by Nell Harding
“I can’t imagine that we’ll have anything left to say to each other by then,” Fiona said doubtfully. “I still have no idea what he’s so keen to talk to me about in the first place and we really don’t have enough in common to have involved discussions.”
“You don’t have to be comparing notes on history,” her friend said dryly. “Opposites attract. You can both introduce each other to new things. That’s how it works, you know.”
It was the second subtle reference to some sort of academic snobbery, Fiona noted uneasily, hoping that people didn’t really see her that way. She was by no means elitist in her view on people or in her background, but it might be possible that she had spent so much time in the hallowed halls of academia that she was losing her perspective on things. Maybe this date was a good idea after all, to get her away from her research and writing.
At least that was progressing nicely, she reminded herself with some satisfaction. And slowly, as she advanced in Campbell’s notes, there was a new tone of optimism emerging, as if he were gently shaking off his initial morose attitude and finding pleasure in his new surroundings. She wished that he had dated his jottings more carefully; as it was, she had to estimate the timing by the description of seasons and by cross-referencing with local records whenever he was mentioned in their ledgers.
Sarah’s voice broke through her thoughts. “I shouldn’t have mentioned history, obviously,” she said tartly. “I lose you every time. It’s Friday night and you’re allowed to think of other things tonight. For Pete’s sake, don’t just talk work all evening with poor Colin.”
“Rich Colin,” Fiona corrected her automatically. “And his interest in me comes from hearing me speak about my work, so maybe he is genuinely interested.”
“Seeing you talk about your work,” Sarah said pointedly.
“Hearing my accent on somebody besides his cleaning lady.”
“Stop being so hard on him and give him a chance!” Sarah finally exclaimed in exasperation. “Most of us would give an eye tooth for an evening with Colin and you make it sound like some sort of chore. Send me in your place if you really think he’s just hunting for an interaction with the working class.”
“Sorry,” Fiona said with embarrassment. “There’s just something a bit forced about somebody hassling you to get a date. It doesn’t seem normal.”
“That’s because you’ve forgotten how the normal world works,” Sarah reprimanded her, echoing Colin. “A boy fancies a girl and asks her out. It’s the most normal thing in the world. Just try to stop analysing it and enjoy it.”
“And what if I do start to like him?” Fiona asked suddenly. “Do I confess about the dog and hope he laughs it off? Or will I find myself evicted and homeless with my wall-bounding hound? It’s an uncomfortable start of any sort of friendship, with my guilt hovering just below the surface and my fear that he’ll find me out.”
“You worry about that when the time comes,” her friend advised firmly. “One step at a time. Right now just try to have a fun evening together like two normal people getting to know each other on a Friday night. It really isn’t that complicated. And don’t worry about Livingstone. He’s fine with me here and I can take him home with me for the night if you have better offers. Now you should go if you don’t want to be late.”
“Thank you, Sarah,” Fiona said, trying to shake off the mood of dread which had been settling over her all afternoon. It was true that there was a part of her that could imagine enjoying Colin’s company for a meal, but it was dwarfed by the part that was worried about the dog incidents, Colin’s motivation and their lack of compatibility. She wondered uneasily if she really had let herself become cut off from normal social interactions outside of the research circle.
She stooped down to pat the dog’s shaggy head once more before leaving, and turned to find Sarah there to give her an unexpected hug. “Smile,” Sarah urged. “Relax and have fun. This is a date, not a dental appointment. And you look so serious when you worry.”
“Right,” Fiona said with a forced smile. “I should have had a pint while I had the time. Although with me driving, I suppose that option of relaxational aid is off-limits.”
“Rubbish,” Sarah said shortly. “Just park in the main square and forget about your car until tomorrow. He can send you home in a taxi if you have a few drinks, unless you both end up heading the same way by any chance. Now get out of here and I don’t want to hear from you until after noon tomorrow. And then I’ll want to hear everything.”
Fiona sent her friend a grateful smile and stepped out into the brisk evening air, pulling her jacket closed and trying not to shiver. With her pale skin, her temperature was immediately obvious, red when it became hot outside and a grim shade of blue when it was cold. She could already feel her lips getting chilly and cursed her choice of a jean jacket instead of a more sensible fleece. She had just wanted to look vaguely as if she had a look other than worn-out and practical.
Passing in front of the window she stopped to frown at her appearance. She was wearing her favourite jeans and a black blouse, which she had always taken to be an understated cool look, but tonight she felt somewhat shabby, at best student-like.
“It’s just fish and chips,” she told herself in exasperation, turning away from the glass and heading to her car, irritated that this dinner should leave her so rattled. He was a complete stranger and she really had no reason to care what he thought, she reminded herself irritably as she climbed behind the wheel and started the engine of the old Vauxhall. Still she found herself readjusting the rear view mirror to apply a thin layer of pale lipstick and to try to give a bit of life to her fine hair.
Still not satisfied, she flicked the mirror away and glanced at her watch before heading down the valley road. If she was early enough, she might still have time for a shot of courage before she had to face the infamous Colin Parker.
The One-Winged Duck was lively on Friday evenings, with a local band playing Celtic music and a crowd that spilled out onto the terrace despite the chilly evening. This had been Fiona’s favourite haunt the previous year, before Sarah was transferred out to the Glen Murray Inn, and the familiar pub atmosphere and bustle helped to calm her nerves.
She elbowed her way up to the bar, recognising a few of the regulars and stopping to exchange greetings. Soon she found herself drinking a beer with two of the handy men who had been involved in the attic renovations at Mackenzie House, laughing about how paranoid Fiona had been about letting them demolish anything.
She was finally starting to feel in a proper Friday evening mood when Colin entered the bar. Immediately there was a slight change in atmosphere, a sort of mini-pause in conversations as people looked up in surprise before continuing where they had left off. Fiona found herself equally thrown off by his appearance and it took her a bit longer than the others to concentrate on her drinking mates again.
Colin was either unaware of the effect he caused or used to creating a stir with his entries. In any case, although it was obvious that he was no regular here, he seemed casual and confident, and suddenly extremely sexy.
At first Fiona put it down to the beer she had consumed on an empty stomach, but it was also the change of setting. Rather than in a posh or organised event, she was seeing Colin now as a real man in the ordinary world. He was wearing jeans and a crisp shirt, the top buttons undone although still too elegant for the surroundings, but it suited him. His handsome face radiated an amused calm, his blue eyes alert and friendly as he nodded at the people he passed. Fiona felt an unexpected rush of pleasure that this striking man was looking for her.
At once she felt herself flushing, hating the fact that her face was so transparent and that everybody could probably see the effect he was having on her. But she returned his wide smile as he walked up to her to kiss her lightly on both cheeks, while Fiona blushed harder and tried to ignore the blatant stares of her companions.
“Fellows, this is Colin,” she managed in an almost off-hand w
ay. “Colin, this is Gary and Stu.”
Colin nodded and shook their hands in his usual friendly manner. “Gary, Stu. Should I get us another round?” he asked Fiona.
Stuart and Gary nodded keenly, but Fiona suddenly wanted to be elsewhere, away from their frankly staring eyes and the murmurs in the bar around them. Maybe this was what Colin had meant about getting away from paparazzi and the rest.
“Actually, we have to go,” she said with an apologetic grin to the two men, picking up her jacket in a hurry. “We have dinner plans.”
Colin smiled accommodatingly, obviously in the mood to let her call the shots. She was glad that he had offered to join the gang, but equally glad that he didn’t seem to mind her hasty departure plans.
“And so where are our pressing reservations?” he asked her in a teasing voice.
She shot him a wary look, never sure if he was making fun of her or not. “The Old Wharf,” she replied neutrally. “Best fish and chips in town.”
“And they take reservations now, do they?” he continued in his lightly teasing way. “What a good choice. I haven’t eaten there since I was a boy.”
They stepped out of the warmth and noise of the pub into the chilly evening. A wind was coming in from the sea, carrying the smell of salt water and low tide flats. Fiona began to doubt her plan to eat on the outside terrace if it was this windy, which would mean instead facing another crowd of curious spectators. Although if they arrived together, it might cause less of a stir.
They wandered down the main street, Fiona drawing her jacket tight against her and not protesting when Colin automatically draped his jacket over her shoulders.
“Won’t you be cold?” she asked, appreciating the warmth.
“Never. We upper classes pay others to be cold for us,” he replied flippantly.
“Well, thank you for the gallantry. It allows you to be overdressed and under-dressed at the same time.”
He looked in surprise at his attire. “Overdressed? This is casual for a Parker, I assure you. And I wasn’t sure where you intended to take me this evening, so I thought I should be careful.”
She glanced up at him. “You don’t mind fish and chips, do you?” she asked in a small voice.
His reassuring laugh warmed her. “Of course not. You misunderstand the high society. We do eat local regional specialties, after all. And there is always take-away if we want to remain aloof. Besides, I’m actually relieved. I was half-expecting McDonald’s after our last conversation.”
“I wonder if it is the same MacDonald as the ambitious highland clan with Viking blood that raided so many castles in the area and controlled a lot of Scotland?” Fiona wondered aloud, forgetting her resolve not to talk history tonight.
Colin seemed to find the idea appealing. “That would be appropriate,” he decided. “From some great-great ancestor conquering the Highlands to an immigrant son conquering the world food market.”
“He wouldn’t even have to be a blood relative,” Fiona corrected him without thinking. “Anyone loyal to MacDonald would choose MacDonald as a clan name.”
“So how did they prevent inbreeding?” Colin asked curiously. “And don’t make any snide comments about the upper classes finding that a respectable habit.”
Fiona grinned and held her tongue, feeling her tensions start to slip away as she looked about her at the life on High Street on a Friday evening. There were small groups gathered in front of the pubs and restaurants, and a few shops still attracted last-minute shoppers. It was true that it did her some good to get away from the cottage in the evening occasionally, and to venture further afield than the Glen Murray Inn.
It wasn’t a long walk to the restaurant, just a few blocks down the main street and one street down to the waterside. A small group of hardy teens were eating on the outside terrace while hopeful gulls wheeled and cried above them. The tide was out, so that the wharf ran out over bare mud flats and rocks before reaching the sea.
“So you really eat fish and chips from here now and then?” she demanded as they walked up the steps onto the terrace.
He smiled back. “You truly think I’m a snob, don’t you?” he asked in his usual comfortable way. “Well, as I said, even snobs enjoy regional cuisine. Of course, I was thinking more about oysters in Brittany or foie gras in Dordogne…”
He let his voice trickle away and Fiona said nothing. She had never travelled outside of Scotland and England, and even then it had mostly been for her studies and research.
This slight discomfort with the inequality of the situation brought back her earlier aggressive tone toward Colin. “So what did you want to speak to me about so desperately?”
He shrugged his shoulders lightly with an easy smile. “I don’t know. Anything. Everything. I’m keen to hear your opinion about all things, because it is quite different from the opinions of my peers and I find it refreshing to speak with somebody who is so candid in her views.”
Fiona wasn’t mollified. “So, history, local culture or poetry?”
“Let’s start with your menu suggestions,” he said, leading the way inside.
The warmth was welcoming after the damp, chilly breeze and Fiona was grateful for the pause in the conversation while they looked over the simple choices written in chalk on the wall.
“Will you be eating in or out?” a busy-looking waitress asked in passing.
Fiona hesitated and was impressed that Colin waited patiently, still allowing her to choose the course of the evening. Her stereotype of the rich included a tendency to be bossy and controlling, but Colin was courteous and really didn’t seem to mind what she decided.
“I was going to suggest outside, but with this weather I’m tempted by a table by the window instead,” she told him. “Is that okay with you?”
He smiled broadly. “Anything is fine,” he answered mildly. “Although with you wearing both jackets, your inside option is quite tempting.”
“Fine, then we can order right away because I’ll have what I always do.”
“And I will follow your excellent lead,” he said affably, allowing her to order.
Soon they were seated at a wooden table by the window, overlooking the low-tide sea and the stark hillsides rising far across the water. They received a few curious stares, but their immediate neighbours were a bunch of rowdy teens who took no notice of them, providing Colin and Fiona with a slight bit of privacy.
“Well, now you can judge me on my expert views of fish, chips and local ales,” Fiona said, bringing the conversation back to where it had ended. “What other subjects do you want to hear me rant about?”
Colin stretched his shoulders and settled back against the hard wooded bench. “Let’s start with your strong views on the English in Scotland,” he said, obviously not afraid of controversy. “Are we invaders and colonisers, best to be disposed of?”
Fiona looked at him warily. “Historically? Politically? Now? Or on a more personal level?”
He tilted his head. “So many ways to skin a cat. You’re right, let’s skip the historical-political commentary, which I think I can divine, and move right to the personal. Your opinion of the well-heeled Englishman choosing a home in the Highlands.”
“In general or you in particular?” she asked, wondering if he was looking for a fight.
“Since you ask, I’ve noticed that you seem to have well-formed views on me already,” Colin commented mildly, still sounding amused rather than offended. “Now, should I be flattered that you were curious enough to investigate my reputation? Or are you drawing on your pre-formed views of the idle rich, of which you take me to be the quintessential example?”
Fiona chose her words with unusual care, not wanting to sound completely prejudiced. “I disapprove of elitism and snobbery,” she began cautiously.
There was a twinkle in his blue eyes as he regarded her, obviously not perturbed by what she might say. She found herself wondering whether this was a sign of supreme confidence or whether he simply didn’t ca
re what she thought and was merely entertaining himself.
“So do you find me a snob?” he asked curiously, nodding with a smile at the waitress as she brought them each a pint of ale from the local brewery. “Slainte,” he proposed as a toast, winning a smile from Fiona.
“I hear that you don’t mix and mingle much,” she accused him, ready to pursue the subject and to give voice to all of her misgivings about the man seated across the table from her. “With the locals, I mean. That gives you a certain reputation for elitism, sticking to clubs where only the select few can join.”
His eyes studied her merrily over the rim of his pint glass as he took a sip. “And you don’t find your academic circles elitist?” he challenged her as he placed the glass back on the table and leaned forward. “Not everyone can enter those hallowed halls or grace the conferences and lecture podiums you haunt.”
Fiona scowled. “But you can fight your way there, regardless of your birth station,” she argued stubbornly. “You can get there on your own merit, and anyone can try.”
“Anyone can try to become rich,” he countered. “And might have better chances at that than at reaching academic success, if you aren’t born a young Einstein.”
“Rich, maybe,” she conceded reluctantly. “But I think the class snobbery still would persist. Nouveau-riche isn’t the same as old money, is it?”
“They don’t do a blood test at club entrances,” he teased her.
“Or listen to your accent and immediately classify you?” she retorted.
“And how did you decide that I belonged to the upper crust?” he asked pointedly. “You didn’t perchance use my accent to classify me?”
She took a sip of beer, realising the truth in his words. They all still used accents to classify each other, rich and poor. “I didn’t need to,” she said after a moment. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“And you are content to judge me by my reputation?” he asked. “Not very scientific for a researcher.”