One Hot Scot

by Donna Alam

  The door opens before Natasha can answer, warm lighting, soft music, and a young couple spilling out of the space. I step aside to let the pair pass as Nat begins to laugh.

  ‘You didn’t think this was still the pool hall, did you? Haven’t I been saying the village has gone upscale while you’ve been away? We’ve even got a couple of half decent restaurants—and the chipper is now posh.’

  I turn to Ivy behind me. ‘They got rid of the pool hall?’

  Ivy shrugs noncommittally. ‘It’s nice inside.’

  ‘This is exactly what I mean about it being like living in a state of constant Movember.’

  Ivy’s face could turn milk sour as we step inside, a waitress quickly asking us our booking status, which strikes me as odd—we’re hardly in New York—but as I take in my surroundings, I better understand.

  What was once a dingy pool hall, is now a stylish and busy restaurant. Like the pool hall before it, the space is divided into two levels, the lower level now housing a thriving bar that runs the length of one wall; standing room only, by the look of things. There’s also a pool table, maybe in homage to the building’s previous use, only this one looks like it belongs in another era, maybe in a gentleman’s club.

  The mezzanine beyond is filled with stripped wooden tables and metal chairs; a sort of industrial chic, contradicted by the massive glass chandeliers and bronzed mirrors scattered through the space. Beyond the seating area, a large window into a busy kitchen is the central focus, black clad culinary staff flitting about inside like goldfish. And the customers? They’re a well pulled together bunch—not a lick of waxed canvas or a muddied welly in sight.

  The lower space seems heavily biased towards men, probably because of the number of micro brewed beers on tap I notice, as we follow the waitress to our table. And this is where Ivy’s complaint lies; these men seem drawn to the hipster life. Skinny jeans that don’t quite touch the tops of their shoes, retro specs, beards and ironic grandad cardigans.

  ‘Knock it off. You’ve used that line once already this week,’ complains Nat. ‘Facial fascist.’

  ‘I just don’t get the fascination with all this . . .’ Ivy makes a circling motion in front of her chin, plonking herself into a seat at the table we’ve been taken to. ‘Facial fuzz.’

  ‘You haven’t lived until you’ve had a man with bristles all up in your lady business,’ Nat replies.

  ‘Shush!’ I glance worriedly at the server’s retreating back. ‘Not everyone needs to hear you like it hairy.’

  ‘I do not!’ returns an indignant Nat. ‘I like them to have taken care of the downstairs.’ My eyes flick automatically to the restaurant’s lower floor. ‘Not there, numpty. I mean, I like their general dick area to be low on fuzz. The face is something else.’

  Nat carries on her indignant response, the words sounding distant and indistinct as I zone out, zoning in on something on the lower floor. I say something, but I mean someone, because it’s hard not to notice him, wet or dry, when he literally stands out from the crowd. And not just a head and shoulders kind of stand out, though he is tall. It’s my wet Tuesday morning caller. My secret blast from the past.

  Rory.

  Almost as though my gaze nudges him, he tips his head, his eyes catching mine. I wish I could remember their exact colour. Back in the salon I’d remembered them as dark. One of the features from the past I can’t exactly recall. Damn his perfect jawline. If there was any justice in this world, he’d now be fat. Or bald. Or better still, both.

  Sadly, he isn’t. And I know those thoughts are unfair but as he smirks up at me, my thoughts go from uncharitable to downright dirty. Holy shit. If that isn’t a sexiest thing I’ve seen since . . . well, since he walked into the salon, clothes stuck to his skin.

  And that one look is like a simultaneous blast of cold and heat; cold as I realise I’ve been caught staring, and heat because the sexy smirk he sends my way feels hotter than sin. And I revel in that look this time—I don’t shy away. Not only that, I allow my mind to wander, to reminisce, because why the hell not? I’ve got nothing else that I need to be thinking of right now. I’m carrying guilt for no one this evening. I’ve no one’s memory to uphold.

  He’s so big and bronzed. A crest flash of light from a chandelier highlights the copper strands of his chestnut hair. My cheeks heat; I’m definitely having a moment as I log his cocky quirked brow. Dressed less hipster than those around him, he also looks a lot different from Tuesday. Boots, wet jeans flannel shirt glued to his skin. Not that the memory is indelible or anything. Tonight, he’s dressed stylishly enough for a night out in London. Or Milan. Grey slim fitting pants, a matching vest, white button-down, and a matching jacket thrown over his forearm. Stylish, crisp and confident, but despite his refined appearance there’s definitely something a little bit brute about the man. And he wears it so well.

  The years have been good to him. He’s still leading man material, but these days he’d be auditioning for a kick-ass role rather than a high school love interest. And he’d definitely be at home playing Nat’s fantasy lumberjack. Or maybe a Viking—no, a marauding Viking.

  And suddenly I feel ready to have my barn burned down.

  ‘Are you listening?’

  Nat’s not-so-dulcet tones pull me from my musing, the hum of the restaurant filling my ears as a sharp finger of guilt pokes me in the chest. It’s a small yet painful reminder of my widowed state, but in light of this morning, I push it the hell away.

  ‘Yeah. Yes,’ I reply, without turning my head. ‘Downstairs deforested, upstairs let the grass grow.’ As I lose sight of Rory on the stairs, I turn my gaze back to the pair.

  ‘We’ve moved on since then.’ Ivy’s brow is furrowed. On second examination, her face is set like stone. The stink-eye gargoyle kind of stone. ‘If every time you go to open the fridge, a jar of marmalade hits you on the head, at some point you’re going to stop opening the fridge, aren’t you?’

  ‘Eh?’ Natasha beats me to it, articulating her confusion about as eloquently as my current expression. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’ But Ivy doesn’t acknowledge her words, her gaze intent on mine. ‘Anyway,’ she adds, oblivious to our silent standoff, ‘what kind of arse keeps the marmalade in the fridge? That’s a sure fire way of making your toast go cold a’fore it’s anywhere near your mouth.’

  ‘Finola?’ Ivy mutters caustically, the atrocity expelled from a cat’s bum mouth.

  ‘Ivy?’ I answer, mimicking her tone.

  ‘Ah, shit. I’m not havin’ it. If the pair of you are fixin’ to fight, you can do it somewhere else. I haven’t even eaten yet!’

  ‘We’re not fighting,’ Ivy replies in a superior tone. Her gaze avoids mine as she concentrates on the important task of rearranging the cutlery. ‘I’m just pointing out that the definition of lunacy is repeating the same mistake, while expecting different results.’

  I feel the muscles in my face contort. ‘Same mistakes as what? I was looking, not feeling him up. What the hell is your issue?’

  ‘First you say you’re going to go travelling, and now you’re giving guys the glad eye.’

  ‘You sound like June,’ I fire back, almost admitting I know him. Only this wouldn’t be a defence, rather cause for a whole lot of other questions. ‘And since when has looking been a crime? I’m allowed to look! It’s not like I’m cheapening his memory,’—I can’t bring myself to say Marcus’ name—‘because at this stage in the widow games his memory is worth about as much as I have in my chequing account.’

  ‘You weren’t just looking. You were giving him the serious come fuck me look.’

  I burst into laughter, the sudden eruption of noise surprising us all. ‘How does that even work? I wouldn’t even know where to begin. How about a demonstration? Come on, you show me that look.’

  Ivy struggles against a smile, eventually giving in, and as an encore, she makes herself cross-eyed while poking out her tongue.

  ‘Oh, man. That milkshake’s bringin
g no boys to the yard!’

  And just like that, our spat is over, though I make a mental note to find out what’s really going on inside that head of hers.

  ‘You two must be bio-polar or something,’ Nat grumbles, folding her arms. ‘Can we not have a peaceful night?’

  An hour later we’ve been suitably fed—the food is a sort of fusion smokehouse. Definitely not the kind of place for vegetarians to hang out, as Ivy points out. We’ve also been appropriately watered by virtue of mason jars filled with iced and muddied cocktails. I’m currently on number three, though Ivy and Nat are already two ahead and are at the point of the evening where things could go very good or very bad. But at least Ivy has loosened up, probably something to do with ingesting copious amounts of fruity liquor and a dinner consisting of mostly grass.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Nah, too skinny,’ replies Nat, unapologetically examining the bearded guy Ivy pointed out as hottie number two. ‘I’d probably suffocate him. And not in the fun, kinky way.’

  ‘Is there a good way to asphyxiate?’ I’d meant it as a rhetorical question, though Natasha answers anyway.

  ‘I’ve been told a time or two they’d like to be suffocated by these.’

  She palms the sides of her boobs, pushing them together like they need the attention, which they don’t. They—or she?—gets plenty anyway from a group of guys standing nearby, clearly enjoying the free show.

  ‘Don’t look now, there’s one breaking free from the herd,’ Ivy mutters, unimpressed.

  Nat sniggers as a guy—skinny jeans and fuzzy of face—makes a beeline for our table. We’re down in the bar area now; leather sofas with a low table in front, masculine and rustic bookcases full of faux books. Or maybe not as I pull an aged copy of Canterbury Tales from a shelf.

  ‘A herd of hipsters?’ Ivy screws up her button nose, deep in thought for a second. ‘Do you think that’s the collective noun? A hashtag of hipsters? A pose, maybe?’

  ‘A trend of hipsters?’ I add.

  ‘Maybe,’ Ivy returns. ‘Or maybe they’d be a smug!’

  ‘I’ve got it,’ yells Nat, holding out her hands in demand for our silence. ‘A knob of hipsters.’

  The be-bearded member of the knob-ite tribe steps barely falter. He definitely has more balls than bulk as he continues on to our table.

  ‘I think I’m gon’nae have to call the landscape people.’ His voice booms, almost as though the volume will make up for his lack of height, the contents of his pint glass spilling a little as he points a finger at us, collectively. ‘Because there’s a site of outstanding natural beauty right here! Ladies . . .’ he says, using his hand now as though painting a headline in the air. ‘You need to be put on the map!’

  It’s such a horrendous pick-up line, I snigger into my glass.

  My mother, bless her deluded heart, maintains that Scottish men have what she likes to call the patter. “Smooth tongued devils, they are.”

  Strange, but I don’t feel like whipping off my panties right now.

  ‘Is it ‘cos we’re all hills and valleys?’ asks a coquettish Nat. I think she might’ve heard this line before.

  ‘Oh, aye. And some,’ he answers, his eyes roaming over each of us before landing inevitably on Natasha’s chest.

  ‘Then consider me the custodian of this lovely landscape,’ she continues. ‘And the cover charge for looking is a round of drinks.’

  Hairy hipster looks like he’s about to choke on the pint he’s brought along for the ride, opting to laugh. Eventually. It’s a sort of shite, she’s done this before kind of noise. And I think he’d be right.

  ‘What’s your poison, ladies?’

  ‘A round of old fashioneds, please.’ Nat’s reply is sugar sweet. ‘What?’ she asks, looking both left and right at our matching stunned expressions. ‘That’ll knock the smooth right out of him. He’ll not get much change out of thirty quid. Make hay while the sun shines, my girlies!’

  A few minutes later Nat’s admirer is back, his pint now sitting on a tray. As he hands Nat her drink, she holds it like a game show model might.

  ‘See this drink?’ she asks sweetly. ‘It hasn’t got a nip of Rohypnol in, has it?’

  ‘Why, no!’ he exclaims.

  She responds by reaching up and running her hand down his bearded chin. ‘You can’nae be too careful these days, aye?’ She then sends him a cheeky wink

  Chairs are dragged nearer and our two groups eventually merge into one. Nat and Ivy are on form, dishing out one liners like professionals and it isn’t too long before Ivy the lightweight is on the way to inebriation critical mass.

  ‘Come on then, hipster Harry,’ she says, with more than a slight slur to her words. ‘Tell us the meaning of your tatts.’ The guy sitting next to her has a beard like one of the Hawkmen from Flash Gordon. And an expression just as dour.

  ‘My name’s Stephen,’ he replies.

  ‘With a p-h?’ asks Nat, trying not to snigger. Difficult when we both know what’s coming next.

  ‘Pheven! Pheven!’ comes Ivy’s giggling chant.

  Hawk-boy merely picks up his pint without even cracking a smile, though to be fair it would be hard to tell what’s going on underneath all that fuzz.

  I’m trying. I really am, but I feel like a cuckoo sat in a nest full of birds all chirping a tune I don’t know. Maybe the single persons mating call? I try to keep up, fit in, but it’s hard. The girls are on their way to drunk and while stone cold sober I’m not, I find my buzz just isn’t anaesthetizing enough. I’m also less than interested in getting to know any of these men.

  And I feel like my sense of fun has been switched off.

  Fucking Marcus.

  I run my tongue over my teeth while wondering if I just don’t speak the language anymore. Single and ready to mingle? More like sad and ready to skulk off home. I feel lost. This life, sitting in a pub with friends, chatting with inconsequence and the opposite sex. It feels alien and I’m beginning to think coming out tonight was a mistake. I don’t feel any different. I don’t feel powerful or full of womanly roars, which was sort of the point of venturing out. Instead, I just feel exposed.

  Just as I’m debating the merits of slipping out, I catch a glimpse of a certain chestnut head. It’s a kind of pleasurable kick in the pants, especially as the cause of our earlier tiff seems to be walking his sexy self our way. I’m conscious of that spark again, only this time the effects are less internal—my posture straightening like I’ve be lashed by a live electrical line.

  I’m not sure if I prefer him wet or dry.

  My eyes devour him. The man is a total jock, not that you can use that term here. It has much different connotations. You just can’t call a Scotsman a jock under any circumstance, though the title fits him well. He’s tall and broad and looks like he takes serious care of himself. As he draws closer with that sexy half smirk and those sultry eyes, I get a glimpse of colourful ink peeking from beneath his shirt sleeves. Those are definitely new. I’ve never been a fan of tattoos but find I can’t hang onto my ambivalence right now.

  I swallow thickly, unable to stop my stare-fest or tear my gaze from his confident stride, my body almost vibrating as I struggle to remain calm on the outside. This place has to be cursed. It’s like I’ve turned into my raging hormones teenage self. I can literally feel the spike of perspiration break out against my spine as I pretend to be interested in something over his right shoulder, not wanting to appear as though I’m expecting him to speak.

  Not that I need to, it turns out, as a beat later he passes by our table without a word.

  He was on his way to the bar, you idiot.

  ‘What was that all about?’ asks Natasha.

  ‘What do you mean?’ My answer is almost rote as I watch that fine ass walk away, nursing the sting of rejection.

  ‘Your Rain Man impersonation and the whole twisty face deal.’

  So, not as cool as I’d hoped. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
r />   ‘Maybe you’re having a stroke.’

  Maybe I need to stroke. Home, later. While thinking of him.

  I don’t even realise I’m still watching Rory, the rear view being almost as good, until I find I’m turning my head towards Ivy’s voice.

  ‘Don’t,’ she says softly, the mirth and lightness in her eyes gone. My brow furrows, my understanding delayed. ‘Leave well alone,’ she adds, unwinding her fingers from hawk-boy’s heavily tattooed arm.

  I glance at Rory and back again. ‘So, what? You’re allowed to get drunk and all flirty with the furry here, but I’m not even allowed to look?’

  ‘I’m no’ a furry.’

  ‘Shut it, Prince Vultan,’ Ivy grates out. ‘But you’re not just looking,’ she continues, sounding much more sober than two minutes ago. Leaning closer, she punctuates her next words with a finger to my arm. ‘I know you.’

  ‘So you’re a mind reader now?’ Anger rises in my throat like bile; this isn’t us. We never fight. Bicker, yes. Use angry voices? Never. ‘Aren’t you the one saying I need to move on? To start living again?’

  ‘You need to work on your impulse control first.’

  ‘What? Just what are you talking about?’

  ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right.’

  ‘You know nothing,’ I hiss. ‘Nothing about how I feel.’

  ‘I know you can’t find happiness in someone else.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Even I can hear how those words drip with antagonism, just as I can hear those sitting round us shifting uncomfortably in their seats. My cheeks begin to burn with shame and embarrassment, but more than that, I’m just hurt. ‘But maybe I can find a little happiness with someone else in me!’

  ‘Tinkle time!’ interjects Nat loudly, attempting to yank us both up from our chairs by our hands.

  Chapter Ten

  Fin

  ‘What is your problem?’ I glare at Ivy through the mirror, so angry that I’m sure I must have horns, or at least veins, protruding from my head.