One Hot Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘You survive,’ she says softly. ‘You get out of bed and put your knickers on, just like any other day. Because giving up isn’t an option, and it’s not, what they would want.’

  I do look at her then as she grasps my hand, holding it between her own. ‘I won’t tell you it goes away, but one day, you’ll look back and realise it hurts a wee bit less, and then a wee bit less again.’ Her tone is earnest as she begins to pat my clasped hand. ‘Then someday you’ll meet someone else, just like I met my Harold. There’s a Harold out there for you somewhere. I just know it, hen.’

  But I don’t deserve a Harold. People like me don’t deserve a second chance.

  Chapter Two

  Fin

  The following cold and very rainy Tuesday, Ivy’s salon opens, and I don’t mind saying we’re all on hot bricks. Ivy has sunk her life savings into the place and Natasha gave up a spot in a busy city centre beauty bar to be here. But me? My terror lies elsewhere. Yes, if the business fails I’ll be homeless, but I’ll be in good company in my cardboard box. Not that it’s going to come to that as this place is awesome—the talk of the village, so June says. And why wouldn’t it be? All sumptuous gilt fixtures, exposed stone walls and raw, natural wood. The place is a million miles away from its previous incarnation as “Agnes Riley’s Hair Emporium,” which hadn’t been updated since 1965, at least.

  Ivy’s version of Emporium oozes an old world glamour with a side order of cutting edge, while somehow retaining a welcome that is friendly and very Ivy. I’m sure the village hasn’t seen anything as sophisticated in years. And that aside, Ivy is a hair genius. True story. God only knows why she’s cutting hair in bum-puck Scotland when she could be plying her trade anywhere in the world.

  According to Nat, while we’ve both been away, this crummy little no-place has become a desirable commuter community. House prices have sky-rocketed and the yummy mummy tribe and their something in I.T. husbands have moved in. Ivy’s business plan is banking on the upwardly mobile to not be quite so itinerant; for them to shop local for their expensive caramel and honey highlight needs.

  But I’m not ruining the cuffs of my Givenchy sweater at the thought of meeting those living in pseudo farmhouses on desirous half-acre blocks. Nope. It’s the locals I’m terrified of meeting again. Since moving back, I’ve barely ventured beyond this building. In fact, it took me weeks to get myself beyond the refuge of Ivy’s spare room. I’ve avoided seeing familiar faces; the bitches I went to school with, the ones who wrote nasty things about me on the bathroom stalls. The boys who may or may not have felt me up behind the gym, but said they did anyway.

  Mom and I moved around a whole lot when I was young, but as I turned twelve, she decided we needed to put down some roots and moved us to her home town. I remember being so excited; I’d get to grow up Scottish—be like mom! Get the cool accent and everything.

  Yeah, maybe not. But at least I found Ivy. On the not so great side, I also found I’d never fit in.

  She’ll turn out just like her ma, that one.

  I can still hear the hushed conversations at the corner store and school bus stop. My mother is free spirited. Free with her loving. Or, as they called her at school, a slut.

  While Ivy and I were both desperate to get out of this place as teenagers, my reasons were less about spreading my wings. I just needed to be out from under the weight of mom’s reputation. Not that I don’t love her—and I try not to judge—but it was hard growing up here.

  So I’m nervous. Very nervous, but I haven’t confided in Ivy. She’s done enough for me already. What kind of friend would I be to say I can’t face a few hours working the front desk? She’s always been sweet and kind to most everyone. She’s one of those rare individuals people never fail to like, while I’m prickly and slightly awkward, though I hide it mostly behind a veneer of I don’t give a fuck. Like most veneers, it’s only surface deep. Sticks and stones hurt more than words? Tell that to the girl living in a community of curtain twitchers, watching a revolving line of men from her mother’s bedroom door.

  ‘Well, you know what, bitches? She found her Prince Charming. She just happened to have fucked a whole lot of frogs.’

  ‘Who fucked frogs?’ Natasha joins me as I stare out at the rain soaked street. ‘Are there Frenchies about? I think I could get off just listening to them recite the alphabet.’

  ‘No Frenchmen,’ I reply with a sigh as Nat collects the morning’s mail from the doormat.

  ‘What about him?’ she asks, pausing from flicking through a pile of circulars. ‘Reckon he could be one of them French Canadian lumberjack blokes. I’d let him climb me.’

  Huge drops of rain pound against the glass and bounce from the grey sidewalks outside. As I raise my gaze from the miniature river gathering in the gutter, taking in the lone figure crossing the street, clothing soaked to his skin. The weather is hardly an auspicious start for the salon, if you believe in that sort of thing, and it’s an awful day to be caught outside without a jacket or umbrella. As the rain-hazy figure draws nearer, I wonder whether the label Nat has given him is a nod to his clothing or the man himself. It could be either given his build and his dark, wet plaid shirt.

  ‘You cold?’

  I shake my head in answer even as I rub my upper arms, the fine hairs there standing like pins.

  ‘Right, I’d better go switch on my wax pot. My first appointment’s due soon.’ Clutching the mail to her chest, Nat does a sort of excited jig on the spot. ‘You ready?’ she asks eagerly. Even though the answer is no, I nod. ‘Well, open the door then, numpty.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ With a frown and a sense of trepidation, I do. ‘Where’s Ivy?’ I ask Nat’s retreating form.

  ‘Still upstairs, burning sage and brewing success and harmony potions, probably,’ she answers without turning around.

  The knot in my stomach lingers as I slide the locks on the door.

  Flipping my long blonde braid over my shoulder, I begin fine-tuning the foliage in an expensive bowl of cabbage roses on the reception counter, when the bell above the door chimes.

  I begin to turn. ‘Good—’ I begin in my best perkiest receptionist’s tone ‘—ass.’ That is a good ass. A borderline great ass. A wet flannel shirt clings to his broad shoulders, a firm back tapering to a narrow waist, the wet denim below moulded to that ass.

  ‘Sorry?’ he says, the bell ringing again as he turns from closing the door.

  Nat’s first appointment is her lumberjack friend. My first thought isn’t too ridiculous. I’d climb that. It’s a pity my second isn’t so sane; my mind just filled with the ridiculous—I wonder what bits he’s having waxed and if she’ll need someone to hold her spatula.

  And now he’s just looking at me. Smiling, sort of.

  Speak the words, Fin. Sensible ones, if you please.

  ‘N-nothing,’ I reply belatedly, followed by an even perkier, ‘Hi! Good morning!’ Like this will somehow cancel out my previous words.

  ‘I’m no’ so sure about the good bit. It’s dreich out there.’

  He steps further into the reception, sliding one hand through his wet, dark hair. It’s a move smooth enough for a shampoo commercial. Longer on top, but cropped close underneath, his is a hair style rather than a haircut. Not that I’m looking too hard. Or imagining running my hands through it or anything.

  A singular droplet of rain falls from his fingers, gliding down one chiselled cheekbone to lie glistening against the scruff shadowing his jaw. His lips are slightly pale against cold-flushed skin, the suggestion of straight, white teeth peeking from behind. But as his lips hitch in one corner, my heart jolts—one solid movement that pushes the organ up into my throat—as I realise this isn’t our first meeting. I know this face, and once upon a time, I was more than familiar with other parts of him.

  Rory.

  I’ve never forgotten his name, but I think that could be pretty standard considering he’s the man I lost my virginity to. One stunningly brief encounter that pretty much
altered my path in life. Not his fault, of course. He was young, as well as my wake-up call.

  And he’s still ridiculously hot, though rugged has been exchanged for what was once a youthful prettiness, like he’s grown into his bone structure, almost. Angled cheekbones and knife-sharp jaw. And it’s safe to assume he knows he’s all that and a six pack, judging by his brand of almost taunting, relaxed confidence. And by the way his gaze unashamedly holds my own.

  Hell. My cheeks heat as I realise I should be listening to the sounds his mouth makes, rather than just staring at the shape of it. The shape of him.

  ‘Dreich, you know? Dreary?’ His voice is low with a hint of teasing, like he thinks I’ve just checked out while checking him out. There’s no clue in his demeanour to suggest he recognises me and, while on some level, that’s kind of disappointing, it’s also understandable. These days I’m a different person. Both inside and out.

  ‘Yeah, I know dreich.’ I lift one shoulder, self-consciously pulling on the ends of my braid. ‘It means miserable. The weather, I mean.’

  ‘Ah, I thought with that accent . . .’ His smile widens a touch. ‘Although my day got a whole lot brighter just now.’

  He makes no bones about letting his gaze roam over mine . . . bones, that is, his eyes moving over me in that almost imperceptible way. Something tells me my gaze is less inconspicuous, especially as he slides his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans, the motion pushing his open plaid shirt wider across a very broad chest. He’s built like a swimmer and larger than in my memories and I can’t help but notice how the pale t-shirt beneath is moulded to his hard body and paper thin. Sort of wet paper thin; like it’d take nothing but a few more drops for it to dissolve. I have the sudden and insane longing to reach out and touch the stiff points of his rain-cold nipples, to slide my hands over the hard ripples of his chest and abs. The notion is so tempting I find myself balling my hands into fists.

  Desire. So that’s what this feels like. I’d almost forgotten. It’s been a while since I’ve felt anything other than—

  ‘Enjoying the view?’

  I come back to the moment, blinking rapidly. And I so don’t have an answer to that, not one that I want to voice, anyway. Hey, remember me? We screwed that one time . . . Evidently not, but that’s okay, because I want to be invisible right now.

  ‘I feel sort of objectified.’ His gaze is twinkling and complicit as he takes a step closer, bringing with him the scent of shampoo and wet grass.

  ‘It’s just . . . the rain.’ My teeth fasten against my bottom lip in an attempt to prevent more nonsense from spilling, as his hitch up at one side.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. I like it.’

  His husky tone . . . well, it’s belly-licking warm. I swallow. Audibly. That had to be audible. Because no conversation in the history of me has ever sounded so overtly sexual.

  ‘C-can I help you?’

  His eyes brim with suggestions as they linger on my mouth. ‘I can think of several ways of answering that.’

  I clear my throat. ‘I mean, do you have an appointment?’

  I take a step backwards with the intention of putting something more solid than sexual chemistry between us, making a beeline for the reception desk. There’s a finite confidence in his step as he follows me, casually leaning his forearm against the high counter. And I remember this cockiness; this confidence. And his words may be playful, but I know he means business; the dichotomy of a player, I suppose. I know all this, yet I’m still buying his brand of bullshit, playing along, while knowing I ought not to feel the way I do. Maybe because it’s been years since I’ve been hit on; years since I’ve felt like I was anything other than someone’s wife.

  ‘An appointment,’ he repeats, his smile lingering. ‘Do you suppose I need one to take you out for a drink?’

  I close my eyes for a brief moment. This exchange may have felt easy, but the reality of it is so wrong. I can’t help how I feel—which, incidentally, is more alive than I have in months—but I can decide how to behave. A conscious choice. As my eyes spring open I school my expression. Channel serene. Dignified. Uninterested. Unfeeling below the neck.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Have you seen the delivery of foil?’ Ivy’s voice calls from beyond the salon floor. ‘Oh, hello,’ she says expectantly, coming into view. ‘Are you being taken care of?’

  Something akin to devilment ripples across his face, his dark gaze flicking to his shoes. As it rises again, the expression is gone.

  ‘Actually, I’m lost. I saw the lights on and, as you can see,’ he says, slipping his hand through his wet locks, almost self-consciously. ‘I got caught in the rain coming up the hill.’

  My gaze follows the path of his lowered hand, flicking to the zipper of his jeans of their own accord. I’m pretty sure I can see the outline of stuff I shouldn’t and I can’t stop my eyes from lingering there. Is my memory as good as all that?

  ‘Oh,’ Ivy repeats as I force my eyes to blink away, unfortunately, catching her gaze. She looks worried. Or pissed. It’s hard to tell which. It doesn’t help that she remains silent, which makes the moment feel more than awkward and drawn out. A prickly Ivy is an obvious one. I’m only thankful that she doesn’t know him, doesn’t know of him. And I know I shouldn’t be feeling so light, but damn it, I do.

  Saving our trio of sudden silence is Nat, brandishing a box of tinting foil.

  ‘Here. You left it in the kitchen.’ She passes it into Ivy’s hands, neither of them making to move from the reception area, which suits me. I shouldn’t be left alone with him. In fact, it might also help if he’d stop looking at me like that. I dip my head, letting the curtain of hair shield my face, forcing my gaze to remain fixed on the appointment book as Natasha exclaims,

  ‘You’re fair drookit!’ Even with my limited vision, I can see her observing him—up then down—without an ounce of restraint. ‘Absolutely drenched!’ As he pushes off from the counter, he shivers slightly from the cold.

  ‘I’ll survive. Any idea where I’ll find the tide timings for the causeway?’ he asks, sliding an iPhone from his pocket. It’s not an unfriendly tone, but definitely a little brusquer than when we were alone. And the delicious hint of his accent has almost gone. ‘I can’t seem to get a signal anywhere.’

  ‘You’re off to the big house?’ Nat asks, without a hint of flirtation, I note, her accent rendering the word hoose. ‘I can’t help with the signal. We all have the same issue, but the tide times should be posted on the road. Unless the sign has blown away again.’

  The big hoose is what locals call the stately manor sitting about half a mile out from the mainland on a tiny island accessible only by causeway. The sandstone house was built around the beginning of the last century by a local family of standing, now long gone. There’s just the house and a couple of cottages. It’s pretty, but remote.

  Nat goes on to discuss the tide times and hell knows what else while Ivy loads her foil onto one of the mobile stations, very obviously listening in. Me? I stay where I am, basically just moving stuff around. Paperclips. Appointment cards. But even keeping my gaze low, I can’t help notice Rory’s gaze following me.

  Shouldn’t notice. Don’t look up.

  As the door chimes again, I suffer a small wave of disappointment, my eyes all but glued to his wide back as he leaves. But it’s for the best.

  ‘He was watching you like a cat eyeing a tasty wee mouse.’ Nat rests an elbow on the high reception desk in the space where Rory just stood, propping her chin onto one fist. ‘Did you notice?’

  ‘Nope.’ My hands tidy and straighten, my gaze therefore busy, too.

  ‘I think someone needs to climb that lumberjack,’ she says, slapping the counter in an exaggerated motion. ‘Tim—berrr!’

  ‘Natasha, can you show me where you found the foil?’ Ivy interrupts, slamming the now empty box on the desk.

  ‘It’s in the—’ One look at her expression and Nat makes a very Scottish noise from the back of her t
hroat. ‘Come on,’ she adds. ‘I’ll show you.’

  Ivy takes a last look out the window, her gaze lingering on the cold, wet day.

  ‘Sorrow and ill weather always comes for unsent,’ she says, her dour gaze following Rory’s form through the rain.

  Chapter Three

  Fin

  The days pass, as days are wont to do. I don’t think of Rory too often, though by accident rather than design. Saturday is by far the busiest day of Ivy’s opening week; it seems everyone in Auchkeld is in need of a cut, a colour, or a waxing somewhere. Or maybe they’re all just a bunch of awfully nosey bastards. Whatever the reason, business is off to a great start, meaning my mind doesn’t wander badly during the day, though all bets are off by the time I crawl back into bed.

  I swore I’d never return; growing up here was enough. Yet, here I am, and in a strange kind of way, nothing has changed.

  I’m still dependant on someone, having exchanged Mom for Ivy.

  I’m back to avoiding the villagers and their pitchforks.

  And I’m still sleeping on a tiny twin bed, while imagining him. Though, strictly speaking, I’m not imagining. I’m reminiscing.

  I moved away for college, or university as they say here, and the week my finals were over, my mother told me she was selling the house. I was shocked, and apparently, now old enough to go it alone. I hadn’t begun looking for a job, not a real grown up one, instead making plans to go back-packing with Ivy for half the year. In between the end of classes and leaving, I’d headed home to clear the nine years of crap from my childhood bedroom, leaving Ivy in London to finish the last few weeks of her course. The Far East. Australia. New Zealand. Those were our plans and I couldn’t wait. It was what we’d always dreamed of, or at least I had, and I’d busted my ass studying while taking on all kinds of paid work to pay for the trip.

  Telephone sales. Waitress. House keeper. I’d done them all.