by Emma Baird
“Hello... Gaby?”
The voice is soft, the trace of a Scottish accent but not much of one from what I can work out from two words. She also sounds breathy, just like Marilyn Monroe when she sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to the president. Mena, who is making her way upstairs where no doubt she’s about to settle on the super-big, super-comfy bed, pauses and yowls.
“Oh, little Mena! I miss you so!”
Aha. My superior detection skills tell me this is Kirsty, said owner of deluxe house—how, how, how can she afford it at her age?—and spoiler of Mena. We’ve never spoken, exchanging all the relevant information we needed to do on the cat sitter website. She asks me if Mena is okay or if she seems to pine after her, and I promise her that yes, Mena misses her mistress, but I’m an okay second-best substitute. Mena flicks her tail and proceeds back upstairs, the picture of pining sorrow. Not.
“The Wi-Fi,” I begin, and I hear the sound of someone gathering their thoughts. I told a white lie or two to get this job. Kirsty was less than truthful too when she promised me online that Lochalshie wasn’t that far from Glasgow, the internet worked fine, and her cat isn’t the world’s fussiest moggie.
“Ah, yes, um... Bit of a problem there the last few months, but there are ways round it. If you log on at two in the morning, it works perfectly. Fewer people using it, I guess.”
As. If.
“The doctor here told to use Jack’s house. Brilliant Wi-Fi there,” I reply and hear a sharp intake of breath.
“Jack!” she says. This time the breathlessness is accompanied by a tiny sob. “He smashed my heart into smithereens!”
Wow, my own words only a few weeks ago. When someone else says it, I conjure up the image of a man with a gigantic hammer, whacking it up and down on top of a red blob, droplets and bits splattering everywhere. Urgh.
“Was he the boyfriend you’ve just split up from then?” I say, anxious to move on from barbaric heart destructions. And never let it be said that Gabrielle Richardson is slow on the uptake. The Jack connection also explains why Jack still had her house keys.
“Yes! Gaby, it’s my duty to warn you! Please, please promise me you won’t get involved with him! I know he’s super lush, but the man is a commitment-phobe through and through! He will break your heart into tiny pieces and won’t care in the slightest!”
More images of Jack, back in the tight black tee shirt, grunting as he hauls the hammer way above his head and brings it smashing down on the red blob. How disgusting... And er, goodness me, he handles that hammer like a PRO.
“In the slightest, Gaby!” Kirsty says again, my attention having wandered too far into men with hammer expertise territory. Everything she says sounds as if it comes with an exclamation mark. Katya would hate her.
“Um, no I won’t then,” I say. “I don’t think he likes me very much, anyway.”
“Oh? Doesn’t he?” She perks up a bit at that. “Anyway, the reason I’m phoning is this! I have something to beg of you! I know you’re such a kind and helpful person, Gaby,” I am? “and you won’t hesitate. The thing is...”
The last few words come out in a rush. Kirsty is down south working on something big, no huge, she can’t tell me about, it so she needs to stay there for longer than she thought. Six months, not three, and am I able to cover the Mena sitting for her?
I look around me. It’s another ‘dreich’ day. I picked up the word from Jamal, and it’s an excellent one conveying wind, rain and grey skies. The water on the loch’s choppy. I’ve only just managed to spend three hours without sneezing. Glasgow and the promise I made my boss about visits there seems impossible. The locals laugh at me. That is, when they aren’t actively hating me as Jack seems to. An extra three months here? No, I don’t think—
“Pleasy-weasy dear darling Gaby! I’ll write you a super-duper review, and everyone will want you to cat sit for them! Imagine! Your next job could be somewhere really exotic like Las Vegas or something!”
“Oh. Okay,” I say. I am, as I pointed out to Katya, homeless anyway. Maybe I’ll be able to save up enough money for a deposit while I’m up here. I won’t be spending money on a busy, packed social life, will I?
Kirsty hangs up indecently quickly as soon as I say yes, and I mull over what she told me about Jack. Darn it, she meant to put me off with her description of him as a commitment-phobe. Unfortunately, the perverse bit of me now adds that to my little stock of information. Together with the imaginary encounter I had with him where he wore only a towel, and the expert hammer wielding, he’s now a glittering, glorious specimen of masculinity that sets off every tick on the list of types I fancy.
What a pity he doesn’t like me at all.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Good morning Gaby! Are ye off to Jack’s to do your design-y stuff?”
After only a few days of making my way along the main street to Jack’s house, all and sundry now know my routine. As they do my name and occupation. This morning’s questioner is the guy I saw in the Lochside Welcome’s beer garden the first day arrived, the one who told me to go to Dr McLatchie’s and get myself anti-histamines to deal with the cat allergy. He walks his dog along by the water twice a day and has decided our shared pet care responsibilities make us the best of buddies.
“Yes,” I say, and he falls in step beside me. Scottie, the imaginatively named West Highland white terrier, barks enthusiastically and runs round my legs, trapping me with his lead.
“Er...” Everyone knows who I am, but I’ve noticed the villagers have a weird habit of never introducing themselves, so I’ve no idea what the once-allergic pint-drinking dog owner is called.
“Oh, aye. Wait there a sec and I’ll de-tangle ye.”
He gets down on his hands and knees and crawls around me to free my legs. It would be one hundred percent more efficient if he just released the lead and unwound the dog, and I dread to think what this looks like to anyone who is watching—a shaggy-haired, long-bearded bear of a man whose head is level with my crotch at the moment moving around in front of me. Jamal from the General Store is putting out his baskets full of buckets, spades and sun hats (optimistic), and he stops what’s he’s doing to stare, hands on hips and eyes squinting in disbelief.
“Um.” I draw back and only manage to get myself more tightly tied up. My neighbour appears—the ninety-year-old Tinder user—opening his back gate and stopping abruptly next to us.
He does an abrupt U-turn, heading back the way he came. “Ah can see youse are busy. Must be one o’ they new ways folks hae to—
“No!” I yelp. My neighbour’s Scottish accent is stronger than most of the people here, but I can make out the gist of what he says. “The dog’s lead has got itself tangled up around my legs.”
“Och, aye well here’s whit tae dae.” My neighbour does what was obvious all along, neatly un-clipping Scottie’s lead from his collar. The dog continues running his wild circles around me, tail wagging furiously. When his owner tries to unwind the lead from my legs, I tap his hand smartly. I’ll manage that bit myself thank you very much.
Lead handed back, and hasty goodbyes muttered, I head towards Jack’s house, hood pulled up against the rain. Yes, the rain hasn’t let up since I arrived at Lochalshie. Every evening, the BBC weather woman smiles at me from her warm, cosy studio, her arm moving behind her as she points out that yet again the north-west of Scotland will experience wind and rain. She promises that it’s unusual for this time of year. May is often the best month for sunshine and warm temperatures in this part of the world. I’m tempted to take to Twitter or Instagram with all the photos that prove her wrong. Hashtag BBClies.
Dr McLatchie adds her good wishes as her Volvo bumps onto the kerb on the pavement next to the surgery as it does every morning and she throws open the door, complaining about cows on the road.
In comparison, Jack’s house is a haven of peace and calm. I let myself in, shut the door, lock it, and lean back on it taking deep breaths. The carpet, paintings and wallpaper work their
soothing magic. I can’t see much of the loch thanks to the grey skies, but the lack of cars around here makes the distant lapping of the water just audible. I’ve established my working routine—four hours in the morning, home for lunch and to feed Little Ms Mena who has decided twice a day is nowhere near as good as four times, then another four hours in the afternoon. Now I no longer have office colleagues,, my productivity has soared. I rattle through cut-outs, templates and more. Who knew? I always thought I was a hard worker, but it turns out I used to spend a lot of my day chatting with my colleagues and offering to do the coffee and tea runs. When you make coffee just for yourself, and you take it black without sugar, it only takes a minute.
I’ve yet to meet Jack again. I asked the doctor if I should phone him to double check if it is okay for me to use his house, but she promised it was fine. He’s away on business this week, she says, and won’t be home until tomorrow.
This morning, there’s an email from Melissa. I’m to catch up with her in Glasgow on Monday to meet with Dexter Carlton, Blissful Beauty’s head of marketing. He needs to discuss their product-page templates and other ideas he has for the big launch. Can I get there for 9am? Yes, I type back and decide to worry about it later. I have a car. It won’t be a problem though it will mean an early start.
As I scroll through Blissful Beauty’s picture library for suitable images, I remember the woman upstairs, and my curiosity resurfaces. If you’re a man you don’t keep such a stunning picture of a woman in your house unless she means something to you, do you? Kirsty said she’d dated him, but would he still have her portrait up if he’d finished with her? I’ve no idea what Kirsty looks like. On the cat sitter website, her avatar was a picture of Mena. A far too flattering one if you ask me. My professional experience told me she’d used filters to make Mena slimmer and her fur appear glossier than it really is.
I send the picture of the woman to Katya, who is up to date with all the latest happenings in my life. After the phone call from Kirsty the other day during which she asked me to stay on beyond three months, I phoned Katya immediately afterwards. “This place is so awful!” I sobbed. “How am I going to last that long? And I miss you. I hate not being able to see you every day.” Katya went into full buck up mode, her voice artificially bright. She’d visit as soon as, though when I tried to pin her down on a date, she wouldn’t commit. She’d just landed a job as a ghost-writer where she was to write some celebrity’s self-help book for them. “Who?” I asked, diverted enough to wonder at all the possibilities.
“It’s hush-hush,” she said. “I’ve had to sign a very scary non-disclosure agreement promising never to reveal I’ve written a book for someone who passed it off as all their own words.”
“But-but,” I protested. “Everyone knows the truth of NDAs. They have two sentences buried down the bottom in tiny print that say, ‘We expect you’ll tell your best friend. Just make sure she keeps her gob shut.’”
What was the definition of best friendship after all? It’s where you have someone who knows your every secret. A poncy legal document can’t get in the way of that.
“Gaby,” Katya’s voice was sorrowful. “You’re right about the sentences they bury in the legalese. But what about the second one?”
Huh. Harsh but fair, if I’m honest.
“We’ll speak every day,” she promised. “And think what all the fresh air will do for your complexion. You’ve no need to worry about future wrinkles because there’s no sun up there. Brilliant, eh?” Katya was also working on the Blissful Beauty account writing copy about the golden rules of skin care. She’d now added SPF30 to the Vitamin C promise as the cure for everything.
Ten minutes after sending the woman in the painting pic, my phone vibrates. Katya.
“Do you know who that is?” Her tone is one of awe and wonder.
“No?”
“That’s Christina the Dating Guru. Haven’t you heard of her?”
Well, no. But then I haven’t needed dating advice for a long time. Ryan and I got together while we were still at school and we were together ten years so I’m bound not to be familiar with a dating guru. And what does that even mean?
“Have you used her advice, then?” I ask, “and if so, does it work?”
“Nope. I’ve just heard of her. An influencer and all that, and you’re not going to believe the weird co-inci... Oh, never mind. Her website address is datemate dot com. Look it up.”
And with that she hangs up. I tap out the name on my keyboard. Wow. This woman is all over the internet. She’s got a blog, podcasts, YouTube tutorials and everything. Curiosity piqued, I read through some of them. They include guides to using dating apps, what to do the first time you go out with someone so that they ring you back (guaranteed), the best profile pics to use and what make-up you should wear for a first date. There’s nothing she doesn’t cover. I’m half-way through an article about what will make you a sparkling conversationalist capable of capturing his attention and keeping it when someone clears their throat behind me.
“Ahem. Not interrupting anything am I?”
I whirl around on my chair so quickly, I fall off and land in an undignified heap at his feet. I had no time to minimise the screen either, and the site’s header—a riot of hearts and stars complete with the tag line, How to Go from Dating Loser to Loved Up, flashes there. I’m about to get up when another thought strikes me—he’s got the Dating Guru’s portrait upstairs, and he’s caught me looking at her website! I’ve just signalled loud and clear that I sneaked upstairs and had a good nosey. I might stay here, face down on the floor and praying the ground will swallow me until he goes away.
“Do you want a hand up?”
“No, no!” I straighten up slowly, keeping my eyes on that calming moss-green carpet until the last minute. Heavens, I’d forgotten just how... divine Jack is. Last week, his hair was army buzz cut, and now it’s grown in a little. Still short enough to show off those eyes and cheekbones but the extra millimetre of length emphasises its bright copper colour. The eyes regard me with amusement. Or perhaps it’s irritation. I’d better check with him that it’s okay for me to use his office.
“Er... I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow. Doctor McLatchie said I could use your house as the broadband connection is much better here,” I say, dismayed when he rolls his eyes and says, “She would”. Oh heck, didn’t the blasted woman warn him? And what right does she have to offer strangers the use of someone else’s home? I should have asked her to find me somewhere else to work.
He heads for the kitchen, asking me if I want another coffee.
“Yes please,” I follow him through. “Though I can make them, least I can do...” I trail off. He hasn’t actually confirmed I can use his house as my office.
In the kitchen, sunlight makes a brave attempt at cutting through the grey clouds to bounce off the redness of his hair. He leans against the kitchen counter, one foot up and his arms folded—one of those guys whose face gives nothing away. Does he ever crack a smile? I remember that photo Katya and I saw of him online when he’d worn this wide grin, the upturned mouth creating a dimple on one cheek, and how lush the smile made him seem. Now though, those dark eyes remind me of the stand-offs I have with Little Ms Mena when she and I argue over how much smoked salmon she’s going to eat. Who will blink first? My wretched imagination peels clothes off him. He lifts his arms above his head and the tee shirt disappears. Before I know it he’s in front of me wearing only that white towel, neatly knotted over a perfect six-pack torso. I blink twice to dislodge the image.
The face in front of me cracks, a tiny upturn to the corners of the mouth signalling amusement. The change in expression is welcome but (ye gods) did he just read my mind? Flippin’ heck, I hope not...
“It’s fine,” he says. “She told me she’d given my spare keys to the new-comer. So, apart from researching what to do on a first date what do you do?”
I curse Christina the Dating Guru and Katya. My current toe-curlingly
awful predicament is all their fault.
“I’m a graphic designer,” emphasis on the words so I sound like the consummate professional. “I persuaded my boss I’d be able to work remotely when I came here, but when I turned up, I realised the signal doesn’t work in Kirsty’s house.”
“No,” he says, turning away to fill the cafetière with boiling water. I don’t bother with the fancy stuff myself. It’s instant all the way. “She used to do a lot of work here too.”
Curiouser and curiouser. And thanks for the heads-up Kirsty. Not.
“Why did you come here, Gaby?” All we need now is a too bright light overhead to reinforce the interrogation-style questions, but something about those dark, flashing eyes compels me to answer. And if I do, doesn’t that entitle me to a few questions of my own?
“I split up from someone,” I say and regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. That’s going to make what I was doing earlier seem even sadder. “Plus, I’ve always wanted to be a cat sitter! Yes. The perfect job, isn’t it, travelling up and down the country looking after delightful pussies? What could be better?”
Gaby! Be quiet. Katya’s voice this time. You are making a total fool of yourself.
Jack’s expression signals agreement with Katya loud and clear. He pushes down the cafetiere’s plunger and pours coffee into two mugs, one of which he hands to me.
“How do you take it?” he asks, the eyebrow waggling. “Sugar? Cream?”
Crrreammm. Oh heck, again. Are we in double entendre territory?
“Black, no sugar,” I bleat, then fret that my coffee choices signal I’m no fun loud and clear. Personal questions about Jack feel like a better idea.
“And you? What do you do?”
“I run mini-bus tours,” he says. “American and Asian tourists in the main. That’s why I’m not here often.”