Highland Fling

by Emma Baird

  “Lisa,” I say, holding up my fingers so I can tick off names. “Dannii?”

  No reply.

  Ashley puts a large bowl of chips wrapped in fake newspaper and wafting malt vinegar between us, and I grin at Ryan. Chips are our nemesis. He ordered them. I didn’t therefore the chips are solely, exclusively Ryan’s. The last two time I nicked chips off men, they gave in with good grace. I move the bowl towards me, and Ryan yanks it back before remembering himself. He pushes it, begrudgingly, back. I adopt the same beaming smile and dig in, ignoring the tic in his jaw as I bite into and swallow chips number four, five, eight, ten, the last used as a stick to swirl through garlic mayonnaise, scoop up the biggest blob of it and plank it in my mouth.

  “Nice pizza,” I say once I finish the mouthful. “Honestly, you’ll love it.”

  “There you are!” Every head in the pub turns to the door. Mine is the one whose expression lights up.

  “Katya! What a fantastic surprise!” Beside me, there’s a grunt of disagreement I ignore. I stand up and fling my arms around my friend, rucksack in one hand and a packet of smoked salmon in the other. “Looks like I got here just in time,” she whispers. “I don’t like your present company.”

  “Neither do I,” I say, not bothering to lower my voice. “Ryan’s going back to Great Yarmouth tomorrow. Without me.”

  Public announcements oblige you to stick to your word. Especially those that coincide with a lull in the conversation. Ryan slams his hands onto the table and pushes himself to his feet. “Suit yourself, you cow,” he says, adding a few more choice terms that send Ashley scuttling over, murmuring that the Lochside Welcome doesn’t welcome that kind of language in a family-run hotel and if sir doesn’t desist, he’ll be forced to call security. Security turns out to be Stewart, who it seems has many talents besides coding and boring for Scotland. He plants himself beside Ashley, arms folded and glare in place. “Aye, aye. Gaby, I think ye would be better off wi’ the American after all.”

  Faint cries of “Hear, hear!” call out behind him, and my friend wears a triumphant grin, eyebrows peaked and laughter not far away.

  The pub’s occupants mark Ryan’s exit with cheers. It’s almost enough to make me pity him. Then I remember that the pizza was supposed to be his treat. I ordered a double helping of Ashley’s Chocolate Decadence cake for afters too.

  “Do you want something to eat?” I ask Katya. If I beg, I’m sure Ashley will reheat the remains of the Blissful Beauty special and rustle us up another bowl of chips.

  “Too right,” she says, pulling out the chair opposite me. “I have a lot to tell you, starting with a book I’ve been trying to write.

  CHAPTER 23

  Ashley said he didn’t mind making us another Blissful Beauty special pizza as I’d finished most of the first one, on the house as I’m still the flavour of the month thanks to the launch. He added in an extra bowl of chips as a reward for the entertainment I’d provided via the stand-up row with Ryan, and the two slices of Chocolate Decadence cake were free too. I tell Katya about Ryan and Kirsty’s unexpected arrival that morning. She dumps her rucksack on the chair beside her and rustles around it, pulling out tattered sheets of paper stapled together.

  “Read that,” she says. “And weep. Or laugh. It explains a few things.”

  I glance up. “Um, this says strictly confidential at the top.”

  She waves a hand. “Those papers have the look of a template someone downloaded from a business website somewhere. I doubt it would hold up in a court of law. Anyway, having worked with the woman for three months, I’m so sick of her I don’t care. Check out the co-signature on the back page.”

  And this is when it all comes out. Katya, my best friend, is the official ghostwriter for Kirsty, once of this parish.

  “I’ve never met her, and she has no idea who I am,” Katya says. “I have to do everything through her blasted agent. The two times I was meant to meet her to discuss the book, the first time she didn’t turn up, and I’d travelled all the way to London to meet her. The second time, so many people mobbed her when she arrived at the hotel where we were to meet, she never got to the table I was sitting at. But all the phone calls I’ve had with her have been awful. She never answers a question directly, and she contradicts herself all the time. Nightmare, nightmare job.”

  The book title is, wait for it, How to Hook a Commitment Phobe: Your 10-Step Guide. The steps she told me about are all official, but it’s a book and not a blog. Things you do to hook a guy or a girl and the book when it comes out will benefit three hundred times twenty because Kirsty can prove her method works.

  She can, can’t she as she outlined the steps she’d take to me. Thanks to the bad boy billionaire, Dr McLatchie dropping Kirsty into conversations with her son all the time as I’m sure she now does, and Kirsty promoting Highland Tours to her online followers, the zillions of them, Jack’s weeks off proposing to her, isn’t he? I can’t offer that kind of influence. Nowhere near it. I’m neither beautiful nor useful; useless personified instead.

  My One Show nightmare flashes up again. This time, when Alex Jones asks Kirsty what other women looking for love can do, Kirsty whips the book out, a thick tome wrapped in a glossy dust jacket featuring a picture of the world’s most beautiful couple locked in an embrace. “Only £20.99!” she says. “And you can get it on Amazon, Kobo, Apple Books, Nook, Barnes and Noble and everywhere!”

  They re-enact the embrace for the camera, and the audience lets out a collective “ahhhh!”, though Alex has to step in when it looks as if the kiss might break the dictates of the 9pm watershed.

  “Kirsty vanished with Jack earlier this morning,” I say, hating the way my voice cracks. “And I haven’t seen them since. Maybe they’re in a church or a registry office as we speak, staring lovingly at each other and repeating ‘I do’.”

  Katya, by now on her fifth slice of pizza despite shunning such stuff normally because if it features meat or dairy, it’s the devil’s food, sits back so she can stare at me. “Is that what you think? They are the most unconvincing couple since Kate Winslet and Leonardo Di Caprio hammed it up on the Titanic. Granted I’ve never seen Kirsty and Jack together in the flesh, but have you seen all the photos of them online? She’s too busy pouting or blowing kisses at the camera, and he looks as if he’d rather be at the dentist’s having teeth pulled without an anaesthetic.”

  I’ve never checked out the pics of them online, too scared the jealousy would hit me so hard in the guts I’d double up.

  “But what if her methods work, you know—”

  “First, I don’t know. That’s why you’re telling me. Haven’t I drummed that habit out of you yet? Second, get a grip. Do you honestly believe people are daft enough to fall for those stupid steps? If you ask me, there’s no such thing as a commitment-phobe—just a person who hasn’t met the right lid for their pot. And I can’t believe I’ve just used your nanna’s favourite saying.”

  Neither can I, but I am vastly cheered by Katya’s descriptions of the Jack and Kirsty pictures. I go back to their disappearance, and Kirsty’s claim Jack has never lasted three months with anyone.

  “With any luck, he’s dumped her in the middle of nowhere and gone off on his own with his tourists,” she says. “And as for the commitment-phobe, may I quote from the font of all wisdom that is your grandmother once more: these things take time. The longest relationship I’ve ever had was nine weeks, but as soon as I have worked my way through all the duds and met the right guy, I’ll be willing to share my little corner of the earth with him. Or her, if that’s what it takes.”

  “That’s brilliant!” There is the scrape of a chair pulled up beside us and someone sitting down without waiting for an invitation. “I’ve always wanted to meet a real, live lesb—”

  “Mhari, Katya. Katya, Mhari.”

  Mhari helps herself to a slice of pizza. “So, ye didnae murder Kirsty like I suggested, Gaby? Naebody here would blame ye. She was always posting selfies and all t
hese icky-sicky ones of her and Jack. Then, there was the one time.”

  She sighs regretfully. “I shouldnae really say.”

  Katya rolls her eyes. Like me, she can recognise a blatant cue for us to beg for the info. As the seconds tick by, Mhari sniffs. “Och, I’ll tell you anyway. Jack’s father came back because he saw the photos online. Tried to weasel his way back into the doctor’s affections—”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” I say. “But Jolene has already told me that story.”

  Mhari’s face falls. She prefers to be the first one with the news. “Well, anyway, your friend’s right. No-one’s daft enough to fall for Kirsty’s stupid advice. She’s always telling women to be all tinkly laughy, agree wi’ everything he says but hold back on the goodies till he whips a ring out. Why would anyone want tae marry someone when you don’t even know what they’re like between the—”

  Ashley places two plates of the Chocolate Decadence dessert in front of us, and it silences even Mhari. Pink icing, the exact colour of the Blissful Beauty branding, holds together five layers of dark sponge, the lot covered in a ganache that sparkles with edible silver glitter. The chef has studded the top of the cake with stars made from white chocolate and piped a perfect BB in whipped cream on the top. We pick up the cake forks in unison, waiting for someone to fire the starter pistol.

  I decide against telling Katya and Mhari I’ve been following the Dating Guru’s advice since I came here. They will howl with laughter. And far from eyeballing the friend competition and telling it to back off, Katya has decided she and Mhari are now best buddies. If only so they can join together to mock me.

  Katya breaks the cake stand-off, using her tiny fork to scrape off a ginormous helping of cream and chocolate ganache. Mhari and I follow her example, and as smooth, rich cocoa flavoured with hazelnut, vanilla and what might be brandy hits the backs of our throats, it silences us.

  “Room for a little one? That’s heaps of cake for three people.”

  Jolene pulls up a chair, armed with another cake fork. “Is this Project Gaby where we sort out this lady’s love life between us once and for all?”

  “No!” I say, dropping my fork a moment of weakness that allows the three women about me to dive into more cake.

  They ignore me anyway.

  “Discount Ryan,” Katya says. I raise a hand in objection. Isn’t the one-time love of my life allowed another chance? My companions make it clear I’m a sap, fool, one hundred percent idiot to entertain such thoughts.

  “On the one hand,” Jolene holds up her right hand. “We have Dexter, the American. Possible workaholic and also heaps too critical? But easy on the eye, rich and mould-able?”

  Mhari and Katya nod solemnly. Given that neither of them has ever met him, I don’t know if I should trust this character assessment.

  Jolene swaps to her left hand. “On the other, Jack. Mean, moody magnificent. Amazing in a kilt, loyalty as a friend unquestionable.”

  “Resembles Jamie Fraser.”

  “Can you keep your voices down,” I hiss. “We don’t need the whole of Lochalshie to know my business. If they don’t already.” I shoot a daggers look at Mhari, her hand sneaking towards her phone. “What? I’m photo-ing this for Instagram,” she says, pointing at the cake. “Puddings always get millions of likes.”

  “Mind you add in the hashtag Lochside Welcome!” Ashley shouts across the bar, killing my last remaining hope that our conversation hasn’t been audible to all.

  Pizza, chips and cake finished, we push our plates away.

  “What now?” I say. “Presumably Ryan has gone back to the house, so it is out of bounds and Lochalshie has no cinema or shopping malls for Katya and me to mooch about in.”

  “They’re setting stuff up in the park for the Highland Games,” Jolene says. “Let’s do that. Get a bit of exercise in and practice for me.”

  Katya and I agree as it means we are finally about to find out what tossing a caber involves, but Mhari has to go back to work. In the park, the organisers have roped off areas, and we spot tractor tyres, heavy metal balls attached to wooden sticks and a stack of piled up wooden logs. Jolene unzips her hoodie and rubs her hands.

  “Right. Tyre turning first?”

  I’ve an inkling Jolene is much stronger than your average woman, but Katya and I agree to take her on anyway putting a tenner on us beating her. Two minutes into the race and I know I will be ten pounds poorer by the end of the afternoon. Tyre turning involves flipping the tyre over and over until you reach the end of the park. It turns out that much rubber is too heavy for a soft southern weakling to lift and I break two nails trying to heave the thing up. By the time Jolene reaches the finishing line, I’ve only turned the wretched thing twice, while Katya is half-way down.

  Jolene allows us two minutes’ recovery before leading us over to the pile of tapered logs. Tossing cabers means holding one end of a log upright and throwing it, so it turns end over end in front of you. This time, my efforts get the log off the ground—just—but it tips from my hands before I have the chance to throw it, narrowly missing my best friend who is forced to leap out of the way to avoid the same fate that befell the laptop I took to the first Dexter meeting.

  Next comes throwing the hammer. The metal balls attached to sticks are supposed to be whirled around in a circle and flung away as hard as you can manage. Mine lands a metre away while Katya and I watch jaws dropped open as Jolene’s sails over the field and hits one of the vehicles in the car park, shattering its front window.

  She clamps a hand to her mouth, and the three of us run to the damaged car.

  “Oh dear,” I say. “I think this is Kirsty’s hire car—the one she and Ryan got at the airport.”

  Katya bursts out laughing. “What a shame. Though it would have been much better if they’d both been in it.”

  “Katya!” I say, mock outraged, but the laughter is infectious. In seconds, the three of us are in hysterics, tears running down our cheeks. Stewart, having heard the noise when he ventured out of the Lochside Welcome to let Scottie stretch his legs, wanders over and joins in. The hammer has blown the window out and is embedded in the front seat. This being Kirsty, her chosen hire car is a BMW. I dread to think what the repair bill will cost, but when I voice the thought, it only makes us laugh harder. “Thousands of pounds!” Jolene yelps. “My nursery school teacher salary will cover that no bother! Stewart, you’ll need to cut your daily pint rations down if we’re ever to pay this off.”

  “Whit?! It wasnae me who threw the hammer.”

  More gales of laughter follow this, but a sudden outraged shriek silences us.

  “What have you done to my car?”

  Whoops. Jack’s minibus has pulled into the car park, and its passenger marches towards us, eyes narrowed and two spots of high colour on her cheeks. My head twists back to the minibus, its other occupant emerging more slowly. If he is angered on Kirsty’s behalf, it doesn’t show.

  “Sorry Kirsty, I’ll pay for someone to fix it,” Jolene says, her words coming out in fits and bursts because she’s trying not to laugh.

  “You’d better, you stupid, clumsy fu—”

  “Kirsty.”

  Kirsty’s head whips around. I guess she didn’t realise Jack was so close behind her. The screwed up expression slides off her face and her mouth curls into a big smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

  “Jack!” Giggle, giggle, and I bite my lip hard to stop myself sniggering at the tinkly laughy bit Mhari talked about earlier.

  “Just a little accident! That’s why we have insurance, isn’t it?”

  If any insurance company fork out for this, I’ll eat my hat but Jack digs his phone out of his pocket, moves away from us and has a conversation with someone that consists of ‘aye’ ‘no’ and ‘ten pm’.

  “Lachlan Forrester’ll fix it,” he says as he returns to us. “Tonight.”

  Stewart nods. “Aye, Lachlan’s the man for the job. He’ll make it look brand new. The company will nev
er know.”

  Kirsty threads an arm through Jack’s and pecks him on the cheek. “My hero! It’s amazing when a guy comes to your rescue like that, isn’t it?”

  Stewart nods again. “Aye, Lachlan’s a good bloke. You mind last year, Jolene, when we needed to change the number plates on the car after that wee incident on the—”

  She stamps hard on his foot, and he shuts up.

  “I meant Jack!” Kirsty says, tinkly laughy again. “We’ll wait for Lachlan in your house, shall we?”

  And with that, she steers him away. I long for him to turn his head back our way and mutter something—sorry, we’re not going to do anything, she’s not given me a choice—but his head stays fixed forward.

  “I can’t believe that daft git is going back to her,” Jolene says. My heart, already in free fall, nosedives to my feet. I wait for Katya to say something, shrug off Jolene’s words and give me hope to cling to, but she stays quiet, giving my arm a tiny squeeze I guess she means as consolation. We head back to the house.

  By the time we get back there, it’s early evening. Ryan, whose lift back to Glasgow airport won’t take place until tomorrow morning, has settled himself in front of the TV and he makes a point of turning the volume up when we come in. Katya curls her top lip and makes loud comments about a-holes, idiots and lousy, cheating cads. The open plan nature of the ground floor of Kirsty’s house doesn’t lend itself to hiding away in other rooms.

  We were stuck with him. Thankfully, the two pizzas, extra chips and cake mean neither Katya and I want to eat so we take ourselves upstairs to the spare room, followed by Mena who’s decided she’d much rather be in the girl gang than the boy one. I lie on the bed and ask Katya to sort my life out for me. She’d done it once before, getting me out of Great Yarmouth. It looks as if my Lochalshie cat-sitting gig is about to finish and I can’t return to my old home. Mena sits herself on my chest and purrs, which makes me tearful.