Hot Scots Christmas

by Alam, Donna

  I’d told her I thought treatment room makes the place sound a little like a dentist, though I suppose having your hoo-ha waxed is marginally less painful than say, a root canal.

  ‘What?’ I eventually answer, meeting Nat’s tone without turning around.

  ‘There’s a hottie out front asking for you and your OCD tendencies. And stop fiddling with those bottles. You know I’ll only mess them up when you’re not here.’

  ‘Me?’ My heart literally stops; Ka-thunk, restarting again as I inhale. Christ on a cracker, what if the hottie is Rory? Turning to face her, I don’t get to ask if it’s him, because I’m too dazzled by her ensemble, alternate words falling from my mouth instead.

  ‘What on earth are you wearing?’ Didn’t Ivy tell her we’re here to work? We’d all agreed to come in this morning to help with a delivery and to smooth any teething problems following the opening week. In short, today is a rubber gloves day and Nat is dressed more for a stripper’s pole. ‘I’ve got panties bigger than those shorts.’

  ‘Oh, babe,’ she says stepping closer. ‘That’s—’ her hand reaches out, squeezing my elbow, ‘—so sad. I hope you weren’t wearing them the other night.’ Her smile is full of sympathy and I realise she’s actually being serious.

  As she turns left out of the door, I pull myself together. I’ve always liked underwear. Tiny lace panties and demi-cup bras, not that I’d ever wear them with legwarmers and heels as daywear. But I’m not kidding about her shorts. I do have larger items of underwear, though make a mental note to throw those unattractive items out. I’ll wear my expensive underwear from now on. For myself.

  I am woman, hear Rory make me roar!

  Rory. Oh, shit. But it can’t be him. He can’t be lost again, can he? Because he didn’t know who I was the other evening.

  I shake off my anxiety and turn right into the main salon, almost walking smack bang into Ivy.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I ask, spying the man over her shoulder. Not Rory. He’s a little shorter, though massively built. And Rory’s no slouch. He faces the shop window giving me the opportunity to study him from his close-cropped dark hair down. Shoulders as wide as the side of a house, the massive bulk tapering to a trim waist and a backside you could bounce pennies off.

  ‘No idea,’ Ivy whispers back. ‘But it’s a shame,’ she continues, with a slow shake of her head. ‘The best ones are always batting for the other side.’

  ‘How’d you know he’s . . . you know?’ I whisper, pulling on the back of her shirt.

  ‘Well, if he’s not gay, his boyfriend is labouring under a massive misapprehension. Skinny jeans,’ she adds sadly and as though that answers everything. Over her shoulder, she slides me one of those looks. You know the kind. A look that says, I know. ‘A couple of years in LA has my gaydar honed like a high powered laser beam.’

  LA to this place. There’s still something not quite right about that.

  ‘Did Nat say he wanted me?’

  ‘Not for what’s between your legs, I’ll bet. Ow! What was that for?’

  Mr. Body-Beautiful turns at Ivy’s exclamation.

  ‘Would you look at that—the fine Finola!’

  Deep set brown eyes and a wide smile in a face that’s so familiar on a person that is so not gay. I have personal knowledge of this, unless he’s switched teams since he screwed his way through half of the population of our high school. He may also have fumbled with my virginity while we were off our faces on whisky one time. Normal teenagers get drunk on cheap cider, but we had to go with the hard stuff. But fumbled. Yeah. Not succeeded. Not beyond second base. And so awkward the following day. However, it’s a tale I’ll take to my grave, because this hunk of muscle happens to be Ivy’s big brother.

  Big being the operative word.

  ‘Mac!’ I exclaim, darting forward to be pulled into a bear-like hug. ‘Jesus, when did you become a giant?’

  ‘Say what you mean,’ Mac says, laughing and all warm brown eyes and perfect teeth.

  ‘You looked like a string bean last time I saw you.’ My words are muffled by his solid sweater covered chest. Cashmere, if I’m not mistaken.

  ‘Maybe you should come home more often, then.’ There’s no accusation in his tone and I can almost hear the smile in his words. ‘And talkin’ of changing, last time we hung out,’ he says, pushing me back, one hand curled around my shoulder. ‘You had blue hair.’

  I feel my hand self-consciously at my head. Although the blue went a long time ago, I’m still getting used to short hair. ‘Has it really been that long?’

  ‘What, since you abandoned us?’ His eyes crinkle ever so slightly in the corners, his hand uncurling from my shoulder to rub a darkly bristled chin. ‘Well, now, Ivy was going through her Twilight phase, hoping the sparkly one would ditch the one wi’ the resting bitch face—’

  ‘You take that back!’

  ‘And you wore converse and ripped jeans, not designer denim and Gucci running shoes.’ His eyes travel the length of me, appreciatively. Okay, so I’m not really dressed for cleaning, but a girl has her standards, only mine are a little further from the pole than Nat’s.

  ‘Ah. Now I see. Ivy said you’d gone gay,’ I say, swatting his chest. The Mac I know would barely know the difference between a muumuu and jeans in general, let alone be able to correctly label designer wear.

  ‘You know better than to believe that doaty wee minx,’ he says, shooting his sibling a glare.

  ‘Shut it, bawbag,’ Ivy fires back, slipping back into the vernacular, though her accent was always much milder than his.

  ‘You’re jealous of my good looks. Just ‘cos you’ve got a face that’d make an onion cry.’

  ‘Kids, settle down,’ I interrupt with a smile I can’t hide. ‘It’s great to see some things don’t change.’

  ‘Besides, Fin here knows that’s not true,’ he says, pulling my body into his and draping an arm over my shoulder. ‘Right, hen?’ His chuckle echoes through his chest, warm and masculine and not unlike the man himself. And suddenly I do remember how not true this is, in a little more detail than I’d like.

  Please, God, don’t let this show on my face, I silently pray. My cheeks begin to heat at the thoughts of our drunkenly joined pasts. It was like getting it on with your cousin that evening.

  ‘It’s wellies you’ll be needing, not designer gear.’ Mac lifts his hand to push a lock of hair behind my ear and this, coupled with my memories, pushes the moment up to DEFCON awkward. I spring from his arms, coming to stand next to his sister.

  ‘But it’s good to see you,’ he says, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘What are you doin’ back in town? I thought you’d married some mogul from down south and were off living the highlife abroad?’

  My fixed smile falters, though I can feel the corners of my mouth twitching as I try to keep it in place, all my previous warmth and lightness draining away. He might be right about my clothing; Gucci shoes and Balmain Jeans. Sweater by Donna Karan. These are my last season’s wardrobe, and I don’t just mean they’re from the previous fall’s catalogue. They’re actually my very last season of designer wear. As in, I’m no longer wealthy enough to buy these sorts of things. I doubt I have enough in my checking account to buy a pair of Wellington boots for the rain.

  Focus on the clothes. Don’t think about what else he said.

  ‘What?’ Mac asks, his smile falling. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Well, don’t I feel like a dildo at a wedding?’ Both our heads swing to Ivy and her absurd exclamation. ‘Hang on,’ she says, scrunching up her nose. ‘That wasn’t right.’

  ‘Pretty sure it’s spare prick at a wedding, brat,’ Mac says, half-laughing.

  God bless that girl intervening at my distress, even with that bout of ridiculousness.

  ‘Prick, dildo,’ she says, doing a sort of weighing motion with her hands. ‘Not much difference really. One’s the real thing and the other is just a sort of . . . tofu.’

  ‘Tofu?’ I repeat unne
cessarily.

  ‘Yeah, a meat substitute.’

  ‘Ah, god,’ Mac complains. ‘Could you no’ wait until I’d left? No man should have to hear his sister talk about—’

  ‘Dicks?’ Ivy answers. ‘Like I haven’t heard worse from you.’

  ‘Aye, but you’re supposed to be a delicate maid,’ he protests.

  ‘And you’re supposed to be in London.’

  ‘I took a wee detour.’

  ‘You mean you got lost?’

  ‘I’m amazed,’ Mac says, though he’s quite obviously not, ‘that your time over the pond did’nae teach you any manners. Yes, ma’am, no, ma’am. Come to think of it, why has Fin’s manners no rubbed off?’

  ‘Let’s not talk about rubbing off,’ Ivy says, folding her arms across her chest. ‘That’s a Pandora’s masturbation box no one needs to hear.’

  ‘Now, careful,’ Mac cautions gravely. ‘Remember your promise.’

  Ivy crooks a little finger. ‘My teeny-tiny pinkie-promise, you mean?’ Her voice is saccharine sweet, but as Mac narrows his gaze, I decide to step in.

  ‘Fun times, you guys. I don’t know, you go away for a few years and . . . nope, nothing changes.’

  ‘Ah, you know we love each other really,’ Mac says, laughing.

  ‘Yep. True that. I’ll worship the ground that will eventually cover him.’

  ‘That’s plain mean,’ I chastise.

  ‘Poison Ivy’s only ever a hard-head where I’m concerned. She’s sweetness and light to everyone else.’

  ‘ ‘Cos you deserve it,’ she scoffs. ‘And call me poison again, bawbag, and I’ll kick you in yours.’

  ‘Leave my balls out of it, would you?’ he asks, his hands held up in faux surrender.

  Ivy harrumphs. ‘The only one acquainted with your meat is Fin here, tofu todger.’

  Mac’s laugh deepens but he’s kind enough to change the subject, even as I begin to splutteringly deny. It’s supposed to be a secret! He pulls us both closer, sliding an arm across each of our shoulders.

  ‘And how’s your ma?’ Gazing down at me, he gives my shoulder a kind squeeze. My mom and sex. The two words are almost synonymous, not that I take offence. I can’t make apologies where she’d offer none.

  ‘Married. Like loves young dream,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Maybe add a few years.’ My mom is currently enjoying her husband. Yep, that’s right. Enjoying. Like a daughter needs to hear that. I have two immediate reactions: The first is it makes my stomach turn. And the second makes me wish she had female friends. Stuart—the hubby—is five years her junior and as randy as all hell. According to her, there’s no such thing as TMI. She’s currently living in a small retirement village in the Algarve and these are all valid reasons as to why I’m not staying with her.

  Thank God for friends.

  ‘And what about this husband of yours?’ Mac’s smile lingers. ‘Are you visiting alone, or do I get to meet him this time?’

  ‘He—’ I take a deep breath, minutely shaking my head. ‘He died.’

  I can’t look at him as I know what I’ll see, and there isn’t really anything he can say that I want to hear. Just the inevitably awkward apologies. The oh dears and I’m so sorry’s. The curiosity written on his face.

  I’m grateful when Ivy pipes up, filling any void.

  ‘So, what are you doing up here? Skiving?’

  ‘I’m gonna be opening a new gym in town.’

  It’s obvious from his appearance he must spend a lot of time in one of these. It’s then I recall Ivy saying that Mac owns a chain of gyms; twenty-four hour places.

  ‘And I’ve been called up to the big house,’ he adds, his pronunciation rendering the word hoose.

  ‘I heard that it had been bought,’ I add quickly. ‘Isn’t it going to be a hotel?’

  I’m not sure why I ask, given that I’ve already applied for a job at the place.

  ‘Yeah, it’s got the view for it, overlooking the ocean and all. I just got a call about fitting it with gym equip—’ Mac’s sentence trails off as the door to the back of the salon opens, the click of Natasha’s stiletto’s loud against the tiled floor. ‘—ment.’ The end of his word comes out in almost a squeak.

  ‘Equipment?’ Nat’s voice is a strange mixture of sultry and breathlessness as she pauses beside us in her tiny outfit and high, high heels. And a bucket? It’s a strange fashion accessory, for sure.

  As she bends from the waist to put the bucket on the floor, her eyes do a sweep of Mac from his head down and back again. Only on her second sweep, her gaze doesn’t quite meet his toes as she pauses half way down.

  ‘I love a good bit of equipment.’

  And, yes, she addresses this to his crotch. For good measure, as she straightens, she pushes her barely covered chest out a little further. Nat obviously doesn’t believe in subtlety.

  Mac seems mesmerised, almost like he doesn’t know where to look first. To be fair, there’s a lot of tit, ass and leg to take in, because Natasha’s all that and soft curves, too. She’s like Jessica Rabbit of the north. And as it turns out, her arrival is a good reminder of why Mac and I would never have worked. Even back then I realised I wasn’t big enough in the boob department for his tastes. And for two, he’s a complete dog.

  ‘Woof.’

  Mac’s gaze darts to Ivy’s. ‘What was that?’

  ‘You heard,’ she replies. ‘What are you up to?’ she asks, directing her question to Nat, her eyes slipping bemusedly to the bucket, then back again.

  ‘I’m away to wash the front windows.’ It’s a talent that she even makes that sound sort of dirty. Grasping the handle of her bucket, she turns and saunters off in her sparkly heels, water from the bucket sloshing onto the floor.

  ‘That’s a health hazard.’ Mac’s voice is suddenly a little hoarse.

  Does he mean her, or the trail of water on the floor? Like an accident that’s about to happen, we all turn to the wall of glass, sort of mesmerised by the view.

  ‘It’s baltic outside. How come the lassie isn’t wearing a coat?’

  ‘How come she’s washing the windows, more to the point,’ replies Ivy. ‘I pay a man to do that.’

  ‘Did she just slut drop that bucket?’ I ask, sort of horrified.

  She dips the sponge into the water, wringing it out like it’s manna from jizz heaven. I half expect her to start rubbing it against her chest.

  ‘Can you send her ‘round to do mine next?’

  At least Mac sounds only half serious.

  Eighteen

  Fin

  ‘I’ve got a job!’

  Both Ivy and Natasha’s heads snap up from the page of a beauty trade magazine they’re examining.

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘Just now. I had a phone interview!’ I’d applied for the job in the local paper, and to my utter surprise, I’d been offered the job by the end of the call. ‘It’s only a temporary thing—sounds like I’ll mostly be hanging out, waiting for builders and such to call. It’ll probably only last a couple months.’

  ‘I thought Raya had something in line?’ Ivy’s tone is a sheepish admission that she and Raya are in contact still.

  ‘I called them, too. Seems they’re undergoing some kind of restructure this month, so they’re going to get back to me, but if an interview comes up in the meantime, of course I’m going to go.’ What I don’t say is I’m pleased this current job is one I’ve gotten on my own. I’m proud of that, though I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. It’s almost pathetic that I haven’t gotten a job since college by myself. ‘At least now I’ll have a bit of cash flow.’

  ‘So where is it?’ asks Nat.

  ‘Over at the big house. Seems it’s being turned into a hotel and there’s been some legal trouble over contracts. They’ve gotten rid of their current building firm, I think, and I’ll be there mainly to sort of facilitate a handover of sorts.’

  ‘Sounds . . . odd.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it? But I’ve checked out the com
pany and it’s totally legitimate. They’ve got other hotels all over the country.’

  ‘Well, I think this calls for a celebratory night out,’ says Natasha.

  ‘On a school night?’ Ivy’s brow creases as she pushes away the magazine.

  ‘Don’t tell me you were the stay in and study type? Surely we can go out for pizza on a weeknight? Maybe a few cocktails?’

  Though I’m, again, surprised by the quality of the pizza joint; think minimalist decor and sympathetically lit rather than darkened booths and plastic table cloths. Oh, and the best prosecco I’ve tasted since . . . the last time I tasted prosecco.

  We’re on dessert—espresso gelato all-round—when Natasha becomes super focused on her phone.

  ‘What you looking at?’ I ask.

  ‘A photo of my last boyfriend,’ she says with a wistful sigh. ‘In fact, the only photo I have of him.

  ‘I didn’t know you were recently in a relationship. How long were you together?’

  ‘Two weeks.’ She shrugs, her gaze falling to her phone again. ‘It’s not the length of a relationship that counts, though is it?’

  ‘Aw, honey. You miss him.’ I lean my slightly bubbles-buzzed body into hers, threading my arm around her shoulder and pulling her into a hug. I also get an inadvertent look at her phone. ‘Why are you looking at a photo of a dick?’

  ‘They’re all dicks,’ chimes in Ivy. ‘Oh. What, you mean she’s looking at a dick pic? Natasha, that’s disgusting!’

  ‘What? I said I only had one photo of him—this is it,’ Natasha answers defensively.

  ‘You kept dick pics of your ex? An ex you went out with for only two weeks?’

  ‘And?’ she answers, like we’re the weird ones. ‘Like I said, it’s not the length of the relationship that counts. It’s the length in the relationship.’ She looks down again at the phone. ‘And you can’t argue that that isn’t some length.’

  ‘You’re such a weirdo,’ I say, but I think I must be, too, because my gaze falls to her phone again. Like a car crash. And regarding length, she’s not wrong.

  ‘I’m no’ unhappy with that description and I’m no’ unhappy with this shot.’ She holds the phone out, touching the screen so the image lights up again. And yep, I’m on my third look. ‘I think this caught his best side.