Highland Fling

by Emma Baird

  “You were with me today,” I tell Katya, and explain the whole windscreen appearance thing when she prevented me making too much of an idiot of myself. “I let you down, Gaby,” she says solemnly. “If I was supposed to stop you making an idiot of yourself I failed spectacularly.”

  Oof. “So!” I say brightly. “You coming up to visit me? Commit.”

  There’s an awkward silence the other end.

  “You know I love you, right?”

  “Katya!”

  “It’s just this ruddy book I’m writing, the self-help one. The publishers have moved the release date forward. They’re aiming for the Christmas market. And I’m doing work for Blissful Beauty too, remember?”

  True. At Bespoke Design, it’s all hands on deck, and Katya writes for us from time to time so we can offer clients everything they need for a website.

  “I sent Dexter all the stuff I’d written so far the other week. He phoned me up, told me it was beyond awesome and then sent it back with tracked changes all over it. He’d rewritten every second word.”

  She asks me if I’d done anything about the post Ryan had put on Facebook where he declared his undying love and begged for my forgiveness. Oh, that. I realise I have thought little about it or done anything. How strange that Ryan, the guy I was with for ten years, should feature so seldom in my thoughts now. I guess that answers the ‘do I want him back’ question.

  “I almost feel sorry for him,” Katya muses, which makes me squawk in surprise. Katya was never Ryan’s number one fan. After the engagement party, she didn’t miss a chance to tell me how right I was, and that my life was about to become a million times better. “I saw him the other day,” she adds, “and he asked after you. I thought he’d lost weight. Not enough to look like he’d got a fatal illness. Shame. But when I told him how far away Lochalshie is, he slumped.”

  Guilt threatens, but I think of Kayleigh and what Ryan said to Josh, “You’ve heard from her?”, in tones of awe and wonder. If I’m honest, Kayleigh did me a massive favour. I’m the woman who said ‘yes’ to a proposal because my intended asked in front of an audience and I couldn’t bear to let them down. That’s not a solid reason for deciding to stay with someone the rest of your life, is it? It’s up there with getting married because your surname is Pratt and you’re sick and tired of hearing people in customer services snigger when they ask you to repeat your name, so tying yourself to someone with any other surname (bar Ramsbottom) makes sense.

  “You will visit me as soon as you can?” I ask, hating how needy I sound. I settle for an ‘I’ll do my best!’ and hang up.

  The rest of the week flies by. As Melissa predicted, Dexter and I exchange a lot of emails. His ones start the same way every time. “Gaby, you are A WONDER. The page you have designed where people can upload pictures of themselves and try out the different make-up shades is beyond awesome. Seriously, I looked at it and knew Caitlin will jump up and down in excitement when she sees it. If you could just change the colour, shift the text box to the right, use this font instead, swap the stars for glitter dust... Etcetera, etcetera.”

  By day three, I’m beginning to wish he’d start his emails saying, no this isn’t good enough. Do something else. Or sack me as the head designer. He’s terrible to work for. Katya sends me the odd message and her experience of writing for him is the same. Melissa tells me to be patient. At the end of the day, he’ll go back to the original designs and words. Our job for the moment is to make him feel he earns his fat marketing manager salary.

  I’ve seen little of Jack, apart from the bus passing Kirsty’s house early in the morning and late at night. He’d said the average tour is five days/four nights and the bus that passes me on the high street on Friday evening as I head off for the general store is empty of tourists. He gives me a cheery wave. I can’t see clearly enough, but I think he smiled too. My heart dances. Small victories, eh?

  In the shop, Jamal un-props himself from the counter when I come in and ambles to the fridge. “Chicken or smoked salmon? We’ve got some venison in too if you’re interested. Very lean meat is venison, so better for the cat’s heart.”

  “Is it cheaper than the chicken?” I ask, taking the packet from him. The label promises me that venison is the best health and ethical choice for the modern-minded shopper. It features a picture of a stag with enormous antlers glaring at presumably whoever is about to shoot him.

  “No,” Jamal shakes his head. “A wee bit more expensive, but you cannae put a price on Mena’s well-being can you?”

  I leave the shop wondering why I fell for that line. Now that Ms Mena doesn’t make me sneeze, I’ve developed a wee (as the locals would say) fondness for her. This morning I woke up and found her curled at the bottom of the bed in between my legs. And when I return from Jack’s and open the door at night, she runs towards me tail up. Mostly to do with me bearing packets of smoked salmon, I suspect, but it makes me glow with pride. Gabrielle Richardson, by day graphic designer; by night, cat whisperer. I’ve also got in the habit of posting pictures of her on Instagram, and she gets a tonne of likes. Still, does my new-found love of her justify spending £8.50 on a packet of venison? The jury’s out.

  My neighbour is coming out of his house as I open the gate to Kirsty’s house. He raises a hand.

  “How’re ye? How’re ye?” he says, his usual form of greeting. I don’t know if it’s because he’s so ancient or if his accent is much stronger than everyone else’s in the village, but everything he says blends into a thick gloop of words. I only understand one in twenty of them, and I go by body language most of the time. ‘How’re ye’ is a general inquiry after my health and/or happiness and only needs a nod. I say it back to him, hoping that whatever he answers, it is not ‘I’ve only got six months to live, bummer eh?’ seeing as I only reply ‘Good, good!’ every time we have a conversation.

  He moves to his side of the hedge that divides his and Kirsty’s property.

  “Tonicht,” he adds, and I smile along nodding my head like a marionette wishing we could use sign language to make this easier.

  “Perty tonicht. An’ McCollin’s telt me tae ask’t ye. Big perty.”

  I nod some more. I have no idea what he means. He smiles and waves his phone.

  “Aye, got wan’ of they speshull Tinda ladies cummin’ tae!” and at that he winks at me, his wrinkled pixie-like face creasing up with mischief. Again, I’m none the wiser but take it to mean he is going out, and he’s over the moon about it.

  I gesture towards the front door where Mena sits on the step howling furiously. “Well, I’d better get in and feed the cat. See you later.”

  My neighbour smiles. “Aye, aye! Shud be a great perty.”

  At that, he’s gone hobbling up the street much faster than I would have expected a man of his age to move. As I search for the keys in my handbag, I note he’s stopped to talk to Mhari who asks him something and looks in my direction. She shouts something at the same time as Mena lets out another ear-splitting yowl. I’m taking far too long to get in the house and sort out her dinner. I wave a vague reply, and she nods, heading off in the same direction as my neighbour.

  I let myself in the house and apologise to Mena for keeping her waiting. If she can just hang on a minute, I promise her, waggling the packet of venison in the air, it will be worth her while. And then the two of us can curl up on the sofa and catch up on episodes of Outlander series one on the TV. Again. Her tail waggles in the air furiously. Approval, I guess. Who knew cats loved Outlander too? Both of us fed and watered, we settle down for an evening of heavy-duty binge-watching. One hour later, the Lochalshie fresh air defeats me once more (not my fault I’m battling fatigue this early of an evening), I say ‘bed’ to Mena and she bolts up the stairs ahead of me.

  Lochalshie seems too quiet the following morning. Usually, I spot at least two or three dog walkers taking their pets on a stroll along the water’s edge and the odd car or van making its way along the high street. Every house facing me has
its curtains shut too. Odd. Mena adored the venison. I’m now on a cat owners’ forum, and several of them suggested I feed Mena raw meat from time to time as cats love it and it does wonders for their teeth and bones, so £8.50 a packet or not I’m off to buy yet more of the stuff.

  To my astonishment, the general store is closed when I get there. On a Saturday, it opens at six am to take delivery of rolls and loaves from the local bakery. The closure added to the street’s desertion makes me uneasy. Where is everyone? My mind leaps to horrible theories. Eeks, eeks, eeks, is the zombie apocalypse upon us? And should I have taken up jogging when I moved here so I can flee from them when they appear on the streets, craving fresh brains?

  I’m on the point of dashing back to the house when Jamal’s van pulls up. The door opens, and he stumbles out, his face pasty and his eyes bloodshot. He takes a bottle of water from the seat next to him and drinks the whole thing in one go, leaning back against the van to do so.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. And, er, don’t zombies have bloodshot eyes? I take a few precautionary steps back from him and grip my bag so I can bolt if necessary.

  “Hangover,” he mumbles. “That last whisky was a mistake.”

  “Dear oh dear,” I say. “Um...”

  Jamal’s a Muslim. I’m not one hundred percent up on Islam and the do’s and don’ts, but I’m 90 percent sure they’re not supposed to drink.

  He shakes his head sorrowfully. “Allah is not pleased with me today. And he makes his displeasure known.”

  Water drunk and van locked up, he opens the shop and invites me to enter. I pick up another packet of venison, wincing when I notice it’s a pound more expensive than the last one, and hand it over.

  “Special occasion, was it?”

  “The annual party,” he says, eyes squinting against the overhead lights. “It started out a few years ago. Just a few people and now it’s the village’s biggest event.” At that, he opens one eye.

  “I didnae see you there. Mind, there was an awfy lot of people there so I might have missed you.”

  “A party,” I say stiffly. “I didn’t know.”

  Jamal’s face changes from tiredness to dismay. “Oh? Eh. I suppose it’s not really the biggest event. That would be the Highland Games in August. No, not that much of party. You didn’t miss anything.”

  The bell above the front door jangles and Mhari walks in and heads straight for the fridge, helping herself to a bottle of Lucozade, not bothering to wait until she’s paid for it before gulping the lot down.

  “That last Aperol spritzer was a mistake!”

  She spots me. “Gaby! Didnae see you last night at Jack’s party. You missed yourself. More folk than ever before, don’t you reckon Jamal? And when Jack did that thing with his kilt to that Purple Disco Machine song, I swear I died and went to heaven.”

  “NFI,” I mutter and leave them to work it out for themselves as I walk out without bothering to pay for the venison. I’m half-way down the street when I realise and have to shame-facedly walk back into the shop, interrupting Jamal and Mhari’s conversation which no doubt was about me.

  As I let myself back into the house, I feel tears starting, and I brush them away angry with myself for caring that much. But if ever there was a reminder of how much of an outsider I am, it is this. The village’s biggest event and I don’t even get an invitation. Thank you, Lochalshie. And Jack. Message received loud and clear.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I stay in Kirsty’s house the rest of the day, too scared to go out in case I meet yet another villager who asks me why I wasn’t at Jack’s party and what an amazing night it was. I can’t face telling them I wasn’t invited, and I appear to be at the bottom of the Lochalshie popular persons list.

  Mena seems to sense something and decides I am now her best friend. She insists on sitting on my lap most of the day, happy to re-watch Outlander series 2 with me as I mutter that Sam Heughan is one hundred times better looking than Jack McAllan and surmising that he, Jamie Fraser stroke Sam Heughan, would never think of holding a party in his home town and not inviting the village new-comer.

  When I risk creeping outside to phone Katya, picking my moment to minimise the risk of people passing by who might hear my moans, she suggests my invite might have got lost in the post.

  “Katya,” I say, “we’re not living in the eighteen hundreds. People don’t send invites out. They ask you themselves. I sat in a mini-bus with him for six hours. Don’t you think he might have mentioned it then? ‘Hey, Gaby! I’m having a little party this weekend. It’s the annual do I have to celebrate the tourist season and the first few successful tours. Nothing formal. It would be great if you could come.’ But he didn’t. Or there’s the Lochalshie WhatsApp group. He could have asked me through that.”

  “Is he on that group?”

  “No. But he could have gone on it. Joined it for a minute or so, asked me and then left.”

  The Lochalshie WhatsApp group is so active, any sane person doesn’t stay in it for long. Whenever I’m in Mhari’s company, her phone beeps with updates every second. How she keeps on top of it is beyond me.

  When I moan again about my Norma No Mates status, Katya loses patience. “Gaby, you’re already at a party—a pity party for one. Let’s talk about Dexter, stupid accidents aside.” When I told her about the laptop incident, she spluttered with laughter so much she had to hold the phone away. Close-to snorting isn’t something you want to hear from anyone, even your nearest and dearest.

  “You said he reminded you of Tobias Menzies.,” Katya goes on, still on the Dexter subject. “Did you notice if he was wearing a wedding ring or not?”

  He wasn’t, but that doesn’t tell you if he is with someone or not. I’m sure that the Dating Guru would say dating someone I work for is a no-no. Or at least until after Bespoke Design has finished the contract we have with his company. Anyway, he’s used to glamorous people like Caitlin. In any picture I have ever seen of her, she is immaculate. Smooth, shiny hair, skin glossy her make-up immaculate and head to toe in designer gear. When I caught a glance of myself in the mirror this morning, I was red-cheeked, my hair was doing its best impression of part finger in an electric socket, part hasn’t seen a brush in months. And my coat had a hole in it torn out by the wind here. (Feels like.) Dexter has those American teeth too—you know the kind I mean, big, straighter than the line you draw with a ruler and so white they dazzle in the dark. When I was with him, I didn’t smile and kept my lips over my mouth when I was speaking as I didn’t want him to draw unfavourable comparisons with my unstraightened, undazzle in the dark teeth.

  And what if Dexter’s personal self is like his work self? “Gaby! You are beyond awesome. I’ve never had such an amazing girlfriend. If you could just change the way you say ‘I love you’, and when we go out hold my hand and not my arm, and make sure you brush your hair at all times...” And so on, a never-ending list of everything I need to do to improve myself before he decides I was okay all along.

  I force myself out of the house on Sunday, having rehearsed beforehand what I’ll say if anyone asks me why I wasn’t at Jack’s party. “Oh? That. I was too busy working.” Hopefully, no-one will suss that makes little sense seeing as my ‘work’ place is Jack’s house. Luckily, it’s a beautiful day. The higher temperatures the BBC weather forecaster promised mean it is warm enough to go coat-less, but I wear a long-sleeved top anyway. The wind that blows off the loch here is always present and most of the blame for my permanently messy hair. Plenty of people mill about, but I walk the loch edge and avoid getting close enough to anyone for them to speak to me. The sharp chime of an ice-cream van pierces the peace and quiet, and I decide to cheer myself up with a gigantic cone. The rainbow-wrapped van is parked at the far side of the loch. With any luck most of the surrounding crowd will have gone by the time I get there.

  “How’re, Gaby!”

  Dang. That was badly timed. The kids have vanished, but Stewart and Scottie appear from behind the van just a
s I approach.

  “I was working,” I say, determined to nip the ‘you missed yourself at the party conversation’ in the bud. Scottie does his usual wild circling around my legs and hobbling me with his lead. I don’t bother waiting for Stewart to take the initiative and I undo the lead from his collar myself. This pleases Scottie a great deal as he barks enthusiastically and races off towards the water chasing after the ducks, who rise from the water in perfect V formation.

  “Aye? But you’re no’ at your computer?” Stewart’s face wrinkles up in puzzlement. “By the way, I looked after your iMac for ye at the party. Mhari spilt her last Aperol spritzer all over it—and I dinnae think she was the first to do so either—but I gave it a wee wipe and it was as good as new. I switched it on and off to make sure too.”

  Dear heaven. That iMac, equipment borrowed from my work, is worth upwards of two thousand pounds. Explain that one to Melissa. I’m already living on borrowed time when it comes to care of computers and laptops.

  “You’re not suffering a hangover yourself?” I say through gritted teeth. Jamal still hasn’t recovered. The man who greeted me this morning in the shop was bleary-eyed and vowing never to touch alcohol or attend a party again.

  “No, no!” Stewart says cheerily, breaking off to yell at Scottie to come back. “A lot of the folks who go to Jack’s party are amateurs. They dinnae ken how to drink properly. Or how to prepare. You see what you must do is start the day before and...”

  Enough of this. I can’t face what will be a long and detailed explanation of party prep which will undoubtedly involve porridge.

  “Ice-cream, Stewart?” I bleat as the van’s owner leans out of the window.

  “Aye, don’t mind if I do,” he says and presses against the van’s side to read the menu at the back. The van offers everything—from soft-whipped 99s to Magnum bars and cones with sauce, nuts, sprinkles and bits of shortbread. Stewart opts for one of them (the most expensive option), and I choose the Mr Whippy cone with a chocolate flake. As I lick it, I close my eyes and zone out Stewart who keeps talking through every mouthful of his Millionaire’s Shortbread cone.