Highland Fling

by Emma Baird

  Still, a library outing hardly rates appearance preparation, which fits in with how lazy I feel. My ‘work’ uniform of leggings, a slogan tee and a hoodie will do. I’ve got into the habit of not showering in the morning. When you work in an office with zero colleagues, why bother? Strictly speaking, I should have done so before heading off to a meeting with other people. But when I ask Mena if it’s worth the effort, she shakes her little furry head. That’s how I interpret it. The thing with conversations with cats is that they almost always work out in your favour.

  The library is yet another of the Lochalshie buildings that disguise themselves as a home from the outside. Only the council logo on the front door shows it might not be what it seems. Inside, a huge display of new books on offer catches my attention. As I inspect them, Dr McLatchie slides up to me and points at every one. “Pish. Pish. Pish.” If you have ever wondered what might appear on a doctor’s recommended reading list, now appears to be the best time to find out what shouldn’t.

  “What about this one,” I pluck a random book from the display, You Lost Him at Hello by Jess McCann. “It’s the secrets of one of America’s top dating coaches,” I say, reading from the back cover and wondering if Kirsty knows her local library stocks one of her rival’s books. Dr McLatchie takes it from me, bends it open in a way that makes librarians up and down the land shudder, and reads the page in front of her.

  “What total tosh! Daters have to apply successful sales techniques and know and love the—”

  Whatever she is about to say is cut short. Jolene appears from behind a bookshelf armed with a bell and telling us the meeting is to begin. She nods a greeting to me and sits at the top of the table in the centre of the library. Others fill the surrounding eight chairs. I slide into the seat next to Dr McLatchie and nod a greeting to every other committee member.

  I get to my feet.“Hello! Lovely to join—”

  FOMO comes back and bites me. Here I am, stuck in a small room on a Friday night with...

  ... a guy who makes every bit of me heat up, even though he is a non-party inviting, rude, sarcastic, horrible... Oh, woe.

  I’d been in the middle of that ‘authenticity’ thing, where you look around the table at everyone, trying to make your intro sound sincere, couldn’t be happier to be here, etc. Then, my eyes landed on Jack McAllan, Lochalshie Highland Games committee member so far unknown. He nods, and as per usual it’s a gesture that gives nothing away.

  Jolene stands and waves at me to sit down. “Thanks, Gaby! We’ll be coming back to you later. Now, back to the important stuff—the games and Psychic Josie!”

  Jack pulls out his phone and checks something out. “So far, we’ve got ten entries to the Highland Games.”

  Even as an outsider, I know this isn’t good.

  “What’s the prize?” I say, and I’m met with blank stares (most of the committee) and glares (Jack).

  Jolene rustles the papers in her hands, flipping a page over so she can read the relevant bit. “First prize in the Highland Games is a ‘wee dod o’ shortbread’”.

  “Shortbread?” I say, “Big wow. Jack makes the best shortbread I’ve ever eaten.” I nod at him. His face doesn’t flicker. “But is it enough of an incentive?”

  There must be better possibilities. People come to the games for... Big Men. Big Muscles. Strength. Whisked away on a Highland Tour... now, my brain does cartwheels, flourishing pictures and images online of all of the above. Present the ideas neatly on a website so that FOMO is obligatory. Come to the Lochalshie Highland Games or forever miss out.

  “Why not install a plug-in on the website where people can view themselves in their family tartan kilt? And then you could print out the results and have them on a stall at the games? Or what about a recreation of the Battle of Stirling Bridge, a glorious Scots victory?”

  I’m about to add, “the only one, eh?”, when common sense stops me at the last minute. Invitations to parties, Gaby, no need for further reinforcement of your outsider status, hmm? And possibly the Scots don’t take too well to reminders of Scots-English battles.

  Nods start around the table. Phones or tablets emerge—the library must be one of the fabled hot spots—and other people pitch in with ideas. The pipe band major clears his throat. “We could ask Big Donnie for a money prize for the games. That would attract competitors. He can spare a hundred pounds.”

  Jolene agrees. “Can you ask him, Jack?”

  From where I’m sitting, I can see Jack roll his eyes and a tiny frown crease his brow. My heart flutters, as the memory of that first meeting I had with Jack resurfaces. Turning up two-and-a-half hours late ensured I lost him at hello, as Jess McCann might say. And why didn’t I make an effort for this evening, or at least shower? It’s a good job I’m not sitting next to him. The Dating Guru advises her clients to smell ‘flowery and fragrant’ at all times when trying to attract a man, and I haven’t showered since yesterday morning.

  “No,” Jack shakes his head. “I don’t think a money prize will make any difference. The guys who compete in the games aren’t motivated by filthy lucre.”

  Oof. That seems aimed at me, and I flare up forgetting for the time being that the Dating Guru advocates agreeing with a guy all the time to make him like you. (Honestly.) “You think?” I say. “Shall we vote on it? I’m willing to bet a big sign on the website saying first prize £1,000”—Big Donnie sounds just like a guy who’d have a spare grand lying around—“the entries would fly in.”

  Six of the eight people around the table raise their hand in agreement. Even Dr McLatchie sticks her hand in the air, though her son sends her a filthy look. “Sorry, Jack son,” she says. “But the lassie’s right. And she’s fae the big city too, so she knows how these things work.”

  Oof, really? Great Yarmouth is nowhere near city size, and I’m not sure me being from a city, accurate or not, gives me added insight into how competitions work. It’s common sense, isn’t it? Jolene agrees she’ll approach Big Donnie, who is a lady’s man and more likely to agree to the request if it comes from a woman.

  Jolene shuffles her papers. “Now, Psychic Josie! Scotland’s number one psychic. You’re our contact, Doctor. Has she said yes?”

  The doctor nods. “Aye, she can make it. Here’s her contract.” She takes a folded sheet of paper out of her bag and slides it across the table. Jolene studies it, her expression changing to disbelief. “That’s her fee?” she asks. “It’s more than the proposed Highland Games prize. And she’ll be charging people on the day. She’ll make a killing.”

  The doctor shrugs. “Have ye seen how popular she is? Every time she does an event in Glasgow or Edinburgh, it’s sold out months in advance. Ye’ll make your money in the numbers who come through the park. The games are not free are they?”

  Jack whisks the paper from Jolene’s hands and studies it too. “No fee,” he says firmly. “Tell your contact, Mum, that Psychic Josie can keep all her takings from the customers she gets and we’ll only charge her a stall fee the way we’re doing with everyone else.”

  “But—”

  “Mum!”

  “Oh all right then,” the doctor says, taking back the contract. “Mebbe she might no’ be as keen.”

  Blast it. That little show of authority sent my treacherous, ever-moving emotions back toward passion and want. Who doesn’t love firmness?

  The rest of the meeting is taken up by a discussion of the various stalls and speculation if the Lochalshie Highland Games budget stretches to weather modification so that the sun shines on the day or that at least it doesn’t rain. When someone mentions how much the Soviets were once rumoured to have spent on making the sun shine on a military parade, they quickly drop the idea. The budget couldn’t cover a minute of modified sunshine, never mind four hours.

  Jolene declares the meeting over at nine pm, and most people drift off. I’m about to sneak over to the new book stall and pick up that copy of You Lost Him at Hello, which sounds more promising than the Amazon one I or
dered How to Find Lasting Love with the Right Man, when Jack makes his way over, and I have to grip the table top to stop my trembling legs giving way underneath me. Pathetic that such things excite me so much.

  “How are you?” he asks. Oh, that smile—when it’s given without the qualification of sarcasm, cockiness, and appears one hundred percent genuine I defy any woman not to melt.

  “Fine, fine,” I say, managing not to squeak, “why didn’t you invite me to your blasted party?”

  “You’re probably right about the prize for the Highland Games. Shortbread isn’t much of a reward for spending your afternoon flexing your muscles and panting hard.”

  STOP IT, Gaby! When he said ‘panting’ my imagination ran away with itself. Dear oh dear oh dear—it planted the lovely idea of Jack McAllan, pupils dilated, mouth open and his breaths coming in ragged gasps. I was in the room too, if you get my meaning.

  “I’ve never met anyone who’s done the Heimlich manoeuvre before,” he continues, and the doctor materialises beside him. She must have been in the loos.

  “Aye, aye, Gaby,” she says. “Awfy good job for an amateur. I checked him out on Tuesday morning and he’s got two cracked ribs. I wouldnae have thought a wee lassie like you had the strength. You should enter the Highland Games. What d’ye say, Jack? Gaby here might walk away wi’ that £1,000.”

  “Maybe she might,” Jack says, “though I don’t know if future Lochalshie villagers will thank her for making sure Stewart’s gene pool continues.” With that, he cracks a smile that totally changes his expression, the sight of it joyful. My mission in life might be making Jack McAllan face light up as often as I can.

  “See you next week then,” he says, a question I take to heart. That signals he’s looking forward to it, doesn’t it? I nod agreement, and we let ourselves out of the library, Jack and his mum heading in one direction and me in the opposite.

  The darkness is like a velvet cloak, soft, comfortable and nothing to fear. I skip back to Kirsty’s house. When I open the door, Mena comes running. “You’ll never guess what, Mena!” I say as she yowls encouragement. “Jack said I was right about something. And he smiled at me. That’s got to count as a positive, don’t you think? And also, unlike earlier when I said going to a village meeting in the library was no-one’s idea of FOMO, my evening turned out very well indeed!”

  She sashays her way through to the kitchen, pausing pointedly in front of the fridge. I open it as she miaows with approval. “Organic chicken for you,” I say, “and a lot of water for me. Wake me up when it’s time for work.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “You’re working late. I don’t usually see you at this time.” Jack says.

  It’s nine pm, and I’m still at Jack’s. Once I’d finished dealing with Dexter’s demands—I’m on the fifth lot of templates for the product pages, a batch that looks remarkably like the second set of designs I presented him with and he rejected—I made a start on the Lochalshie website. It is charming, but the design is a mish-mash, and there’s no consistent use of font, styles or pictures.

  “Bitten off. Chew. More than you can,” I told myself. “Rearrange these words, Gaby, so they form a popular saying. And then promise yourself you will never do it again.”

  Luckily for me, Jolene is nothing like Dexter. When I emailed her my first suggestions, she rang me back straight away. “Gaby, these are so fantastic.” I sucked my cheeks in waiting for her to tell me to make them stand-out awesome by changing them in ten different ways, but no. Her ‘fantastic’ means just that. “I can’t wait to run a social media campaign when the new website is up and running. It’ll make everyone come here!” Nothing like a bit of pressure, eh? I hope the villagers don’t blame me when visitors don’t flock to the games because a few carnival rides and Psychic Josie don’t do it for them. Even if she isn’t a demanding client, it doesn’t change the fact the website needs a complete overhaul. It’s got so many pages too. Who knew that one tiny little village had so much to tell the world?

  When I heard the door open, and Jack come in, my heart did its usual treacherous soar to the ceiling, despite me telling it to stay right where it was. Off-limits, remember? Belongs to Kirsty or about to do so again.

  I swing around in my seat. “So are you. Working late, that is.” He looks tired, I decide. Not that it does anything to distract from his appearance. Jack’s got the looks that can carry off tiredness—light shadows under his eyes that only emphasise their size and a droop to his shoulders that begs a girl to throw her arms around him. I’m almost out of my seat involuntarily, ready to do so.

  “It’s always like this in the summer. But I don’t work October through to April, so it’s bearable.”

  Aprrrill. Bearrrable. Jack’s voice suits his cosy home. The words swirl comfortably in the air.

  “Where were you today?” I ask as he dumps a rucksack full of water bottles and Avon Skin So Soft on the sofa.

  “Clava Cairns—the standing stones just north of Inverness. Everyone wanted to touch them to see if they vibrated. I’ve no idea why.”

  I’m about to jump in and tell him when I realise he’s being ironic. Clava Cairns is meant to be the place where Claire Randall travels through time from the 1900s to the 1700s in the first Outlander book. If you can feel the thrumming of stones, it means you’re a time traveller like her. Imagine the explaining he would need to do for that when he took his tour party back to their hotel minus two people who’d inadvertently ended up in the 18th century.

  “I bet they all asked to get their picture taken with you standing next to the stones,” I say and am rewarded when he smiles at me, the upturn of his mouth banishing the shadows and lighting up his eyes.

  “Want to take a guess how many photos they took?”

  I’ll bet. He’s dressed in the black kilt and tee shirt that seems to be the standard tour guide uniform. He’s paired the kilt with long socks and a pair of Doc Martens to make it more modern and less tartan shortbread tin. I sneak another look at his knees. I’m not sure why I’m so fascinated by them. Few other women would say, “It was his knees, m’lud!” when they stood in front of a judge, accused of a ferocious crush on a man. There’s a tiny smudge of dirt on one and I long to lean over and wipe it off. I resist. Doing that to a stranger might count as assault.

  Jack stretches an arm out so he can look at his watch. The move makes the tee shirt rise a little, offering a quick glimpse of a flat, muscular stomach. I knew it! My imagination, when it conjured up that half-naked dressed in only a white towel picture, wasn’t far wrong. And now I’ve got actual, real flesh to pad my fantasy out. The sun catches a dusting of coppery hair there too. I blink a few times and turn back to my computer system before he sees the expression on my face. Wanton desire is signalled there almost as much as it would if my tongue was hanging out.

  “Do you still need to finish stuff off?” Jack asks. “I was going to grab some food at the Lochside Welcome. Do you want to come, the hotel being next door to it means you won’t have far to stumble home.”

  OOOHHHH. A date, a date, a date. Kirsty’s plans wrestle with my conscience. She wants him back so badly. And that stuff about her dad dying and wanting a man who was as good as him struck home. I’d worked out how young she’d been when her father died. She was still a teenager. Tough. It would take a heartless and horrible person not to be on her side.

  “I’ll see if Jolene and Stewart are around too,” Jack adds, and my helium-balloon-floating-on-the-ceiling status deflates. Not a date after all. Just as well perhaps.

  “Do you want to get changed or anything?” he asks. I shake my head, then wonder if I should have said ‘yes’. Kirsty is very glamorous, and that’s what he is used to. In all her YouTube videos her make-up is trowelled on and she dresses in glittery things most of the time, whereas I’m a jeans and hoodie person. At least today’s version isn’t too faded. And, bonus, my top is hole and (almost) cat hair free.

  Jack tells me he needs to get out of his kilt—s
hame—and heads upstairs. Sartorial slobbiness aside, I whip my make-up kit out of my bag for a subtle touch-up, rubbing highlighter on to my cheekbones to add emphasis, top up my mascara and apply more lipstick, shoving it all back in my bag quickly when I hear him coming back down the stairs.

  He’s changed into a pair of faded jeans and a woollen tank top over a black tee shirt which sounds as if it shouldn’t work but does.

  “Stewart’s in the pub already,” he says. “Though that’s his second home so no surprises there. Jolene says she’ll be there in five minutes. You coming?”

  “Five hundred,” I say when we’re out on the street, heading towards the Lochside Welcome. “That’s how many photos the tourists tried to take of you.”

  He shakes his head. “Not quite. But four hundred wouldn’t be far off. It’s a good job I have the patience of a saint.”

  “You have?” I ask, and the astonishment makes him laugh.

  “Fair enough. Some people might disagree and add other accusations too.”

  Quite the admittance. Still, in hotel rooms not that far from here, I bet visitors to Scotland scroll through the pictures they’ve taken today flicking back heather-topped mountains and shaggy-haired cattle with impressive horns and lingering far too long on the photos of a red-haired man in a kilt. Should I get in touch with them myself and ask if they could send one on?

  It isn’t warm, but at least it’s not raining this evening. Clouds roll in from the top of the hills above the loch dark and velvety now that the sun is setting. We pass the odd dog walker and exchange hellos. I see at least one raise of eyebrows. How long will it take for the news that Jack and I have been seen together in public to reach Mhari and from there all around the village via WhatsApp?