One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  Less that twenty hours ago, he asked if he could keep me. Could he truly have gone to the club to fuck someone else? Could those words have meant so little to him?

  God, I feel like such an idiot.

  ‘I’m tired of feeling like this,’ I say to the empty flat. Only this doesn’t feel like last time—like Jon. I mean. I feel . . . sad, not angry. My pride isn’t hurt. I hurt!

  I want to feel angry—it was so much easier to deal with.

  ‘I’m tired of being taken for an idiot.’

  But I’m not an idiot. Maybe I’m just someone who keeps falling for utter pricks.

  I spend the whole evening wondering if he’s seen it. Is he waiting for my call so he can sell me more pretty lies? Maybe he thinks such a tabloid rag is beneath me and that I’ll never see? Or that news doesn’t carry through the concrete walls of a hospital?

  Will he choose to tread the same path as Jon with clichéd denials?

  Or maybe there’s a better explanation. And maybe if I called him, I could find out.

  But I don’t want to call him. I don’t want to listen to him as I endured Jon. The voicemails, apologies, and excuses delivered so reasonably.

  I want to watch his eyes—his face—as he explains.

  I just want to know I can trust myself to trust him.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  KIT

  I catch a flight to Edinburgh on Saturday and collect the truck from the airport. Rory has teased me mercilessly about the Ford F-150 I keep in Scotland, suggesting it’s some kind of phallic declaration, which seems to imply I have a small dick.

  But since we both know that’s not true, I let it slide.

  The truck, now renamed the beast, thanks to Rory, was an impulse buy and so impractical. I can’t get a parking spot for the size of it, and it’s murder on the wee country roads. I’m beginning to think I hold onto it just because it gets up Rory’s nose.

  The drive to Tremaine House, our latest acquired hotel, is uneventful. The weather is dry and bright, though the kind of brass monkeys cold that only Scotland knows because spring is always late to this part of the world.

  The big hoose, as the locals call the hotel, should have some meaning to us. It is, after all, our father’s ancestral seat. Not that it came to us. The auld twat left almost everything to a local greyhound charity when he died.

  Kit and I were his bastards, our mother his bit on the side. Seems he kept her hanging on by saying he couldn’t leave his disabled wife. When our mother died in a car accident, he wouldn’t take us in, but when his wife died, strangely enough, he came grovelling.

  It was too little too late, and far too easy for two ballin’ lads to tell him to get fucked. So I hate this place and loathe the thought of being here tonight.

  But I am looking forward to shagging Bea all over the grounds.

  When Tremaine House came up for sale, I wanted nothing to do with the place. But Rory’s a hothead. Emotional. Said it should be ours by right, and that we should buy it and do with it whatever we liked.

  Of course, what he wanted to do was knock it to the ground until I pointed out it would spoil the gardens our mother designed while she worked there. It’s also heritage listed, so knocking it down wouldn’t have been all right. Because Rory felt so strongly, or in other words, got his knickers in a knot, we picked it up at auction then set about turning it into a boutique hotel with the most outlandish décor. I’m certain the sperm donor is now spinning in his grave.

  Sentimentality has no place in business, I tell myself as I arrive at the short causeway even though the memories tied to this place still hurt.

  The big hoose stands on a small island, connected to the picturesque village of Auchkeld. No other hotels are around, just a couple of bed and breakfast establishments, and I’d rather sleep in one of the farmer’s fields than subject myself to one of those places.

  As I pull into the driveway, the sun is setting, turning the sandstone building gold. Blossom covered trees stand on the distant hills as the evening mist rolls in from the sea. It’s hard not to be seduced by how beautiful this wee bit of Scotland is.

  I drive around the moss-covered fountain, which stands as a turning circle these days, and pull in to park. After grabbing my bag from the back seat, I climb the dozen or so worn steps to the portico, pushing open one of the massive Scottish oak doors.

  I wonder if this is what it feels like to be the queen? Whether she thinks everything is perfect and smells like roses because a wee woman is always ten steps ahead, flinging flower petals on the floor while running a feather duster over every surface.

  I didn’t come here to inspect the place—that’s what the area manager is for. But I can hardly say I’m not interested. That’s not part of our company ethos.

  Nowhere does it read sod off and leave me alone.

  So far, I’ve looked at the building work on the former worker's cottages, which will be self-contained suites come the Easter holidays. I’ve examined the cellar and taken a phone call from a vintner who’s interested in doing business with us. And I’ve had my opinion sought over a dozen smaller things.

  But enough is enough.

  ‘Matilda.’ For the love of God, shut your fucking hole, I don’t add. Mainly because I bite my tongue. But at least my tone stops her blethering. ‘I came here for a couple of nights away—some peace, y’ken? I’ve got dinner plans on the mainland in a couple of hours’—for emphasis, I look at my watch—‘and a few things to sort before then. So if you’ve a problem with the butcher, I suggest you have a word with the area manager.’ What’s his name again? ‘Keith!’

  ‘Oh!’ She makes the exclamation sound like the hoot of an owl, though she looks more like a dowdy sparrow. She also looks a little perturbed. ‘You did’nae look at the crossing times for the causeway, then?’

  Her sing-song voice does nothing to ease the realisation of what a tit I’ve been. Lost in the feelings this place stirs up, I’ve fucked up. Epically.

  ‘I’ve missed the crossing times,’ I say flatly.

  ‘Well . . . yes.’

  ‘Fuck!’ My hands are in my hair. ‘Fuck my life!’

  ‘Oh. Oh, dear.’ Matilda takes two steps back like she’s expecting me to turn into the hulk, and I need more space.

  ‘Jesus Christ on a bike. What the fuck time does it change?’

  ‘In the morn’,’ she sing-songs again. ‘A’fore dawn.’

  Just what I fucking need.

  I try Bea’s number. It doesn’t even go to her message bank, just rings out. I suppose she’ll be having too much fun with her friends, maybe hanging out with a couple of Dylan’s movie star mates. I’m not the kind of man to begrudge anyone a good night, though I try not to feel so flat about not hearing her voice.

  Yeah, her voice. How pathetic is that?

  I give it half an hour and call again; only this time there isn’t even a tone.

  Something else I’d forgotten; how crap the cell coverage is up here.

  I’m not feeling up to having company or the hovering of well-meaning staff, so I order a rare steak and a pint to be brought to my room and do something I’ve never done; go to sleep with my phone in my hand.

  It must be the reason I dream—dream of Bea calling. Of us having phone sex.

  ‘So you’re not going to make it for dinner? Her voice purrs down the line, increasing my longing tenfold. ‘And I can’t come to you there?’

  ‘I wished you could, darlin’, but I don’t see how, beyond getting one of the old fishermen to bring you. But it’s too dark and too cold and dangerous.’ In my dream, I sigh like I mean it. Because I fucking do. ‘I’m sorry, honey bee. I had such plans for tonight.’

  ‘Maybe you could tell me about them? That might be a nice second best.’

  ‘Phone sex?’ My dream dick twitches, my dark mood lifting just a touch. ‘Well, I’ve been booked into the master suite. I was planning on living up to the name.’

  ‘Oh, that sounds special . . . ’ />
  ‘There’s a freestanding bathtub in front of a bay window.’ A copper tub that I glance at as I speak.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she purrs, increasing my need exponentially.

  ‘And this fantastic chair that looks more like a throne,’ I say, rubbing the arms. In my dream, I feel the soft fabric under my fingers, imagining what she would feel.

  ‘That’s so hot. Whisper more decoration terms to me, baby.’ Bea laughs a little hiccupping giggle, making dream me realise one thing.

  ‘You’ve been drinking.’ I prop my elbow on the chair’s arm and my chin in my hand. It sounds like I’m missing out on all the fun.

  ‘Why yes, can you tell?’

  ‘Drinking without me makes you a bad girl.’

  ‘Tell me more about that chair,’ she says with a cute snort. Ah, man. Is it normal to dream while physically feeling the effects of your hard-on?

  ‘It’s velvet. Cushioned arms, the sort that would be kind to your legs.’

  ‘They’re called armchairs, Kit. Not leg chairs.’

  ‘I’ll strip you,’ I continue, not rising to her bait. ‘Set your lovely arse down on the soft velvet. Lay your knees over the arms and spread you so wide you’re displaying everything. Then I’d get down on my knees, kiss your thighs, and slide my tongue through that lush ribbon of pink flesh. I’d lick you so hard. Worship your cunt.’ I hear her swallow thickly as a small sigh escapes her throat. I palm my dick through my pants. It’s throbbing so hard, it hurts.

  ‘Then I’d carry you over to the bed and lay you down. I’d fuck you so hard you’d lose control of your legs.’

  ‘The things you say, Kit Tremaine.’ She sighs as though I’ve just slipped between her legs. ‘I have no words.’

  ‘Just let it happen, honey bee. Some things can’t be fought.’

  When I wake, the curtains are open, and the night still pitch black. I stretch along the mattress, my eyes flicking to the chair as I try to hold the dream for just a few moments more.

  She’ll be here tonight, I tell myself, palming my hard-on through my clothes. Good job I own the hotel because I’m breaking her tonight, right there on that chair.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  KIT

  Have you ever felt like the world is conspiring against you? Like everything you touch turns to complete and utter shit?

  That would be my life since this morning.

  First, the beast wouldn’t start. The gardener’s son had a look—he’s a mechanic of sorts. The fucking starting motor has gone, and after calling three garages, it’s clear these have to be ordered. It takes weeks, and I’ve got minutes to spare.

  Should’ve bought a European car for up here. A fucking tank!

  The hotel has a Town Car, but it’s picking up from the airport. And a hire car? Not a chance without heading into one of the nearby towns.

  I’m cabbing it. Not a black cab, like you see in London, or a uniform company like you’ll see in any city in the UK. No, a minicab, courtesy of Aroon, the morning chef’s brother-in-law.

  No sat nav. No aircon. I’m sweating buckets, and we’re fucking lost, despite passing a sign for the village the castle is nearby. Twice.

  ‘A police cordon—look.’ I pat the driver’s shoulder, whose name I’ve long forgotten, urging him to stop. ‘Where the orange bollards are.’

  The car pulls to a stop in front of a pair of Scotland’s finest. I shove a handful of Scottish pound notes onto the front passenger seat, deciding I might do better on my own.

  ‘I’m looking for Claish Castle,’ I say, addressing the nearest of the policemen.

  His gaze follows the minicab, and its black, spluttering exhaust emissions owning the road before answering.

  ‘Road’s closed, sir.’

  ‘Aye, I can see. But I’m looking for Claish Castle.’ Stick the use of your road; I’m not interested. ‘I’m late for a christening at the chapel there.’

  The policeman turns his back to confer with his companion before facing me again and repeating the same thing.

  ‘Look, pal,’ I start, my temper fraying quickly. ‘I got stuck on the wrong side of a causeway, woke up to a car that wouldn’t start, have just endured the taxi ride from hell, and am only asking for directions to Claish Castle.’ I draw the name of the place out slowly, thinking the key might be in the enunciation. ‘I want nothing else.’

  ‘Where’s your present, then?’ This from tweedle-dumber who happens to be holding a clipboard.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Y’cannae go to a christenin’ w’out a gift.’

  ‘Who are you? The christening police?’

  ‘Stand aside, sir,’ says the first officer. ‘Jim, open the barrier. Car coming through.’

  I step back from the road onto a grass verge just in time as a black Range Rover whizzes by.

  ‘Whis’ your name?’ the clipboard policeman asks.

  ‘Tremaine,’ I answer, watching the car rumble up the driveway. Was that Victoria Beckham? ‘Kit Tremaine.’

  ‘You’re not on the list,’ he replies. ‘We’ve got a Rory Tremaine, but no Kit.’

  ‘So I’m here—this is the castle?’

  ‘Aye, but you’re no’ listening. Your name’s no’ on the list.’

  ‘Give me a break,’ I say to the heavens then pull out my phone.

  Two minutes later, Rory arrives in another Range Rover—white, this time—pulling up on the other side of the barrier.

  ‘You’re cutting it fine,’ he says, one elbow hanging out the driver’s window in a picture of nonchalance.

  ‘Not on fucking purpose,’ I grumble, once it’s verified I’m on the guest list. Apparently, you can send a present ahead and not be on the guest list. It also seems this is the back entrance to the castle, the one being used today as a decoy from the paparatizzi covered front. ‘And I’m pretty sure Posh Spice nearly ran me over on her way in.’

  Rory laughs heartily. ‘That’s it. She’s not getting the fifty quid I promised her. I even thought about paying off the polis to turn a blind eye,’ he says, gesturing back towards the policemen. ‘But I’m too pretty to go to jail for soliciting vehicular manslaughter.’

  ‘Who’d run the business if I was dead?’

  ‘Who’d care? You’d be dead, and I’d be on holiday.’

  We travel along a tree-lined road, coming out at a clearing with the castle in front. Blue-grey Scottish stone and mullioned windows gleaming in the sun. It even has turrets.

  ‘Fucking stunning,’ Rory murmurs as we approach.

  ‘Looks like something from a fairy tale,’ I agree with a nod of my head.

  ‘They’ve got salmon in the loch, too.’

  ‘It’s a nice way to live.’

  ‘I’m buying a castle,’ Rory answers immediately.

  ‘You can’t leave the city for more than a few days.’

  ‘To retire in,’ he qualifies. ‘For Fin and our tribe of kids.’

  ‘I’m sure Fin will be thrilled to bear your brood. Especially if they take after you with that big fucking head.’

  We drive past the castle, pulling up outside some outbuildings.

  ‘Hurry,’ he says. ‘We’ll be late for the service.’

  I know Fin is one of the child’s godmothers, so I can see why he’s in a rush. As he climbs out of the car, slamming the door, I notice something very odd.

  ‘What’s with the kilt?’ He strides in front of me, blue tartan swishing behind him.

  ‘We’re all wearing them,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘You in your suit will be the odd fucker out.’

  The door to the church creaks on its hinges as Rory pulls and piano music spills out. Someone vaguely famous appears to be playing the instrument, the cool stone interior of the chapel suffused with colour from the altar’s stained-glass window. The last time I was in a church was for Meg’s funeral. I wonder if all churches smell the same—of old stone and wood, incense and flowers?

  Pleasant yet cloying at the same time.

&nb
sp; Rory makes his way to a pew near the front, but as I’m not so presumptuous—or here with one of the godparents—I slip into one at the rear. I’m pretty tall, but even I’m having trouble finding Bea over the height of some of the hats.

  Feathers, felt, and even one that looks like fruit. What is it with fashion these days? I look down at my black suit and toy with my cufflinks, wondering who’s responsible for bringing back the beard and kilt and wondering what would be a suitable punishment.

  The service is short, the baby crying out just once as the priest drenches his face, and before I know it, the happy parents are carrying the babe out into the sunshine, followed by godparents . . . and hangers-on, and those from the front pews. And then I see her under a tiny pill hat with a veil; a vision in black and buttercup yellow. I want to laugh—it’s just like her to take the piss out of herself and her name.

  Only, I don’t laugh because, although she looks beautiful, she’s also wearing an expression I’ve never seen. It’s a hard look to decipher—it’s almost as though she’s wearing a very beautiful, though blank mask.

  She doesn’t see me as she passes, ducking her vision to the strip of carpet leading to the church doors . . . as the man standing just a little behind her reaches for her hand.

  Her. Fucking. Hand.

  And she lets him.

  She walks out of the church with another man.

  People mill around me; I’m aware some would like to get past, eventually realising my near catatonic state and finding other ways out.

  It seems like it takes forever for everyone to leave, and as the heavy oak door slams closed, I lean my head forward, resting it on the back of the pew in front of me as I try hard to breathe over the pain in my chest.

  She left with another man.

  Jon would be my guess.

  He cheated on her.

  Would she really take him back?

  ‘What’re you doing in here, numpty?’ The space is darker as I turn my head to the aisle where Rory now stands. ‘What the fuck are you doin’?’