by Emma Baird
“Gaby, Gaby! I hear you’re the hero of the day jumping in after that daft dog. I’ve interrupted my Ceroc practise for this.”
I murmur apologies, and she tells me not to be daft as she checks my pulse. The doctor makes me take my shoes off so she can inspect my feet. The cold might have numbed them so much, she says, I might not have noticed stepping on sharp stones or glass. And I’ll have damaged tendons and given myself the sort of injury it takes weeks to recover from. I stare at her open-mouthed, working through the implications of a foot injury that leaves me immobile.
“I think Gaby would have noticed that, Mum,” Jack says. “Or I’d have spotted the bleeding when she came out of the water.”
“Aye, ye’d think that, Jack,” the doctor says as she bends to take my feet in her hands. “But I know these things are often overlooked, what wi’ all the excitement. Years ago, a young man cut his foot on a rock at the far side of the loch, and it bled out so badly, he ended up needing an amputation. I was on my holidays at the time, so I missed it. Mair’s the pity.”
My feet, thankfully, survive the inspection. Jack hands me another hot chocolate, this time accompanied by two pieces of that delicious shortbread he keeps in his house. I remember my manners enough to say thanks and ask where he gets it from. I should stock up on it for the house. Or maybe not. I’d never be able to stick to just one or two bits and those lucky ‘eat anything you like and not put on weight’ genes might decide it’s a test too far.
“He makes it himself,” the doctor says, pulling herself to her feet having decided I’m tickety-boo and only in need of old-fashioned rest and recovery. She breaks one of my bits in half and eats it. “No’ bad, Jack son. Almost as good as the stuff Ranald makes. You’ll beat him in the annual village bake-off competition yet.”
I find myself open-mouthed once more. He wins tossing the caber competitions at the Highland Games, runs tours for people, and he cooks? Is there no end to this man’s talents? One of those pesky fantasies I’m prone to, decides to take up yet more head space. In this one, Jack and I are in a candle-lit kitchen. He’s dressed in a black tee shirt and jeans, bare-footed, and he stands at the hob stirring something garlicky and delicious, turning to look over his shoulder at me. I’m sat at the table doing nothing apart from waiting for my dinner. Your ideal boy-girl scenario, hmm?
Dr McLatchie says she needs to get back to her Ceroc class seeing as they’re in the final practice before the big competition next week. She warns me I’ll be tired and ache-y over the next few days and I should watch out for any nasty rashes or a sudden rise in body temperature, just in case I’ve got e.coli poisoning or Weil’s disease which could lead to... I don’t catch the last few words as there’s the sound of someone being hurried out of the house quicker than they expected.
Jack comes back in the room, takes the seat opposite me and smiles. Smiles are transformational, I decide, the light, warmth and excitement they add to a face and the way they make you crave more of them. If getting more of them means jumping into the loch every other day, I just might do it. Might, and only if Jack wraps me up in a blanket and a hug every time.
He takes the mug out of my hand, and our fingers touch briefly. If only I felt more energetic, I might have made more of that.
“I haven’t been in that loch for years either,” he says. “That took serious guts. I’ve never seen anything so... You look shattered, Gaby. Why don’t you take a nap? I’ll keep an eye out for any sudden rashes.”
Another smile. Okay, there might be other ways to get smiles that don’t involve perishingly cold loch dips. Working out what I might do to get them—stock up on jokes, consult the Dating Guru’s forums—is the last thing I think of before sleep overwhelms me.
When I wake up, the light has gone and the view from the window dark as coal. Even the lights from the nearby Lochside Welcome off, which must mean it’s after midnight. Someone, Jack, I presume, has covered me with a duvet as well as the blanket and I’m toasty. Mena has settled herself on my lap, and she miaows a hello at me. “Jack!” I call out, my voice croaky. I spot a note on the coffee table next to me and burrow out a hand from my duvet-blanket cocoon.
“Gaby, sorry but I’ve had to go out to pick out the next lot of tourists as they’re on an early flight. Hope you are feeling better. Jack.”
Blast him. He might have cancelled his tourists. I mean, what if Weil’s disease had kicked in and all my organs had shrivelled up and failed? “What do you think, Mena? I could have DIED, and it would be all his...”
Mena stops licking her front paw and stares at me. “Oh, okay then. You’re right. He stayed for a while, made sure I was okay and then headed off because if he left those tourists stranded at the airport, they’d complain to all and sundry. And he might lose his business and income.”
I turn the note over. “PS—if you start feeling ill at any point, phone me anytime. I can turn back. I’ve asked my mum to stick her head in tomorrow morning too.”
Oops. Always read the other side of a note. Equilibrium restored, making my way upstairs feels like it would be too much of an effort, and Mena looks too comfortable to disturb. I fall asleep again, the phrase ‘phone me anytime’ repeating over and over as I do.
CHAPTER 19
Jack’s tourists must be one of those groups who do the full tour experience, as I don’t see him for the next few days.
It doesn’t take long for the warm bubble to burst. The blissfulness of being wrapped up in a blanket, force-fed hot chocolate and then the note that said, phone me anytime—all that loveliness trickles away when I don’t hear from him.
“He might have sent me a text,” I fume—to Katya this time, rather than Mena as I needed an actual response instead of a made-up one. “Seeing as I might have DIED.”
“Stop speaking in capitals,” she says. “And exaggerating.”
I grumble, but I suppose it’s true. Paranoia has set in too. What if, please no, Jack witnessed me snoring, mumbling in my sleep or dribbling? Ryan told me I sometimes do all three when in repose. It’s mortifying. Christina the Dating Guru and her love self-help rival Jess McCann shake their heads in sorrow. I am a lost cause on the find a boyfriend ‘quick and easy, guaranteed’ front.
“What about Kirsty?” Katya asks. “I thought you were on a mission to reunite her with Jack?”
Ah. That. Hadn’t I done my best, mentioning her the odd time, making sure Jack saw the photos online of her with the bad boy billionaire? (Real name—Christo Griseus, true I promise.) She’d also enacted Step 3 or whatever number it was of her ten-step plan by spreading the word of his Outlander-themed tours far and wide. She’s on her own as far as I’m concerned. When I say that, Katya utters a fervent “Good!”
I ask if she’s seen the Scottie rescue video, the one Mhari uploaded to the Lochalshie website without asking me first.
“No, I haven’t had a chance I’ve been working so hard. I’ll look now.”
“Don’t bother,” I say. “It’s very boring.”
The day after the dog rescue, Jolene and Stewart popped in, Stewart once more bearing flowers nicked from the village’s car park displays, though Jolene produced a box of chocolates so big it’ll take me until Christmas to finish them. (In theory.)
Stewart sounded a thousand times more grateful to me for rescuing his dog than when I’d saved him from choking to death, going on and on about Scottie being the love of his life after his Jolene. The Jolene bit thrown in only after she nudged him so hard in his ribs he yelped.
“The brilliant thing is, though,” Jolene said, “that video Mhari uploaded on the Lochalshie website of you rescuing Scottie has gone viral.”
Stewart nodded. “Aye, Scottie looks his best. I’ve already had aw these folks getting in touch with me asking if he’s still got all his tackle because they want to breed their—”
Jolene shot him a death stare and he shut up. “Anyway, we’ve had tonnes of enquiries about the Highland Games. Place will be flooded with people
, eh?”
Gosh. As well as all the Caitlin fans coming for the Blissful Beauty launch. I didn’t get to see the video until the next day, as the reception in Kirsty’s house wouldn’t allow Jolene to show it to me on her phone.
When I eventually saw it working at Jack’s house the next day, it horrified me. Scottie might have looked like a female dog’s dream come true, and hyper-cute as he tucked his little head in my arms and wagged his tail like mad when reunited with his owner. I, on the other hand, resembled a drowned rat. Not surprising as I’d just emerged from freezing cold water. My hair was stuck flat to my head, never a flattering look, and my face bright red.
Worst of all, thanks to the chill factor, my nipples were clearly visible through my top. Plenty of people had jumped online to comment on that, and I now have a new nickname—Nora Nipples, something I’ve always wanted to be called. Not. Is the wardrobe malfunction the reason the blasted video went viral, rather than my dog-rescuing heroics? My heart sank all the more when I realised Jack must have got an eyeful too. He was first on the scene when I came out of the water. The thought turns me hot and cold.
If Scottie’s rescuer been Kirsty, she would be the goddess Venus in that classical painting, rising from the water stood on a shell, nymph-like and graceful, blonde hair tumbling down her back, one hand clutching Scottie to her torso to hide her nipples. And stop them getting a flash of dark hair that might reveal her as a bottle, rather than natural blonde when collar and cuffs don’t match.
Ooh, catty, Mena (by now the voice of my conscience) murmurs.
Anyway, when Friday arrives and there’s still no sign of Jack and no text message—sorry, Gaby! Been in the mountains. No reception. Frantically, insanely, bonkers worried about you—I pounce on Jolene’s invite. We need to discuss the Highland Games and Blissful Beauty launch. August the fifteenth is now only eight days away. Why don’t we meet in the Lochside Welcome, she suggests?
Jolene jumps to her feet as soon as I enter the hotel, its bar and beer garden packed as usual. “Let’s sit outside,” she says. “It’s warm and light enough.” And it is, the waters lap gently against the shores as the sun drops in the sky, tinting the surrounding area warm orange and pink.
Jolene’s phone explodes with beep-beeps as soon as we get outside, and she switches it to silent. “I’ll get us drinks,” she says and returns minutes later with a jug of Pimms and lemonade she promises me isn’t that alcoholic.
The discussion doesn’t take long. The website popularity shows plenty of people plan to come to the games. Every villager with any sense has put their house on Airbnb, Psychic Josie agreed to attend even though the committee knocked back most of the demands she made, and the Battle of Stirling Bridge is to be re-enacted. By kids, using plastic swords so it should be injury and risk-free. We both raise our eyes at that and hope for the best.
Strangers pack the Lochside Welcome’s beer garden, an unusual occurrence. Even at the height of summer, few non-locals are hardy enough to sit out here in the evening. I’m with the non-locals, but the Pimms seems... terribly warming. Jolene, a woman who grew up in much sunnier climes, strips off her hoodie so that all she has on is a Broderie Anglaise camisole top, the thin shoulder straps emphasising impressive shoulders.
“Gosh, aren’t you freezing?” I say, an exact impression of my nanna whenever I visit her in anything less than a vest, shirt, jumper, jacket, scarf and gloves.
Jolene shakes her head. “Coldness is for pussies, no offence to Mena, eh?”
“No offence taken,” I say on my pussy’s behalf. That cat has superior seeking out hot spot qualities anyway.
“Dexter,” Jolene continues, “the marketing guy who’s in charge of the Blissful Beauty launch, did he come and visit the place last month? A hunky American guy?” she asks.
Oof, a too-rapid subject change I’m half-way down my Pimms and lemonade (very drinkable) and the urge to confide hits me. Katya isn’t here, which sucks, and I like Mhari, but... As friends go, anything you tell her will be shared far and wide. Plus, she’ll upload an unflattering video of you online without asking your permission.
“Um, yes,” I say, wondering what she knows already.
“And he kissed you, eh?”
That ‘eh’ thing again. New Zealanders might always sound as if they are asking questions when that’s not the case, but this definitely isn’t a question. The WhatsApp group told Jolene as soon as the kiss happened. I’ll stake a hundred pounds on that.
“Yes,” I say. “He’s asked me out. Once the launch is over.”
Jolene twists in her seat to lean back, elbows on the table and facing the setting sun. I join her, doing my best not to shiver.
“Sweet,” she says. “You should get yourself out there again. Get back on the dating horse, eh, and ride it—”
“Jolene! Please.” I’m on my second Pimms and lemonade, and the next few words rush out of me before I can stop them. “Um, what was the deal with Kirsty and Jack?” I cross my fingers, hoping Jolene doesn’t do pillow talk with Stewart. He fits the Mhari school of discretion, and it will be all around the village in an instant I asked pointed questions about Jack.
“Kirsty always wanted Jack,” Jolene helps herself to more Pimms and lemonade. “From the moment she moved to Lochalshie.”
“She’s not local, then?” I’d assumed she was Lochalshie born and bred.
“No, Edinburgh. She moved here not long after her dad died. He left her a lot of money, and she bought that pile.” She tips her head to the house. Funny how no-one in the village likes Kirsty’s house. “As soon as she set eyes on Jack, she decided she wanted him. Stewart and I didn’t like her very much. The Lochside Welcome wasn’t good enough for her.”
How not to endear yourself to the locals. “Why do you think he hooked up with her?”
Jolene shrugs. “You’ve seen what she looks like. What do you think?”
How disappointing. But as I spend my time drooling over Jack because he’s ridiculously easy on the eyes, I can’t blame him for doing the same with a woman.
“And the split?” I say, praying it will be for something unforgivable such as attempting to murder his mother when she diagnosed Kirsty with advanced syphilis (or something) rather than just being not suited, a point of view Kirsty is currently doing her best to reverse.
“Ah, now there’s a story,” she says. “Kirsty was always posting up pictures—hang on, what about Dexter? And eh, why do you want to know so much about Jack and Kirsty?”
Definitely a New Zealander asking a question this time. Darn it. I’ve almost finished my second ‘not that alcoholic at all, Gaby!’ Pimms. I should have known better than to trust someone who dates Stewart to judge what counts as head-spinning and inhibition lowering. Stewart’s not the only one who regards the Lochside Welcome as his second home. I open my mouth, about to confess all when some remnant of sense kicks in.
“I’m not interested in anyone,” I say. “I’m far too busy with my work, and I’m still recovering from a split. Ryan was the love of my life, and I was with him for ten years. Broke my heart into smithereens and everything.”
Jolene turns and raises one eyebrow. “Yeah? I thought you managed that by your fourth day here. You know, when Dr McLatchie handed you the keys to her son’s house.”
Heat flames my face. Does this mean that my unrequited crush on Jack has been obvious to one and all? Yikes. I imagine the villagers remarking on it to Jack and him screwing his face up in disgust. “Gaby? Nice girl, but seriously? I mean, look at my past record. The painting I have of Kirsty? Case closed. Also the Nora Nipples? Urgh.”
I’ve got to get out of here. I gulp the last of the second Pimms and jump to my feet, a movement hindered as I forget we’re sitting at a bench. The table traps my legs, and I fly backwards, pulling the table and Jolene with me, and we land in an undignified heap on the ground. Jolene’s reflexes, one hundred times better than mine, shoot her hand so that it darts out to stop the side of the table landing
on our abdomens and chopping us in half.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. The crash and the yells we both let out have attracted attention. A group of hill-walkers amble over, trying and failing to hide their amusement.
“All right gels?” the first asks. “Was this you doing your bit to show us that the Scottish heavy drinking stereotype is unjustified?” At that, he and his wretched Cockney friends burst into gales of laughter.
“Neither of us is Scottish,” Jolene pushes off the table and sending it flying, a move that wipes the grins from the hill-walkers’ faces as they follow its progress as it sails across the beer garden and land at the water’s edge. “And you now owe us a drink seeing as we’ve provided you with free entertainment.” The men nod hastily, doubtless worrying what might happen if they refuse.
She stands up, brushing dirt and soil from her trousers and extends a hand to me. “I don’t want another drink,” I whisper as I get to my feet.
“I’ll drink yours,” she whispers back. “Then we will talk about Dexter. And Jack. And what you’re going to do about them.”
CHAPTER 20
After one more glass of Pimms—despite Jolene’s promise she would drink mine, she foisted it on me—the Dexter kiss is all I admit to. Jolene’s on the Lochalshie WhatsApp group. Jack “seems like a decent chap”, I utter the words through pursed lips and know my nanna would be proud of me. ‘Decent chap’ was high praise in the 1960s but tells you nothing. I don’t say, ‘hot’ or use the phrase, “I wouldn’t push him out of bed for farting”, which is Katya’s ultimate compliment.
“There was that photo,” Jolene adds, “the one Kirsty put up. Well, she put up tonnes of her and Jack, eh? But Jack’s dead-beat pa tracked him down when he saw the pics. Thought Jack was some kind of celebrity and turned up in the village.
