Highland Fling

by Emma Baird

  “Yoo-hoo! Jack? Gaby? You in?”

  Jack gives another eye roll and shouts back, “In the kitchen,” and Dr McLatchie sticks her head around the door, waving a hello to me.

  “Ah good! I’ll have a coffee too. And have ye any shortbread on the go?”

  Good lord, she’s familiar, isn’t she? Bursting into someone’s home without knocking and ordering the occupant to make her a coffee and get her some biscuits to go along with it.

  Jack pulls a tin out of a cupboard, takes the lid off and holds it out to me first. I help myself to two bits, seeing as breakfast these days is one slice of toast so I can afford to feed Ms Mena her smoked salmon and poached organic, free-range chicken breast.

  “I’ve got to do a Skype consultation in ten minutes time,” the doctor says. “Can ye both stay out of the way while I do it? People prefer not to have strangers listening in when I do my consultations, though Jonah Ross’s got nothing to hide, apart from the occasional trouble with his piles, which is mair the pity because—”

  “Okay, okay Mum. I’ll stop you right there before you break the Hippocratic oath.”

  That makes my head swivel between the two of them. Dr McLatchie said nothing about Jack being her son. They don’t share the same surname, and the resemblance isn’t clear though as I study them both, I can see Dr McLatchie’s got her son’s eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones. Jack notices me doing the checking them both out thing, and he smirks. Neither seems inclined to offer me any further explanation, such as the reason behind their different names or why the doctor couldn’t have said right at the beginning she was Jack’s mum. It explains the familiarity.

  Jack finishes his coffee in record time—does he have an asbestos mouth, that stuff was boiling hot—and tells us he needs to go. As he leaves, keys jangling in his left hand, he brushes close past me, and unwittingly I take a deep breath in—washing powder, pine needles and warm skin. It’s intoxicating, and the temptation to fall on him and sniff harder than a police drugs dog seeking out illegal stuff is overwhelming. When he shuts the door behind him, I’m left hanging in mid-air, face and nose forward sniffing an empty space.

  In the kitchen, Dr McLatchie helps herself to five pieces of shortbread, telling me she can only tackle Jonah Ross when she’s overloaded with sugar and heads back to the living room.

  “Knock on the door hard when ten minutes are up, will ye Gaby? Then I can pretend there’s an emergency car crash. Good lass.”

  And I’m alone once more. I bite the shortbread and realise it must be home-made. It’s crisp, buttery and melt-on-the-tongue delicious. No wonder the doctor eats so much of it. I’m left with plenty of food for thought. (Katya would hate me using that analogy so close to musings about actual food.) To add to my stock of information about Jamie stroke Jack, I can confirm his mum’s a doctor, he drinks his coffee the way I do, he runs coach tours and...

  And that’s the meagre amount of it.

  Later that afternoon once I’ve finished my work for the day, I can’t resist the temptation to look at the Dating Guru’s website again. Maybe there will be clues there why Jack has her picture in his house, as that seems weird. Does he know her? Before I look this time, I check the window to ensure no-one walking past can see my screen and that there’s no sign of Jack. A new post has gone up since this morning, an article titled How to Find Love After a Long-Term Relationship Ends, which seems apt.

  I was with Ryan for ten years. We got together when we were in high school just before my sixteenth birthday. He’s the reason I didn’t go further afield to university. Katya and I had grand ideas about going to London. St Martin’s College for me and the London School of Economics for her, but Ryan begged me not to. He went straight from school into his parents’ garage and car sales company, and when I mentioned London, he freaked out. He knew all about students, he said. They spent their weekends boozing and... At that, he shook his head, and I was left to come up with the rest of the sentence. Did he mean having fun? When I ended up with an acceptance for the Norwich University of the Arts, I begged Katya to go to the University of East Anglia in the same city so at least there would be the two of us trying to recreate the full student experience even though we were only sixteen miles from home.

  Katya never liked Ryan that much though she didn’t go on about it. Heroic really, when you consider how frank my friend is about everything else in my life. From time to time if she’d had one Red Bull and vodka too many, she would say something. “Ryan’s not the only man out there.” Or, “Gaby, have you ever wondered if Ryan appreciates how wonderful you are?” When I told her we were engaged, she swallowed hard, took a deep breath and plastered a huge smile on her face. “That’s brilliant, Gaby.” Then, two seconds later. “Are you sure?”

  I wasn’t sure at all. No-one else my age was getting engaged. Other Millennials were too busy having portfolio careers (and again, I’d gone straight from graduation to Bespoke Design. I couldn’t do that social media profile thing where I added in endless slashes to show that I wasn’t just a designer), leading activist campaigns, doing micro-brewing or creating YouTube channels where they promoted plant-based lifestyles and slagged off anyone who wasn’t a vegan. Those Millennials were far too busy to get engaged and then married.

  But Ryan had done the whole romantic thing. I suspected he’d relied on Google to tell him how to propose and then copied the advice. It wasn’t personalised to me. We headed out for a meal to a fine dining restaurant in Norwich where they served small portions on slates and charged you a fortune. After we’d eaten our mains, a waiter appeared with a trio of chocolate desserts. I tucked in with gusto. That main course had been nowhere near filling enough and Ryan was forced to tell me to slow down. When I got to the third bit of dessert, I bit down on the honeycomb mousse and cracked my front tooth.

  “Yeowch!”

  A tiny object flew across the room, and Ryan leapt from his seat and flew after it. The other diners watched us, astonished. Having retrieved the object, Ryan dashed back and fell onto his hands and knees in front of me. He pushed himself up onto one knee. I got it at that point and my heart sank to the floor. Oh heck no...

  “Gabrielle Amelia Richardson, will you make me the happiest man in the world?”

  Our audience stared at us. I heard the collective intake of breath. There was only one answer I could give.

  “Er... yes?”

  Cheers erupted around us. Waiters materialised, bearing champagne, two glasses and mobile phones asking us if they could take our photos and put it on the restaurant’s Twitter and Instagram accounts. Hashtags #CafeFrancaise #love! #idealplacetogetengaged.

  A week later, we held the engagement party. And at that point, everything imploded.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FIVE WEEKS EARLIER

  “Is that what you’re wearing? Seriously?”

  Katya eyed me sternly, and I held out my arms. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing. If you were about to celebrate your eightieth birthday, I’d give you a round of applause and say ‘great outfit choice’. As you’ve got another fifty-four years to go until that day, go back to your bedroom and choose something else.”

  Rude. I’d picked the dress up at a charity shop. Now that Ryan and I were getting m-m-married (even in my head I wasn’t able to say the word without stuttering), I figured we should save money and therefore I couldn’t justify the cost of a new outfit for my engagement party. Or, another voice whispered, perhaps you don’t want a new outfit because you can’t get excited about this party...

  The party hadn’t been my idea or Ryan’s. When we’d gone to his parents’ house the day after the proposal to announce the happy news, Louise, his mum, clapped her hands and told us we must celebrate. Why not have a party at the garage? She and Ryan’s dad would get catering in and book a DJ. And if the event showed off some of the vintage cars the business specialised in, all the better. When I said I didn’t know if any of our friends could afford a vintage car, she wave
d a hand.

  “Don’t worry about that. We’ll invite a few prospective clients. Just a soft-sell kind of thing. We might as well combine the two, don’t you think?”

  I nodded, my head moving automatically. If I’d glimpsed myself in the mirror, I suspected my eyes would look glazed. An engagement party made things much more official, didn’t it? Already, the ring on my fourth finger dragged my left hand down, chaining it to the side of my body.

  A week later and it was clear that Louise had invited everyone in Great Yarmouth, if not Norfolk, to the party. She’d thrown herself into the organisation, spending six days consulting with caterers, event planners and DJs. The vintage cars had been polished to a high sheen, and they’d covered the garage forecourt in bunting, banners and balloons congratulating Ryan and me. Every time I bumped into someone on the street, they told me how much they were looking forward to the party. I was lucky if I had a nodding acquaintance with any of them. And if they were looking forward to Great Yarmouth’s party of the year, they had the advantage over me.

  Louise ordered Ryan to the party an hour before it was due to start so she could brief him on the sales spiel which she promised would be subtle and not interfere with our enjoyment of the night. I ducked out of the early start, relieved, and said I’d come along with Katya.

  “What do you wear to an engagement party?” I asked. I’d never been to one before because all my friends thought the same as me—engagement and marriage were for people in their early 30s. Katya opened the wardrobe and flicked through my tops and dresses. She is ten times more glamorous than me and always looks as if she’s wearing expensive, well-designed clothes whereas I’ve been mistaken for a Big Issue seller.

  “This is hopeless,” she said, unzipping her dress.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re swapping. You can wear this. It’ll be too big, but there’s a woven leather belt you have that’ll go with it. Take your dress off.”

  I made a token protest and gave in. It was always better not to argue with my friend, who is the oldest of four sisters and well-versed in giving orders. Besides, the dress was fabulous—a mustard floral frill skater dress she’d matched with a deep purple and silver crochet cardigan. The belt was silver too, so as predicted it matched perfectly. I argued in favour of my Converse trainers to give my outfit a fierce edge and lost. No, she said. For such an occasion, high-heeled cork wedges were the only options. She pulled on my black velvet skinny jeans, cursing as she struggled to pull the zip up, and I wondered afresh how she made everything look so much more stylish than I did. Any time I put those trousers on, every single bit of lint, fluff and dust landed on them.

  “Red lipstick too.” Katya went nowhere without the full kit and caboodle—foundation, powder, eyeliner, mascara, blusher and lipstick. By the time she’d finished with me, I had to admit I looked a lot better and the prospect of the party didn’t seem as grim.

  No-one noticed us arrive as the place was heaving with people. Waiters circulated, all of them carrying silver trays filled with mini bits and pieces or flutes of champagne. As the average age of the guests seemed to be about fifty, I decided most of them were prospective customers rather than any of our friends. Katya aside, I’d yet to see anyone I knew.

  We pushed our way to the front mainly by sliding too close to all the vintage cars, and I spotted my mum talking to Louise. My heart sank again. They’d never got on. My mum was from the rougher end of Great Yarmouth, and Louise never failed to find some way of reminding her. If it weren’t for Ryan, I’d have told her to mind her manners a long time ago. I said Katya I’d speak to them and left her eyeing up the best-looking waiter. I didn’t fancy his chances of escaping alive.

  “Louise, hi! Mum, nice to see you.”

  Louise gave that tinkling laugh of hers that she saves for the garage’s most affluent customers. “Gaby! And you’re so glamorous.”

  Astonishment. Cheek.

  “Mandy and I were talking about the wedding.”

  Mum flashed me a look I took to mean ‘rescue me’. Or, ‘get me out of here before I kill her’.

  “We’ve not set a date,” I said. There was another word I couldn’t say in my head without it coming out w-w-wedding. “Loads of time. Mum, shall we go and—”

  “Reverend Mortimer’s here,” Louise added. “I’ve told her you’ll speak to her later. You need to get in quick because that church gets booked up years in advance. She’s over there.”

  I pretended to glance in the direction she pointed and steered my mum away.

  “Thank goodness, Gaby,” Mum whispered as we made our way back into the throng. “If Louise told me once more ‘ow lucky you were, I’d ‘a done her damage. Ryan’s the lucky one, that’s for sure.” She patted my hand and told me she was going to talk to an old school friend she’d spotted.

  Where was my fiancé? I assumed he was doing his bit for the family firm. Sure enough, I picked him out a minute later engaged in serious conversation with a red-faced, Tweed-wearing man as the two of them cast loving stares at a silver Bentley Continental convertible. I sketched him a wave, and he lifted a hand, waiting till the man’s head was turned away to blow me a kiss.

  “And breathe, Gaby,” I told myself. “Everything will be okay.”

  I still didn’t see anyone I knew to talk to. Katya, having exchanged contact details with the waiter, returned to my side, holding a bottle of champagne.

  “Look what I wangled out of the waiter. Want to find somewhere quiet to drink it?”

  I jumped at the offer. It beat standing around at your own party not knowing anyone.

  The prospect of escape made us giggly. We crept past everyone, keeping out of Louise’s line of sight and let ourselves into the office. Even that room hadn’t escaped the attention of the decorator who’d hung up yet more bunting and several helium-filled balloons.

  Katya found us two plastic cups for the champagne and opened it like a pro, the cork coming out with a soft pop. I took a too-big gulp and remembered why I don’t like champagne. It always goes to my head too quickly. And it’s nowhere near as nice as lemonade. When I mentioned the ‘m’ word Louise had been talking about with my mum, Katya made me vow she’d be chief bridesmaid and I’d let her choose my dress. And she’d give me a hen night I’d remember for the rest of my life.

  I burst into tears. “Katya, this is the worst mistake I’ve ever made. I didn’t want to get engaged. Ryan asked me in a public place, and I didn’t want to disappoint the crowd. And now, now...” I hiccoughed through more sentences along the same lines. “It’s not that I don’t love Ryan,” I continued, “or don’t want to be with him, it’s just that I don’t want all this fuss and now I’m on a runaway train that’s hurtling too quickly towards a destination I didn’t have in mind.”

  “Ooh,” she said, taking a too-big gulp of champagne herself, “that’s a brilliant analogy. I might use it myself. Okay, okay I’m taking you seriously I promise. Drink some more champagne, and we’ll write out the pros and cons, and what to do.”

  Katya had been writing blogs for a life coach who strongly believed in writing personal lists and the powers of the pros and cons. I grabbed a pen and paper from Louise’s desk and jotted down my list.

  “Er... Katya, all I’ve got are cons!” I said, dismayed. I hadn’t thought that’s all I would turn up. When Ryan blew me a kiss earlier, didn’t I find it sweet? Annoying too, though. It was our flippin’ engagement party. We should have been there together, not me making my own way to the party while he chatted up prospective customers.

  Katya snatched the list from me and read it out loud. “I’m bored. I’m too young to get married. I don’t want to stay in Great Yarmouth the rest of my life and Ryan will never move anywhere else. What if another man out there is my true soul mate? When Ryan kisses me, I fantasise he’s Jamie Fraser. Louise will be the mother-in-law from hell. Everything is moving far, far too fast. Ryan watches too much golf on the TV.”

  That last
one made her open her eyes wide with horror. “You never told me that! Golf? How old is he, 95? I have nightmares sometimes where I find myself with a golf fan and he makes me do it with him. And I can’t say no because he’s got this little sister who will die if he doesn’t play golf every day, and then I’ll be responsible for her tragic death at the age of five.”

  Are all writers prone to weird flights of fancy? I shot her my best ‘be serious’ glare, and we finished our plastic glasses of champagne.

  “Another one?” Katya said, and I decided I liked the stuff after all. Once you got past the nasty sour taste, those bubbles slid down easily. Outside, the DJ had started up, and the two of us groaned. This being my engagement party, it might have been reasonable for me to have a say in the music. But Louise had stipulated what was to play seeing as most of the guests were in their 50s, and Ryan was fine with it as he had terrible taste in music.

  On cue, Jon Bon Jovi’s voice boomed that he was half-way there. It would only get much, much worse.

  Katya took out her camera, and the two of us posed for a selfie (bothie?), pulling our best duck-faced pouts and sucking in our cheeks. She tagged it #GabyEngaged and posted it. Then, she held the camera over the piece of paper where I’d listed why I didn’t want to get engaged.

  “Better throw this away,” she said, screwing the paper up into a tiny ball and lobbing it at the waste-paper basket. “But I’ve taken a picture of it in case you need to reread it. Or it could make a hilarious story for your hen night.”

  I giggled. “Or my speech at the wedding!” The plastic glass of champagne number two had gone down more quickly than the first, and my laughter sounded hysteria tainted. I plucked at one of the ‘Congratulations’ balloons hanging in the office, my eyes meeting Katya’s with that synchronised thought pattern we so often get as long-time friends.

  “Yes!” she clapped her hands together gleefully. “Lets. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  Neither of us was one hundred percent sure what we were doing, but it had to be easy. Release the gas from the balloon and breathe it in. I took the first gasp and Katya the second, the high-pitched hee hee hees making us howl with laughter. “I can’t marry Ryan. It’s too grown-up!” Saying the words in the voice of a three-year-old gave them additional weight.