by Emma Baird
Sod it. I go for the question I really want the answer to.
“Will Jack go back to Kirsty?” The words burst out of me. Psychic Josie is a stranger so she won’t know who they are and if she is as good as she says she is, I’ll get a proper answer.
“Dear lord, I hope no’!” All traces of the Eastern European accent vanishes, and she pulls the veil down. I groan, horrified. Dr McLatchie. I’ll say this for the woman. She has a wide range of interests, what with doctoring, dancing and giving people daft advice about their love lives. She doesn’t seem too bothered I’ve just outed her either.
“That yin,” she says, “was no’ interested in my son. All she wanted was a good-looking boy on her arm. Motherly bias and all that, but ma Jack is an awfy handsome lad. But if I got her a daughter-in-law, I’d leave the country. Mebbe even the continent.”
Her eyes narrow and then her mouths rounds into an ‘o’ of surprise.
“D’ye like Jack, Gaby?”
Spirits indeed! Shouldn’t they have revealed that to her already? I say that, and she waves a hand. “Och, I tell people what they want to hear and that makes them happy. Ye just use a bit of body language analysis. And social media helps because most folks spill their guts on there. I get everyone to book in advance and check everyone out quickly before they come in to see me. It’s awfy easy.”
“Don’t tell Jack I asked about him and Kirsty!” I beg, and her face drops.
“But wouldn’t it be nice if you—”
“NO! I mean it if you do I’ll tell everyone here you’re a fraud.”
Blackmail is a dirty word, but these circumstances are exceptional.
“Spoilsport,” she says. “Why d’ye think Jack will get back with Kirsty?”
“She stayed the night the other week and smiled a lot afterwards. And there’s that painting,” I say. “Why does he keep it? Big Donnie offered him five and a half grand for it, and he knocked it back. I’d have thought the money would come in handy. He must still love her if he hangs onto it.”
At that, the doctor bursts out laughing. Hysteria makes her difficult to understand, but eventually I get what she’s trying to say.
“He painted it!” Dr McLatchie tells me. “It’s far too flattering if you ask me, but he’s proud of the picture, and that’s why he keeps it. Nothing to do wi’ the sitter. He painted all those other pictures in his house too. It’s what he likes to do in the winter when he’s no’ doing the tours.”
“But, but,” I throw in. “He’s never been that keen on me. He didn’t even invite me to that party he held way back in June.”
The doctor frowns and then smiles. “He did ask ye! He got Jock to do it because he forgot when youse were on the bus. And I can tell you something else. He wasnae pleased when you didn’t come. Thought you were being snooty, considering yourself too good for small town parties.”
I stare at her, amazed that she still doesn’t realise Great Yarmouth is no metropolis and astonished that my thinking for so long has been wrong. For weeks, I was convinced that Jack didn’t like me enough to invite me to the legendary annual Lochalshie party, and he’d done so all along. I think back to that night and the conversation I had with Jock. Even now, three months into my Lochalshie residency, I’m no nearer to understanding what he says most of the time. We muddle along with smiles and waves, me saying ‘good, good’ all the time. But on the night of the party, he said to me, ‘Perty tonicht’, translation obvious now I think about it. And the word 'McCollin’ could just as easily be McAllan.
I’m an idiot, or eejit as they like to say here.
Katya has finished setting up outside, and she wanders back in, brushing her hands against her jeans. “Anything else need doing?” she asks, and Psychic Josie stroke Dr McLatchie whips the veil back over her face and asks again if Katya wants to know about her and Dexter. Katya tightens her lips and shakes her head. I wave an awkward goodbye to Psychic Josie, conscious that I threatened her. And yet she’s just told me news that has made this weekend do a one hundred and eighty-degree turn in terms of my happiness levels.
“I think I might find Jack’s stall,” I say, my tone as casual as I can make it.
It doesn’t fool my friend for a second. “Go for it,” she says. “Pluck him from Kirsty’s grasp as firmly as you can!”
CHAPTER 25
Jack’s stall was at the far end of the park where it could capture people leaving the games overwhelmed with a fondness for all things Scottish and inclined to sign up for an authentic Outlander tour.
I headed in its direction, pushing my way past nervous Highland dancers waiting to compete on the stage, kilted men stretching their muscles ahead of hammer throws and caber tossing, and pipers warming up. I recognised a good few of the locals among the dancers, pipers and strong men. This year, the Highland Games had captured everyone’s imaginations, and all the villagers wanted to take part.
“But we were so fabulous together, Jack darling!”
Because the park was so noisy and crowded, I was almost at Jack’s stall when I heard her. Kirsty had made good on her threat to return then. I’d allowed my hopes to rise when Katya and I hadn’t seen her in the house that morning. To make the stall’s purpose clear, Jack had parked his minibus next to it so prospective tourers could check out how comfortable it was. The table in front of him featured leaflets and plates of shortbread, the latter being my suggestion. In addition, a full-size cut-out stood at the side of the table, the idea of which had horrified Jack.
“I can’t put that up,” he said when the order came through from Print Express the week before, his face aghast. “Everyone will think I’m the biggest egotist in the whole of Scotland. I’ll never live it down.” Egotist wasn’t the word he used; something far stronger and easy to imagine the Lochside Welcome punters announcing in jeering tones the next time he dared put his head around the door. I sympathised, but if a man is to succeed, he has to do certain things.
“Too bad,” I’d said. “I know a lot more about design and branding than you do and this cut-out will bring ‘em in, in droves. And when you need a break from manning the stall, people will still know what the tour guide looks like.”
I edge behind the cut-out now, as Jack and Kirsty haven’t spotted me. This is a conversation that makes my nerves jangle.
Behind me, one of the warming up pipers decides now is the time to belt out the opening bars to Flower of Scotland. Great. Whatever Jack replies, I can’t hear it. The piper pauses again. Kirsty’s profile is visible, though Jack’s isn’t. She’s pulled out all the stops. The temperature isn’t that warm, but Kirsty wears a scarlet-coloured sequined kimono dress. The knot at the front low enough to show she isn’t wearing a bra, and she’s put her hair in two loose French braided pigtails, tiny tendrils framing her face. It must be Dating Guru tip #176—always wear your hair up so he can imagine pulling it loose...
“I’ve thought a lot about what went wrong,” Kirsty continues, her voice a low purr. “We went too fast, too soon. And I know the photos on Instagram were too much. But I wouldn’t make that mistake again, and I would...”
The blasted piper starts up again, and the noise drowns out the rest of what she says. It doesn’t matter as Jack turns at that moment and I see his face in full. I was hoping for disgust or at the very least dismay, but he wears a huge grin. Those eyes of his sparkle and my stomach squeezes, a combination of nausea and despair. I’m too late.
I stumble away, pushing past the pipers and the dancers, and trying to hold back tears.
“Gaby! I was looking for you.”
Jolene does a double take and asks me if anything is wrong. “Wind making my eyes water,” I say, plausible as I’ve yet to spend a single day in Lochalshie when the wind hasn’t been close to gale force.
“We need to get the Games started. Caitlin’s going to declare them open so can you help me marshal the crowds?”
She points behind her, and I baulk. Crowds is an understatement. Perhaps it’s because th
e place is so small, all you can see is faces—young, old and what looks like every colour and creed. How we are to make our way through, much less stop them surging forward the minute Caitlin appears I do not know. I’ll be crushed to death in the rush, though the mood I’m in at the moment means I won’t care.
Jolene puts two fingers to her mouth and whistles, a talent I’ve always wished I had. Minutes later, men appear at her side—the ones I spotted earlier stretching their muscles ready for games. “What d’ye want us to do, Jolene?” the biggest of them asks, a man so massive I have to crick my neck to look up at him. He has biceps bigger than my torso and a broken nose that sends out a clear ‘don’t mess with me’ message. “Get us to the front of the park, Angus,” she says, “and help us with crowd control.”
Seven of them form a circle around us and move people to the side so we can get through, parting them like Moses did with the Red Sea. We’re at the front in no time, and Jolene runs through the plan with me. Caitlin will exit the hotel and make her way down the high street, accompanied by the Lochalshie and District Pipe Band. When she gets to the front of the park, there will be a microphone and podium from where she will announce the games open and cut the ribbon at the gates to the park. At which point even more people than are here already will stream through. The other half will flow back to the Lochside Welcome where the official launch of Blissful Beauty is to take place. I cross my fingers, hoping the entertainment in the park is enough that the crowds don’t all disappear back to the hotel.
Jolene holds up a walkie-talkie, and I do a double take. Wouldn’t a phone have done the job? But I suspect it makes her feel like a proper events organiser and I hear Dexter’s voice. His security team is still battling back the crowds at their end. Hired hands aren’t half as good as Lochalshie’s strong men who also double up as its rugby team and people not afraid to wade in. The pipes start up at the far end of the village and Jolene gives me a thumbs up. Misery over Jack aside, I match her broad smile. Months of planning and hundreds of emails back and forth are about to pay off. The mass of people in front of us swivels their heads, too hemmed in to be able to turn and watch. The police have done their best to keep people off the road and give the pipers a clear path to the park. I sense their slow movement is because stragglers dart out to take sneak photos of Caitlin.
Jolene and I have no hope of seeing anything. One of our security team stoops over, so his face is level with mine. “Want a lift up tae see?” he asks. I demur, “I’m too heavy.” He ignores me and sweeps me up onto his shoulders. A man who routinely pulls a two-tonne truck behind him will not find me a burden. It’s almost impossible to see Caitlin, and then I notice a horse and rider in the middle of the pipe band and—
No. My eyes are fooling me, I decide, shaking my head at the same time as the crowds around me cotton on too. The woman sitting astride the horse and giving out cheery waves appears to be naked, her bits covered only by what must be a long wig that trails down her front. Thousands of phones are held in the air, everyone desperate to catch what is just about to break Twitter and Instagram. Jolene, beside me on the broken-nosed guy’s shoulders turns to me. “That wasn’t agreed!” she exclaims. “Her manager asked me to get her a horse, seeing as she’s so small, and I got her one of Laney Haggerty’s ponies from the horse riding school. I dunno if she’ll take it back now!”
Anyone still in the park has come out, the rumour spreading quicker than the Lochalshie’s WhatsApp group updates. They duck under the ribbon and Jolene and the giants carrying us sway as sheer numbers push past. When Caitlin comes to a halt in front of us, the pipers man and woman-fully keeping their eyes upfront, so they don’t ogle her as she slides off the pony. She isn’t naked after all, instead wearing one of those nude bodysuits. It is transparent enough, though, to show she has no underwear on and she favours extreme grooming of the lady garden.
The giants lower us to the ground. Angus tries so hard not to stare, Jolene ends up tumbling from his shoulder and landing in a heap on the grass in front of Caitlin. As my giant carrier manages a more graceful disembarkation of his passenger, I step forward. My mind blanks. What do I do? Ask her to open the games while almost naked? It’s a family event, and around me, I can see mums and dads with their hands clamped over their children’s eyes. Someone thrusts a plaid blanket in my hands, and I step forward without stopping to thank whoever.
“Caitlin,” I announce. “It’s awfully cold and windy in the park. Let’s cover you up.”
She grins at me, a woman who knows she’s taken advantage big style. “Cute!” I hiss at her as I do my best to fashion a cover-all dress out of a brown blanket. “Bet they’ll be booking up months in advance for next year’s games,” she replies, white-toothed beam not moving a millimetre. “Who knows? I might come back.” I roll my eyes, but she’s right. As stunts go, this is up there. A non Blissful Beauty branded helicopter circles above us and I wonder which of the TV news channels it represents.
Back on her feet, Jolene hands Caitlin the giant pair of scissors used every year to declare the games open.
“Guys! It’s fantastic to be here. As you can see, Blissful Beauty makes skin care and make-up so amazing, you don’t need to cover up.”
“Ahem,” Jolene says, blatant advertising being something else the games committee didn’t agree to.
“So, after you’ve watched the competitions and eaten your fill of haggis, why not treat yourself to a little TLC courtesy of Blissful Beauty? And in the meantime, it is my great honour to cut the ribbon and declare the Lochalshie Highland Games open!”
Oh well. Yes, people will remember the games for years to come. The legendary summer an A-Lister opened the games naked (sort of) and plugged her make-up line to an audience who, in the main, wouldn’t recognise one end of a lipstick tube from another.
She cuts the ribbons and the crowds cheer, the sound so loud I’m forced to put my hands over my ears. Dexter appears by my side. “Seriously?” I ask, and he shrugs not quite meeting my eyes. “Caitlin’s, um, impetuous,” he says and moves her past people where a car awaits to drive her the 800 metres to the hotel. I’m relieved that the crowd splits evenly—half following Caitlin’s car, and the rest streaming into the park accompanied by the pipers. It takes ages for the front of the park to clear, its gates unused to groups more substantial than a handful entering at a time. Outside Psychic Josie’s tent, a huge queue has formed. And scepticism or no, my friend Katya has taken up the position as bookings taker.
“Expertly done, Gaby sketch,” words whisper behind me and I spin around so fast I almost trip.
Jack, I now realise was the mystery blanket provider. He’s got previous for it. His minibus carries spare blankets should any of its passengers get too cold, Scotland not being known for its warm weather even in the peak of summer. “I’m in awe of your quick thinking. You promised me you’d help out for an hour or so with the stall? I’ve got to defend my title as chief caber tosser.”
He tilts an eyebrow at that, and the warmth that lit me up when he used my nickname trickles away. I’m just wanted for my usefulness, it seems. Jack’s going to vanish with Kirsty, all tendril-haired and red-dressed. Perhaps they will even end up at the Blissful Beauty event, laughingly taking selfies as Caitlin steers them toward that lipstick or this face cream. I don’t suppose Jack is bothered about lipstick, but I am open-minded about these things. The all-too-plausible scenario is easy to imagine. It benefits everyone. Kirsty goes back to Jack. Caitlin gets yet more beautiful people on her social media sites. Jack ends up with... well, another go at gorgeous Kirsty and no doubt plenty of eager punters ready to sign up for the authentic Outlander tour.
“Of course,” I say. “Let’s go.”
The park is still so crowded, it takes much longer than it should to push through. When we get to Jack’s stall, his cut-out has fallen victim to the winds, despite the sandbags. I move it upright reflecting that this is the closest I’m going to get to Jack’s body ever.
&
nbsp; “I need to double check something else as well,” Jack says. “I won’t be long. Are you okay to stay here while I go? Help yourself to shortbread.”
I watch him walk off and snaffle four bits while no-one is watching. Naked stunts aside, the Lochalshie Highland Games Committee can have no complaints. Every stall—from those selling Scottish-related crafts and food and drinks to the ones flogging boat trips and Highland safaris—has groups of people around it. The stage where the Highland dancers perform is crowded and cheers roar from the far side where obscenely muscular men hurl hammers as far as they can. The cheers almost drowns out their grunts—almost but not quite. Plenty of people wander past me carrying small pink and silver bags branded with the Blissful Beauty logo. I will be having a word with Dexter later on. He owes me a freebie bag, and I won’t be settling for a sample size nail varnish and a tiny pot of blusher either.
A steady stream of people ask about the tours. I show them the inside of the bus so they can get a feel for its luxury, allow them to take selfies next to cut-out Jack in exchange for their email addresses and a sign-up to the mailing list, and send them away with handfuls of leaflets and bits of shortbread. An hour later and I battle exhaustion; plastering a cheery smile on your face and non-stop sales talk isn’t as easy as it looks. I’m relieved when the queue tails off, and people head elsewhere.
I spot Katya, and she forms her hands into a heart and then gives me a thumbs up. I must get her to do one of her pep talks later. “Gabrielle Amelia Richardson—you helped make this year’s Lochalshie Highland Games a ginormous success. Ditto the UK launch of Blissful Beauty, its products in the entire hands of Scotland (feels like). You’re Melissa’s number one employee, laptop accidents aside, and you created not one but two amazing websites for the people here. Plus, you’ve made great friends. Next time, though, don’t fall for the local heart-breaker, and you’ll be tickety-boo!”
