many times, Rory? You can’t begin a conversation with that.’

  Lord knows what he’s saying that’s causing her cheeks to flush pink. Not that I want to know. I’m privy to far too much of that man’s wooing as it is.

  In an effort to be as unobtrusive as possible, I take another bite of my sandwich and reach for Fin’s newspaper. It’s either that or stick my fingers in my ears while chanting, ‘La-la-la-laaaa!’

  Unfolding the newspaper, I realise with a small thrill she’s folded it at a picture of Kit. He appears to be at an awards ceremony in the city somewhere, and what’s more, he’s dressed in a tux.

  Lord alive.

  The man wears the hell out of a suit, but evening dress just knocks the whole sexy effect up a few notches. Just a few, like up into the stratosphere.

  But better than Kit in evening dress? The same suit but worn with a dash of the morning after the night before. Shirt open at the neck and a draped bow tie, his hair tousled and sex messy, and a soft rasp of stubble covered his sharp jaw.

  It wasn’t even my morning after, but it didn’t detract from the hotness of this look.

  And better still than either of those is an image of my own. Clothed in nothing but his pants, half undressed and fully erect, the hard, vulgar beauty of his masculinity held in one hand. His grey eyes as dark as the devil, entirely aware of the power he had over me.

  I shiver, the images taking on an edge of sensory memory.

  Maybe he can wear the bow tie and nothing else next time.

  Because there will be a next time. I just need to work on my pitch. A persuasive argument to sell the idea of more sex between us.

  Moar!

  Fin giggles and, by the tone, I know Rory’s up to no good. I take a sip of my cooling latte and return to the article, trying hard not to overhear again.

  Because I don’t have my brain bleach handy.

  The article goes on to discuss a hotel Kit and Rory have recently bought in Mayfair; a building that was once a high-class brothel back in the seventeenth century. Willed by a Duke to his mistress, it seems the place has had quite a colourful history.

  It’s quite an entertaining piece, mentioning the pair’s penchant for themed and slightly outrageous décor in their hotels, and the fact that the building has been renamed The Bawdy House Hotel; a bawdy house being a brothel, it seems.

  I’ve never heard the phrase, but it seems to have tickled the history buffs. And according to a PR quote, the hotel will espouse a sort of bordello chic, whatever that is, and many of the rooms were named for infamous historical mistresses.

  Having seen the pictures Fin took of Tremaine House—their newest Scottish hotel—I can’t wait to see the outcome of The Bawdy House. Though Fin designed some of the interior of Tremaine, the more off-the-wall features were suggested by a design company. I’m sure there was some kind of issue with them finishing the job. Maybe just as well. From what I remember, there’s an overload of bold colours and a slight obsession with stag heads.

  Brass, silver, fluorescent, and even moth-eaten taxidermy ones.

  It’s pretty mad.

  I swallow hard, flipping the article closed as it goes on to estimate the pair’s net worth.

  Too many zeros to contemplate.

  It’s about then I realise Fin has finished her call.

  ‘Looks goog, doshnt it?’ she says around a mouthful of toasted bread and cheese. I know what she’s getting at, and I agree.

  Real goog.

  ‘Rory’s seriously minted. How did I not know?’ Fin coughs and looks at me uncomfortably. ‘Sorry. Was I not supposed to say? Was that too crass?’

  ‘I’m in love with the king of crass,’ she says, recovering her composure.

  ‘As rich as a king, too, according to this.’ I tap the newspaper with my index finger, immediately regretting it as Fin’s eyes slide away, her expression tight. Then I belatedly recall hearing her once say that she would never date a rich man because they weren’t worth the heartache.

  It’s a good job Rory played down his wealth. Though we have a strange bantering type of relationship, he loves Fin so very much.

  ‘While on the subject of my love.’ Her tone is suffused with a bright air. ‘We’re going to dinner on Friday. He said to tell you to get your arse there.’

  ‘Such a sweet talker.’

  ‘Isn’t he?’

  ‘He missed his calling. He should be designing invitations, greeting cards, and wedding stationery.’

  She laughs now, and I join in. ‘Yeah, he’s good at delivering messages. Get this; apparently, Kit’s bringing a dinner date Friday—for the first time ever—and Rory asked, rather than demanded, to enquire, via your good self, when Jon was expected to arrive.’ Her delivery is joking and breezy, yet her words invoke an arctic chill. ‘He’s arriving this weekend, isn’t he?’

  ‘Kit’s bringing someone?’ The enquiry about Jon barely registers as Fin takes another mouthful of her coffee then nods.

  ‘Yeah, Rory said he’d had his suspicions for a while. Looks like we’ll find out where his preference lies.’

  Lies being the operative word.

  I’m being unfair. We made no promises, yet I’m filled with an irrational need to cry. Moments ago, I was mentally adding up the benefits of an arrangement between us—I was even considering presenting my pitch to him, along with my naked self. But now? It looks like none of this is going to happen.

  To cover the sudden blurring of my gaze, I reach into my bag, pulling out the first thing my hand comes to, which happens to be my phone.

  ‘You did say he was arriving this weekend.’

  ‘Did I?’ With a furtive sniff, I reach into my bag again for a tissue.

  ‘I called you to ask the other day.’ Her tone suddenly registers over my disappointment. Carefully addressed. Kind.

  ‘I didn’t see a missed call.’ I keep my gaze on my phone, my response sounding horrifyingly watery. I hadn’t caught up on messages over the weekend. Too into Kit and not interested in hearing from Jon, I suppose.

  ‘The call, it . . . well, it went to voicemail.’

  My head comes up slowly, my brain working on a processing delay. ‘But you never call. We only ever text.’ And now I know what this is all about. My voicemail message.

  This is Bea. Please leave your number after the tone. Oh, unless you happen to be named Jon, then you can take your pathetic excuses and shove them so far up your own backside they come out of your throat!

  Thanks!

  Fin’s mouth hitches apologetically. ‘I called to confirm the date he was arriving. Rory’s had a new kitchen fitted and was stressing about me staying there without access to a coffeepot or something equally as ridiculous.’ She waves away the recollection with her hand. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to tell me, Bea. You stopped coming home or left so early I couldn’t catch you. I thought about coming down to the hospital and
making you talk, but you seemed to be telling me loud and clear to leave you alone. Of course, there were also the massive bouquets that kept appearing next to the basement trash.’ She shrugs, a small motion of regret. ‘You might’ve left one of the cards.’

  ‘You weren’t meant to see the flowers. I wasn’t hiding from you, just processing some complicated things.’ First, what an idiot I’ve been. Second, my anger. Third, my intentions towards Kit.

  ‘I’ll never judge you,’ she says, reaching for my hand. ‘Your life and your business. If he’s done something wrong and you decide to forgive him, I’ll never judge, if that’s what this is. Why you haven’t said.’

  A burst of laughter breaks through my lips. Like a grenade.

  ‘He did something wrong, all right. He cheated on me.’ I can feel my jaw clenching, my anger resurfacing. ‘There’s no going back.’

  ‘That fucker!’ Her words are a little loud and a lot indignant. So much so that I have to try very hard not to look around the café to see how many eyes we’ve drawn. ‘Are you sure? After all the years you’d been together?’

  ‘He rolled on his phone while . . . you know.’

  ‘Can we castrate him?’ Her expression is serious and her gaze fiery. ‘There had better be fiery pits reserved in hell for people who cheat. I know,’ she adds, sitting bolt straight. ‘We’ll send for Nat to publicly shame him! If we pay for her flight, she’d totally stand outside his offices with a sandwich board proclaiming him to be worse than a dose of crabs.’

  My laughter this time is genuine. Anyone who dressed as Natasha did for a bachelorette party then walked through a five-star hotel full of suits to find me at the request of her friend would do this, I feel.

  ‘You know it’s true. And Rory would give him a piece of your mind, via his fist, of course, if I ask.’

  All very believable. As the saying goes, the Scots are temperamental; half temper, half mental.

  ‘There’s no need. I feel . . . like a veil has been lifted. True, the veil was blood red and dripping for a while, but I’m through. I suspect this wasn’t the first time, and there’s no turning a blind eye to any of that.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad.’ Her eyes glitter with sympathy tears, and she squeezes my hand. ‘On a scale from one to take-a-contract-out-on-him, how are you really feeling?’