by Donna Alam
‘I thought you’d been kidnapped.’ His gaze swings to mine. ‘For all I know, you might have been chained to his headboard.’ Under his breath, I think he adds, ‘If you’ve been really, really lucky.’
‘Thank you both for allowing Mo to rope you into my rescue,’ Isobel says, turning to the other two men.
‘Mr Mohan wanted to file a missing person’s complaint.’
‘And I was already in Scotland,’ Will says, his unamused gaze sliding to his friend. ‘And apparently, Scotland is a very small place.’
‘Okay! Okay! So I’m a hysterical queen,’ Mo exclaims. ‘But when you weren’t at your holiday rental—’
‘Ah, maybe you can clear this up for us,’ I butt in before Isobel insists she is.
‘This is the place.’ And there she goes. ‘I’m almost sure of it. And my direction thingy brought me right to the door.’
‘Well, you were near. I’m sure this is what Will would call a baw-hair away from the place you were actually supposed to stay.’
‘Not in front of a lady, I wouldn’t,’ Will mutters.
‘A baw . . . hair?’
‘Yes, dear,’ Mo continues. ‘You were the width of a solitary pubic hair away from your actual holiday cottage—a ball hair, if you will.’
‘But this is the place—it is Faileas Cottage.’
‘No, darlin’,’ I reply, drawing looks from at least two of the fuckers. ‘Faileas is over on the other side of the loch. My place is called Faodail. As for the sign on the fence, I’m sure it’s broken.’
‘Faileas, Faodail. They’re both so close together,’ Mo offer sympathetically.
‘Not really,’ answers Jim, even though it’s not necessary. ‘Faileas is Gaelic for reflection. Faodail is a lucky find.’
As I look at her all pink and discomforted in her heeled boots and her fluffy sweater, I realise lucky find doesn’t even come close. I can tell by the flare in her gaze she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
‘A lucky find indeed,’ says Mo, almost echoing my thoughts. ‘Particularly when you consider Izzy’s blind faith in technology. If the navigation system had decided to drive her into the loch to get to the other side, she would’ve drowned.’
‘Very funny, Mo,’ she mutters. ‘The key was where the letting agent said it would be. Under the little Christmas tree with baubles. How do you explain that?’
‘I have a theory,’ I begin, rubbing my cheek. ‘I had a cleaning service come in and make the bed and stuff before I arrived. They’ll give the bathroom and kitchen a wipe down when I leave, too. I’m guessing the letting agent runs this service. And the wee tree isn’t one of mine. I guessed it was a house warming gift of sorts for pushing a bit of work her way, but I imagine it’s where the keys are kept for their cleaning ladies.’
‘That’s just asking to be murdered in your bed!’ Mo looks aghast, clutching his hand to his throat.
‘Weeel, it’s maybe no’ the best state o’ affairs,’ Jim begins. ‘But this is the Highlands, y’ken. Things are a wee bit different up here.’
‘No harm done,’ Will asserts, standing. ‘I’m glad the mystery is sorted and that you’re okay, Izzy, but I’ve got to get back.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Isobel says, standing herself. ‘Thank you so much for coming to find me, Will. And for supporting Mo.’
‘Well, you know Mo,’ he answers with a telling frown.
‘She does,’ the man himself adds, chuckling. ‘And aren’t you glad you don’t live next door to me these days, William?’
‘Pure pish,’ he answers. ‘Are you coming with me or going back with Izzy, here?’
‘I’ll travel with Izzy. See if I can get on the same flight to London this afternoon.’
‘Oh, but Greg was going to follow me to make sure I get onto the highway okay.’ The look on her face is one of concern and though I feel that concern myself, I don’t allow it to show.
‘No need,’ Will answers. ‘I’m going over Inverness way. I’ll follow you.’
I want to yell out that it’s nothing to do with him. That we started this thing together, and that we’ll end it on our own terms, but then it strikes me that this might be the best way. That if she leaves with her friends, I won’t be tempted to ask her to stay another day. Another night. A lifetime.
So I say nothing. Not even as those blue eyes send me such beseeching looks. Pleading that turns to disappointment, hardening into something that resembles betrayal.
‘You have my number,’ she says at the doorway with a determined air. I nod but don’t confirm. I don’t want to open my mouth for fear of what might come out of it. ‘I’m going to expect you to call,’ she adds resolutely. She throws her arms around my neck, and though I might not be able to say what this time has meant to me, I tell her by the strength of my hold.
‘And to think we almost had sex in this very doorway.’
‘Torturous minx.’ I hold her even tighter, burying my nose in her fragrant hair.
‘This isn’t done. One day in the not too distant future, you’re going to take me out to the local pub and get me drunk. Then you’re going to bring me back to this very door and press yourself into me while I fight with the lock. You’ll nibble my neck and slide your hands under my sweater while wrestling with my jeans. And then the door will fall open, and we’ll fall inside and—’
‘I’ll bend you over the arm of the sofa and fuck you from behind—fuck you so hard that you’ll cry.’
‘A new addition to the scenario? I look forward to it.’
And with that, I hold her so tight her feet come up from the ground.
‘Come on, Izzy,’ Mo calls from the car. ‘There’s only so many ways you can say goodbye.’
‘Ah, if only he knew,’ she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘You’ll call me. I know you will.’
And then she’s gone—bustled out into her tiny red rental. Her bags are already on the back seat, and her pals are in a hurry. There’s barely time for a last perfunctory hug as she stands on the wrong side of my blue painted door as her car becomes tinier on the road.
‘Santa came early this year, did he no’?’
I turn to Jim spread out on the sofa, his arm hooked on the arm that I’d mentally reserved for Isobel.
‘Some blokes have all the luck,’ he adds with a grin.
I pull the door open, standing back from it as I answer, ‘Off you fuck, Jim.’
Chapter 25
IZZY
He doesn’t call. Not once.
I’d expected he might give me a few days to settle back into my regular life before picking up the phone to call or text. Actually, my money was on him sending a text because a text is easier. A text allows a person to hide behind words or choose them more carefully before hitting send.
I assumed he’d send me something along the lines of, Hi. How are you? I just wanted to make sure you got back home okay.
But assuming certainly made an ass out of me because I got nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zip.
Who doesn’t ask a house guest if they made it back to their regular place of abode? I’ll tell you who—someone who views those few days we spent together as a sort of extended one-night stand. An unexpected booty call? Someone uninvested! Someone who doesn’t want to recall the details, let alone make the call. A one-night stand never contacts you to see if you got home after your walk of shame the morning after.
Who doesn’t call? A total dick, that’s who.
What happened to being bent over the sofa arm?
So I’m angry, and understandably so, I feel, though I hang on to the hope that I’m wrong as I decide to leave the ball in his court for just a little while longer. I’m not giving up—not a chance. He just needs a little coaxing. A gentle push in the right direction. But he has to call first. He has to express and interest. So I leave it little while longer. Until the following weekend.
He has to call by then, right?
Apparently not.
The same goes for
the following week as I throw myself into my work. Into the inane Christmas revelries, the client lunches, the evenings out. The office Christmas party where I watch everyone get drunk. Watch them have fun. Look on as my assistant splits her sequinned party dress while doing a slut drop, flashing her thong adorned bum to the CEO.
The first week of December leaks into the second, the second into the third. It’s cold and dreary in London, but there’s no snow. And there’s no Greg.
I’m not sleeping, either. Not properly. Not since I left. The constant hum of the traffic is too loud, the streetlamp outside my bedroom window too bright, my bed is too big, and my brain is too loud. Last night, I pulled my phone from the nightstand and asked for a remedy to my sleeplessness. I came across this article, this . . . thing. A legend, or maybe an urban myth? Anyway, it said when you can’t sleep it’s because someone is dreaming about you. It sounded like a cheesy chat up line a first, but then it made me think.
Is he dreaming about me?
And if he is, are we content and asleep in each other’s arms?
Or did he break my heart in his dreams, as well?
Maybe that’s a little too dramatic for what actually happened, even if this hurts.
Chapter 26
IZZY
‘Two more sleeps until Santa comes!’
‘Hello, Mo.’ From the muffled sound of music in the background, I guess Mo is calling from a bar somewhere.
‘God, you sound like the ghost of Christmas dreary, deary.’
‘I feel . . . ’
‘Bah humbug?’
‘Actually, I feel a little bit icky. I wonder if I’m coming down with something.’
‘No, I refuse to believe that. You’re just wallowing.’ Sure, so my sore head and general fatigue is all in my imagination. But, then again, I haven’t been sleeping well recently. ‘You should’ve come out,’ he adds, his almost demand pretty strident. ‘Uncle Mo always knows how to get your party started.’
‘Uncle Mo bats for the wrong team to start my party. Did you forget?’
‘Uncle Mo remembers clearly. You have neither the bat nor the balls for my team, but meant champagne, my fabulous flame dame. Champagne always cheers you up.’
‘No, you cheer me up.’ While we’re drinking champagne, usually. ‘It’s just that I’m not in the mood and I think I’d be horrible company. Anyway,’ I add with a little forced lightness in my tone, ‘I’m having a party on my own right now.’ I look down at the little wooden cheeseboard I’d picked up this afternoon in Waitrose. I haven’t yet booked any cooking classes, but I’ve started to buy food to store in the fridge. It looks quite nice sitting alongside my night cream.
‘It doesn’t sound like a very lively party.’
‘That’s because it’s a very grown-up sort of party. I’m having a cheese and wine party for one.’
Mo’s laughter trills down the line. ‘It’s barely ten yet. Why don’t you grab an Uber and meet us in Soho?’
‘Because I’m in my pyjamas. And I’m in a bad mood.’ Bad mood sounds better than sad mood, so I’ll stick with that.
‘The Scotsman?’
‘The Scotsman,’ I agree in a heavy tone.
‘Why just you just pull up your big girl knickers and call him?’
‘I would—I had every intention to. I was going to call him lots and lots and bug the bejesus out of him, because I know we could be good together.’ Despite his morose reservations. ‘But he didn’t even call to see if I got back okay. Not a word or a text, not even a note by carrier pigeon. So why should I bother?’
‘Well, because you’re bothered. And you’re going to allow it to spoil Christmas if you don’t do something about it soon. And I refuse to have you in my house Christmas Morning pining like a teenager over a boy band member.’
‘That’s not fair.’ He’s far too rugged and manly to be in boy band.
‘I’ve got two days,’ I reply. ‘Two days to plot his demise.’
‘I’m also not bailing you out over Christmas either. Buck up, buttercup! Go get your man . . . or something.’
‘You’re just saying that because you fancy men in kilts.’
‘True, darling, true. I think it’s the easy access. Bend them over and off you go!’
‘Nothing to do with you fancying Will?’
‘Now there’s a lost cause. Can’t make the straight one’s gay, no matter how hard you try. Except for those dipping into the waters bromosexual wise, and Will was never going to be into that. He’s too big a fan of the vagina.’
‘You’d think being a gynaecologist would be enough to put him off for life.’
‘Well, apparently not.’ His deep sigh sounds down the line. ‘Be daring, Izzy. Make the first move. What’s the worst that can happen?’
‘Maybe,’ I reply, not committing to anything.
‘Must dash. See you Christmas morning?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Ciao!’
Putting down my phone, I stare at my cheese board next to me before slicing off a sliver of Brie. I push the wooden tray farther along the couch and wash the strange taste away with my wine. I’m definitely coming down with something, I think, because cheese is up there with my favourites, along with chocolate and wine. My glass of pinot doesn’t taste great either, so I swap it for my laptop. And like a small pain I can’t stop poking, I pull up Greg’s website. Yet again.
There are images of projects completed; stately homes and hotels, smaller projects in homes. Photographs of a smiling Greg and his small team, all wearing dark polo shirts embroidered with the name of his company. He looks the same as he did at the beginning of the month. So handsome. So fine. But also too nice to be that kind of man. The douche. The man who doesn’t care. But then I recall the mugs of boozy hot chocolate and the man who received a bottle of liqueur as a Christmas present from an elderly client.
Is he a man of many faces or just two? I can’t decide.
Annoyed, I click on the “Contact Us” tab as my small Christmas tree mocks my neediness from the corner of my living room. Then I begin filling out the form.
YOUR NAME: Ms Nunyur Beeswax
YOUR EMAIL: [email protected]
SUBJECT: How long have you got? Not a euphemism, by the way.
HOW MAY WE HELP YOU?:
They who wants to lick the honey must not shy away from the bee, you said. Who’s shy now, arsehole! You didn’t even check that I got home.
I’m not going to send it. Of course, I’m not. Only a nut job would do something so ridiculous. Only a nut job would—
Oops!
I raise my index finger from the enter key, swapping it out for my middle finger as I give Greg’s website the big ole bird. Then I push my laptop away, bringing the cheese board closer once again. I’m determined not to waste the stuff. Even if the whiff of it is making me feel a bit ill. ’Tis the season to overindulge, after all. And maybe the stomach ache will give me something else to concentrate on.
I intend to eat and drink, even if I can’t quite manage merry component as I lie across the sofa to watch some rubbish Christmas broadcast on the TV. I even sing along with carols, giving one or two of them my own twist.
‘Come he told me, pa-rup-a-pum-pum . . . stick it up your bum.’
With the cheeseboard balanced on my stomach, I drop a grape into my mouth, but that doesn’t taste right either. Spitting it out, I swap it for a cracker, which, while tasting a little like carboard, isn’t quite so offensive. I take another swig of my wine, and I don’t know anything else until I wake up Christmas Eve morning to the sound of an ambulance whizzing under my living room window.
With a groan, I sit still feeling a little queasy, my head aching. But that could be the wine. I look at the bottle and decide that’s not it. I’ve barely had a glass of the stuff. As I yawn, I decide I don’t appreciate my rude awakening or the fact that I’ve managed to sleep a whole night because, quite frankly, I still feel like poop.
I must be brewing so
me kind of virus.
As I stand gingerly, I realise I have a lump of Camembert stuck in my hair.
It would only happen to me.
My fingers come away from the strands covered in a stinky, creamy, gluey goo, and before I know it, I’m sprinting for the bathroom, what little I’d eaten last night almost spurting from between the fingertips I clasp to my mouth.
‘Oh, God.’
My head thumps, and I need a shower, but I barely have the energy to stand from the bowl. But I do manage to pull myself up, my fingers wrapped around the basin. I take a long, hard look at myself in the mirror as that post-vomit bout of euphoria kicks in. I am such a mess, and I’m going to be ill for Christmas. Great. And I kind of mean that—at least, I won’t have to fake cheer at Mo’s tomorrow. I lift my toothbrush from the cup, plastering it with toothpaste.
I wonder if it’s the onset of flu or a virus? I can’t remember anyone in the office being unwell this week, beyond the perpetual winter cold some people seem to experience. What are my symptoms? My nose isn’t running, though my head hurts a little still. And my body aches. Actually, not my whole body. Just my boobs. I bring my right hand to my left breast, swapping hands and repeating the examination. My period, I decide. It has to be due. I do the maths in my head. Or overdue.
But that doesn’t mean anything. It can’t. I haven’t had a boyfriend in months and Greg . . . Greg. I drop the brush into the cup without bothering to rinse—hell—without bothering to wash the remains of the Camembert from my hair as I frantically searching for my phone.
‘What is it, sweetie?’ Mo groans in answer. ‘There had better be an apocalypse or something equally as drastic going on to warrant this early a call.’
‘Mo, it’s gone eight. Stop being a baby.’
‘I didn’t get in until five.’
‘I need your help.’
‘What is it?’ he asks, sounding instantly awake. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll tell you better once you’ve made a little trip to the pharmacy for me.’
