by Alam, Donna
‘Oh, look it’s—oh!’ Nat recoils from the glass as though slapped. ‘Missed him by a baw-hair!’ she exclaims.
June tsks again louder this time. ‘And that’s an awful thing to say. Can you no’ call it what it is and say pubic hair?’
‘This from the granny who delights in saying cock.’ Nat frowns down at her gran. ‘Anyway, it’s not that old bugger fighting his own shadow this time. It’s someone much younger.’
‘Youngsters these days. Brawling in the streets. What would their mothers say?’
‘Maybe when Ivy’s ma calls next, she can ask. Can’nae imagine it’ll be as bad as catching him on her mother’s sofa with his boabie in his hand.’
‘What?’ I’m in the middle of hefting myself up onto the high stool behind the counter. Actually, I’m laying it on a little thick and pulling the poor me pregnancy card, hoping to distract the pair from the window when the meaning in Nat’s words snag.
Boabie = dick.
And dick + my mother’s sofa = my brother. I think.
At least, it does after a mortifying incident a few months ago whereby Nat, Fin, and myself inadvertently stumbled in on Mac watching porn and masturbating in my childhood home.
‘Who? Who got caught with his boabie in his hand?’ June squints through the glass, like she’s worried she’s missing something, or rather some boabie, out there.
My shoes thump against the wood floor as I slide down from the high stool.
‘It had better not be him,’ I gripe. Wasted words as I recognise his voice even if he is yelling like a common hooligan.
The bells chime as I yank open the door, and sure enough, my brother stands there out in the street. His arms are held wide as though waiting for a sign from the Almighty. Unfortunately, God isn’t present. Just a few fellow shop owners and the odd passing car. Oh, and the object of Fin’s desire and misery, Rory Tremaine.
‘What was that?’ Rory scoffs. ‘You hit like a girl.’
‘I will’nae miss next time. Last warning, just piss off, hame.’
‘This is my home now, fuckwit, but I’ll make you a deal. You tell me where Fin is, and I’ll move out of the fuckin’ place—out of your hair forever. That is if she tells me to, I mean.’
‘Don’t you fucking understand? She’s no’ here, and she doesn’t want tae’ see you!’
‘Aye, well, she can tell me that. To my face. Fuck it; I’ll even take the message by phone call I’m so desperate!’ Rory digs both hands into his hair as he looks around; his angry words meant for me as much as Mac. And not for the first time when seeing his pain, my heart twists. I know we’re doing this to protect Fin, but the way he looks—his desperation—is hard to see and not be affected.
‘You can take the message from us,’ Mac responds fiercely. ‘We’re her friends.’
The fire drains from Rory’s gaze, his chest expanding deeply. ‘More like her fuckin’ keepers. What you don’t seem to understand—’
‘Don’t tell me I don’t understand!’ Mac bellows suddenly. ‘ ‘Cause I ‘ken plenty. I held that girl while she sobbed in my arms!’
‘Will I call the polis, hen?’ Mr. Poletti, the barber, asks as I step closer to the pair. ‘I’m no’ a young man these days, and I know how these things can turn.’
I answer with a shake of my head. ‘No police needed, Mr. P. I’ll sort the pair of them.’
‘Where were you then, eh, while she was in bits? Keeping some other lassie’s bed warm?’ My brother yells.
Rory drops his head, his chin almost to his chest. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if you were dropped on your head as a child.’ His head snaps up again, and he steps into Mac, slowly raising his hand.
‘Come on then,’ Mac goads.
‘Beginning to wonder ‘cause it doesn’t seem to be computing in that thick heid!’
As the pair square up like a couple of angry cockerels, I hurry closer I’m anxious for this not to come to blows when, with emphasis, Rory pokes my brother in the forehead, right between his brows.
‘Right, that’s it—’ Mac roars, right as I squeeze between the pair like a referee at a boxing match.
‘Yeah, that is it,’ I hiss. ‘Can you not hear yourselves, brawling in the street like a couple of Jerry Springer rejects? And you both, supposed businessmen.’
‘Nah, not Jerry,’ Nat interjects from somewhere off to the side. ‘They’ve both got their own teeth..’
‘What are you doin’?’ This time, Mac’s ire is directed at me. He stumbles back, his eyes flared, as he points both hands in the direction of my belly, completely ignoring Nat. ‘At least have a care for the bairn.’
And then Rory’s stepping back, too.
‘Relax, it’s hardly catching,’ I scoff, as accusations bubble up in my throat; the things Fin told me about his old girlfriend falling pregnant. The reason for her heartbreak. Our motive for hiding her away. I purse my lips against them spilling. Against fanning the flames.
‘No, sure. Congratulations. Where’s Fin?’
‘Ah, no,’ I reply deadpan. ‘I’m pregnant, not daft, and I told you months ago, she’s moved on.’
‘I didn’t buy it then, and I’m not buyin’ it now. I’ll find her; you know that.’
‘Good luck, pal,’ Mac all but growls.
‘It’s only a matter of time.’
‘And time is all she needs,’ I answer quietly. ‘Time to get over you.’
‘So she’s not,’ Rory replies, laughing bitterly. ‘That makes two of us, then. Just tell me—’
‘Don’t you talk to my sister,’ Mac starts again. ‘If you’ve got anything tae’ ask, say it tae’ me.’ He thumbs his chest hard, and I swear Rory almost rolls his eyes.
‘I thought we’d done this bit already,’ he answers. ‘For the love of God, just tell me where she is.’
‘Up his arse and five houses along,’ retorts Nat, tugging on my arm. ‘Come away now. Let the little boys have their fun.’ A look between Mac and Natasha speaks volumes I’ve no time to read. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ she says to Rory over her shoulder. ‘If she was interested, she’d have sought you out.’
Rory’s jaw flexes, his expression firming like granite.
‘It’s like I keep telling you; no one wants you around.’
My brother folds his arms, Rory’s head turning towards him like a turret on a tank.
‘Why, you got plans on keeping her for yourself, big fella?’
‘Sure.’ Beneath his lip, Mac swipes his tongue over the top of his teeth.
Rory tilts his head, his gaze sweeping over my brother, weighing his words. Taking him in. ‘Nah. You’re no’ Fin’s type.’
‘You sure about that?’ Mac taunts, but Rory just laughs. ‘I’ll fuck you up,’ Mac growls.
‘You reckon? I’ll tell you what. Here.’ He turns his head, tapping the side of his chin in invitation. ‘Free shot. Make it count.’
And like the hothead my brother is, he takes him up on the invitation.
Thwack. Rory staggers but keeps his footing. And then he’s laughing. Maybe he has taken a leaf out of Tam’s book; maybe he is drunk?
Fingers splayed on his thighs; he spits red snot onto the pavement. Without lifting his head, he glances up. ‘Solid shot.’ He straightens. ‘Your first and last. I get that you’re looking out for her, respect it even, but it is’nae gonna work.’ He turns to us, with a slight dip of his head. ‘Ladies,’ he says, suddenly swinging back to Mac. ‘I suppose I’ll see you same time next week.’
‘He’s off his rocker,’ Mac says as we watch him walk away, hands in his pockets, shoulders turned in.
‘Why? Why would you even do that, you big oaf?’ Nat’s angry, poking Mac in the chest, but I’m not paying attention as the pair begin to bicker; instead, I’m watching Rory’s retreating form. He slows as he approaches the salon doorway where June stands. He stops and glances at the ground before raising his head. Then he says something that causes June to smile before her hand reaches out to pat
his cheek.
‘What was that about?’ I ask as I reach the salon door myself. My eyes flick to Rory’s back as he walks farther away, the weight of the world apparently balanced on his back.
‘I just gave him a wee word of advice,’ June replies, straightening her flowery head scarf.
‘You told him not to come back?’ What else is there to be said? But what was with the cheek patting?
‘I told him to take heart. That what’s comin’ fir ye, will no’ pass y’ by .’
Great. The Scottish version of que sera, sera. I find myself shaking my head.
‘Say what you will, hen,’ June continues, ‘that boy has it bad, and when it comes to real love, there’s no giving up.’
With that, she retreats into the salon, leaving me feeling like I’ve been punched in the throat.
Chapter 28
Ivy
Please don’t travel down tomorrow. I’m ill.
Fin’s text arrives late Friday afternoon, a week or so following Rory’s last visit to the village. And stupid Mac punching him. I’m sitting at reception, having finished for the afternoon, though Ted is still working on his client’s blowout.
What’s up? Is it the flu?
She’d mentioned earlier in the week that the office drones—her description—were dropping like flies with some kind of stomach bug.
I think so. Throat. Nose. Vomiting.
I’m just about to text to tell her to take care and to say I’d check in with her tomorrow when I receive this:
I know I said I never wanted to see him again, but I said a lot of things.
My heart sinks as I read Fin’s text, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard as I attempt to fashion a reply because she knows . She knows Rory’s been looking for her—maybe even found her.
Sorry. I’m so sorry. Don’t hate me. Please don’t cut me out of your life.
My heart is literally pounding out of my chest, and little Vlad seems intent on reaching out to grab it. Maybe he’s mistaken the pounding as some kind of baby rave. Before I have a grip on the right verbiage—or my panic—another text arrives.
I said a lot of things, felt a lot of things, and I understand why you were trying to protect me.
But I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me. All these weeks.
Why didn’t you say?
I thought he’d moved on. Do you have any idea how this feels—like you’ve been replaced? Cut out, or pasted over by the shape of someone else?
Why, no, I have no idea what that feels like. Please fill my ears with your tales of woe while I rub my poor, single parent belly and revel in how just life is.
Of course, I don’t answer this way, but it doesn’t stop the sudden flow of fury through my bones. My thumbs hover over the screen again as I attempt to tamp down my emotions to a rolling boil. I won’t give into anger. Into jealousy and pain. Envy because it doesn’t take the brain of Britain to work out she’s seen him. Talked. Meanwhile, I—
I push it away—the anger. The jealousy. Push it the fuck from my brain while reminding myself to add another pound to that fucking tin. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I’ll shove a fucking fiver in! My nose begins to tingle as tears prick at my lids. Life is so unfair, and even when I’m trying to do the right thing—get on the right path—I keep screwing things up for myself and other people.
But I can’t help how I feel. Sad. Empty. Pissed off.
But what about Fin, and how she must feel. Jesus Christ, I’ll get myself to mass on Sunday to ask for forgiveness for the things I keep screwing up. She deserves to be happy, and we had no right to interfere.
I pick up my phone again and quickly jot out, Sorry. I’m so sorry. Don’t hate me. Please don’t cut me out of your life. But then I erase it.
This. This is what I type instead of a whiny, selfish response. I know it wasn’t the right thing to do—at least, my heart did—but my head said it was for the best. I didn’t want to see you get hurt again, and you were still coming to terms with what happened with your douche of a husband.
Quit the melodramatics , she responds. No one’s cutting a bitch. At least, not yet. But let’s just say you have a lot of ‘splaining to do, Lucy.
So you’ve seen him? Rory? I can’t tell you what a weight lifted this is. I hope you’re happy. Please tell me you’re happy. OMG, are you cheating on me with a new best friend because who the flip is Lucy? This. This is me deflecting. Maybe not melodramatic, but definitely over the top.
I’m happy Mac didn’t ruin his face. He’s too pretty for words. Gotta go. Must spew again.
‘Hey.’ Brandishing her phone, Nat wanders in from the treatment room. ‘Have you seen Dylan Duffy just flew in?’
‘Here? In Auchkeld?’
‘How, on a magic carpet? Though, I suppose, technically, he could land a helicopter on the farm’s cow pasture if he came to whisk you away. Is that how you see it in your dreams? Dylan and his mighty aubergine flying in on his massive chopper to rescue—’ Her teasing diatribe stops suddenly, the final word hanging in the air. ‘Have you been crying?’
‘It’s hay fever.’
She eyes me sceptically. ‘You don’t get hay fever. Spit it out.’
‘It’s Fin,’ I say with a sigh, lifting my mournful gaze to hers. ‘She’s seen Rory.’
‘Oh, fuck.’ Her shoulders sag. ‘When? How? What did she say?’
I slide my phone across the counter. ‘My guess is she’s too busy shagging to be angry.’
‘Oh,’ she says, then, ‘Oh. The reunion went well, I take it?’ I nod in response; reading between the text-lines, my guess would be yes. ‘I’m glad,’ she adds.
‘Really?’ I raise a sceptical brow. ‘You remember why we were keeping him away?’
‘Yeah ‘cause he got someone else up the duff. Maybe.’
‘Maybe? I told you what Fin overheard him say! She didn’t need that in her life—doesn’t! Not with all the shit she’s had to cope with over the last few months.’
‘Pound, please,’ she says, holding out her palm.
‘What?’ I look down at her outstretched hand, the light dawning belatedly. ‘Sod off,’ I say, pushing it away. ‘I’ll put it in the jar later.’
‘Add another fifty pence for sod,’ she says. ‘And I mean it—I am glad because if she’s taken Rory back, then there’s good reason for it, and we’ll learn it in time. Providing she’s still speaking to us once she’s done shagging the life out of him. She’s no’ daft,’ she adds. ‘She’d send him on his way if he wasn’t playing her fair.’ When I don’t respond, she ploughs on. ‘Being left a widow and in massive debt is one thing, finding the bastard left her with this massive mind fuck—can you imagine?—but she’s come through it all. She’s stayed strong. She is strong. Stronger than I think you give her credit for. She’s no’ going to crumble at the last.’
It suddenly occurs to me that this is probably the reason Mac lashes out at Rory. He feels for Fin, maybe on behalf of his side of the species. Yes, he’s a bit of an oaf and a little rough, but he isn’t a brawler. Maybe seeing Rory just brought it all back, of how Fin had been suffering, because after Rory, things for her only got worse. While we’d been keeping him from finding out where she was these days and, in our eyes protecting her, she’d been dealt another blow. We couldn’t do anything to help when she found out that Marcus had served her something far worse than his death. And shocking though the news was, she hasn’t yet fallen apart. She says she feels ratified these days, but I think she’s still numb with shock because how do you get over someone screwing you over like that?
‘You should never need to pee ‘cause you’re always bloody crying.’
I raise my hands to my cheeks, finding my fingertips wet. ‘I don’t know how she does it. Get out of bed in the morning, I mean.’ I look up, finding Natasha with a sad smile. ‘How does she do it after everything she’s been through?’
‘You never know how brave you are until you need to be.’ She inhales a deep breath then blows it out, m
aking her shoulders sag. ‘I’d like to see you crying with happiness for once. Maybe you should still go to London this weekend and try to sneak into his hotel.’
‘Whose hotel,’ I ask, wiping my nose with my sleeve.
‘Dickalicious Dylan! Don’t you listen to anything I say?’
My heart pounds. Just once.
He’s here. Just an hour’s flight away. I could go see him. Tell him about the baby in person. I also have my train ticket booked, and it’d be a shame to waste the fare.
As the thoughts fly through my mind, lightning quick, Nat potters around the salon floor, filling me in on the details.
She tells me he’s in London for the UK premiere of his new movie. That mobs of women are already camped outside his hotel, and that it goes without saying that the pavement outside the Leicester Square Cinema for tomorrow night’s event is the same.
Am I really considering braving those crowds or, more to the point, facing Dylan?
Could I? Or am I just not brave enough?
Chapter 29
Dylan
‘Joe, you have no idea. It’s such a mess—a fuck-fest.’ It’s late, I should be sleeping, but I need to talk to someone because I sure as shit can’t sleep.
‘Hey, man, I don’t wanna know what goes on in your hotel room. London,’ he adds, blowing out a breath of air like a whistle. ‘You lucky fuck. I always wanted to visit England—this queen wants to meet the queen . Maybe stop by for a spot of tea.’
He pitches those final few words high and faux British; the word tea elongated until it resembles something that might sound from a kettle. I set off laughing, great bellyfuls of air. The man is six-foot-three and two ninety if he’s a pound—a man’s man, in more ways than one. A man no one would describe as a queen, let alone queer. At least, not if they want to keep their front teeth.
‘That’s funny. You got a crown to go along with the accent?’
‘Not one you’d like to know about.’
