Highland Fling

by Emma Baird

  “...aye, so as I was sayin’, ye need a big bowl of porridge just...”

  The words come to an abrupt halt as Stewart’s cheeks inflate and he makes odd gulping noises as if he’s about to vomit. He must have taken too big a mouthful of ice-cream, shortbread bits and the toffees pieces sprinkled throughout.

  “Are you okay?” I say. Scottie, having returned from his duck chasing, plants himself in front of his owner and barks furiously. The canine equivalent of the same question, I guess.

  Stewart, a maroon-faced man at the best of times, is now scarlet. But there’s a blue tinge to him too, and I scan our surroundings trying to find help—a handy ambulance or Dr McLatchie ready to step in and save the day.

  The ice-cream van owner leans out of his serving hatch. “No’ my fault!” he says, “He ate that thing too quickly!”

  He pulls up the hatch indecently quickly, and the van drives out of the car park seconds later.

  “Stewart!” I put a hand on him, thoroughly alarmed. I’ve reached the grand old age of 26 without ever seeing someone die in front of me. Please do not let this be the first time.

  The loch side is deserted—the kids vanished, the dog walkers tucked up back in their own homes and no handy ambulance or GP nearby. Pity as this seems like a situation the good Doctor McLatchie would relish. The man beside me flays around, arms out and face turning bluer by the second. His dog mirrors every movement as if somehow that will help.

  Last year, Melissa rail-roaded me into the role of appointed first aid person. I went on a training course and returned to the office promising everyone I’d kill them if they dared so much as get a paper cut.

  First aid training included the Heimlich manoeuvre. I take a deep breath and get in close and personal with Stewart, wrapping my arms as well as I can around his substantial girth and forming a fist below his sternum.

  I thrust my fists up as hard as I can, trying not to mind too much as Stewart’s bottom and my crotch make closer contact than I’ve had with anyone in months.

  He’s still choking, and Scottie circles the two of us, pausing every now and again as if to tell me off for being a rubbish first aider.

  The first aid folks told us not to worry about cracking ribs. They’re far easier to repair than an oxygen-starved brain. I visualise Louise and her snarly face and my arms tighten in a choke hold. My right first thrusts up in an upper cut move Joe Calzaghe would be proud of, and a tiny object flies out of Stewart’s mouth. Shortbread, toffee—who knows? Blockage ejected, he drops to the ground, panting hard. Scottie rushes over and licks his face.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, hands on thighs and breathing heavily myself. Is this what marathon runners feel like at the end of their 26 miles?

  Stewart staggers to his feet, wrapping his arms around his torso and wincing. “Aye. Much obliged to ye, Gaby. I need a pint. It’s an awfy shock, ye know. Seeing your whole life flash in front of ye!”

  With that, he’s off—another ‘thank-you’ thrown hastily over his shoulder as he leaves, heading toward the Lochside Welcome. Scottie, still off the lead, runs alongside. When the dog stops for a second and looks back at me, I tell myself his expression is apologetic. Sorry about my crap owner who should have thrown himself at your feet in thankfulness.

  “Well!” I stamp my feet, a pointless gesture seeing as no-one’s around. “You might have offered to buy me a pint.”

  The remains of both our cones lie pointing upwards in the sand. Nine pounds fifty those cones cost. I curse Stewart, Jack McAllan, Scotland and rip-off ice-cream merchants who vanish at the first sign of trouble.

  All in all, a dreadful weekend.

  CHAPTER 11

  “How’s the book going?” I ask Katya. I’ve finally got hold of her one week after the Stewart incident. Our conversation had been uneven. My side of it far too long because so much had happened since I’d talked to her last. It has taken me two hours to fill in, not helped because Katya likes to interrupt and make sure she understands everything, but after a while, I had to steer the conversation back to her if I didn’t want to come across as a total narcissist. Even if I needed her interpretation of all my events—Monday evening, for instance.

  I’d been about to settle down on the sofa to a re-read of An Echo in the Blood when there was a knock on my door. I opened it to a sheepish-looking Stewart and a stunning woman I didn’t recognise.

  Stewart thrust a bunch of flowers into my hands. It looked like he’d picked them from the displays that surrounded the car park, but I supposed it was the thought that counted.

  “Eh, aye Gaby. I didnae thank you enough for saving ma life. I’m awfy grateful. Jolene telt me I should come and say thank you properly.” He nodded at the woman by his side who extended her hand and gripped mine so tightly I winced.

  “Pleased to meet you, eh?” she said. Not Scottish then, the antipodean accent turning every sentence into a question. Katya once told me that just as you should always guess someone as a Canadian when you’re not sure if they are Canadian or American, the same applied to Australians and New Zealanders.

  “Auckland?” I asked, and a broad smile split her face in two.

  “Manukau, South Auckland. Can we come in? I want to chat to you about something, and my boyfriend here still needs to thank you a thousand times over for pulling him from the clutches of death.”

  Boyfriend? I had to rescue my jaw before it dropped to the floor. Seriously? As my nanna used to say, there’s a lid for every pot, but Stewart is—to use another Nanna-style saying—punching way out of his league. I guessed Jolene to be Maori, long dark hair, light brown skin, dark-eyed and muscular if that handshake was anything to go by. Stewart must have hidden—I shook my head, unwilling to guess what talents for attracting beautiful women he might possess.

  “Of course,” I said, doing a quick mental run-over the house wondering if I’d left out anything embarrassing such as that book I’d ordered from Amazon the other day, How to Find Lasting Love with the Right Man. Nope, it was hidden away upstairs next to my bed.

  Stewart and Jolene stared around them. “We’ve never been in this house,” Stewart said, moving to the windows at the front and running his fingers down the neat join in the panes that let no draughts in at all.

  “Yeah, that stuck-up cow never let anyone in here, eh?” Jolene said, making me like her one hundred times more than I had five seconds ago. She stared up at the atrium.

  “Isn’t that annoying in the morning when it gets light at four thirty?”

  Not really, I told her. I liked the light waking me up in the morning, and I always managed to fall back asleep again. “Have a seat,” I said, and Jolene eyed the sofa and chairs warily.

  “This is the kind of house you’re too frightened to sit down in,” she said, “in case you make a mess.”

  Funny that. Jack had said something similar when he told me he preferred houses that didn’t look as if an interior designer had done them. Maybe I was wrong to think Kirsty’s house was so amazing.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “the cat sitting service website includes full house cleaning afterwards. And I’d rather have people in here. What did you want to talk about?”

  Jolene sat down opposite me. “I do the Lochalshie website. And you’re a graphic designer, eh?”

  The New Zealand question thing—it’s hard to tell when someone is asking you something or it’s a statement. This one’s a statement and I am proved right when Jolene doesn’t bother waiting for a reply.

  “Anyway,” Jolene said, the death stare departed and a smile lighting up her features. “Stewart built the site, so it’s brilliant,” she flashed me a smile that suggests otherwise, “but it needs a tiny bit of updating.”

  Ah. I’m pretty sure I can guess where this is going.

  “We’ve got the Highland Games coming up in August and we want to attract as many people as possible this year. It’s a big money-maker for the village. Or it used to be.”

  The games, she told me, b
rought in lots of visitors in the old days. People loved watching strong men wrestle with cabers, whatever that is, or tosses and throws where you fling hammers over bars. The dancing displays went down a treat. And the sight and sound of pipers marching down the High Street playing Flower of Scotland were enough to melt a stone heart. Visitors flooded the place, staying overnight in the two hotels and the B&Bs, spending their money in the general store and the pub, and many of them made it a proper holiday staying a few nights or even the whole week.

  I stirred in my seat. Something must have shown on my face because Jolene anticipated what I was about to say.

  “I know it doesn’t sound exciting. Especially these days. The committee is working on new ideas for the games this year. We’ve got a travelling fair coming along so we can offer rides and we’ve lined up Psychic Josie, that woman who speaks with the dead to help you work out who you’re going to marry.”

  I kept my expression neutral. Neither idea sounded promising.

  “...so we wondered if you could update our website for us—make it look modern and exciting? And then more people will decide to come to our games and perhaps think staying in the village for a few days is a good idea.”

  I could hardly say no, could I? Over the years, I’ve found that when you tell people you’re a graphic designer, they think it’s easy for you to create images or websites. Or that it doesn’t take long. And I didn’t need to ask if the Lochalshie’s village committee had money in their budget for professional photos. The answer would be no.

  Mena chose that moment to appear, strolling down the stairs and yowling. Stewart leapt to his feet, whirling round to face her and yelling ‘go away!’ at the top of his voice. Mena stopped, looked him up and down disdainfully and walked past him to the kitchen. At that, Stewart had a sneezing fit, droplets of liquid flying from his nose so fast they hit me full on the face. I gulped hard, swallowing back nausea. Other people’s bodily fluids should stay in their own bodies unless...well, we all know the exception to that rule.

  Jolene leapt up too, pulling tissues out of her handbag. “Stewart, you muppet! Gaby, I promise you he is house-trained even if it took me three years to get him to put the toilet seat down after using it.”

  Stewart wiped a hand across his nose and then over his trousers. Jolene’s definition of house-training must have differed from mine.

  Time then to end my first Lochalshie visitors’ event. Nice as it had been to welcome people in, what might Stewart do next? In my rush to get rid of them, I ended up not only agreeing to a full update of the village website but also to design all the posters and signage for the Highland Games. Oh well. Perhaps it meant that if the villagers held a party afterward, this time I’d get an invitation.

  Unlike Jack’s event.

  “The book,” Katya says now as we catch up, “is a total nightmare. Remind me never, ever to ghostwrite for anyone ever again. And there’s a meeting in London I have to go to next week to discuss a ‘change in direction’, so it looks as if everything I’ve written so far is about to be trashed and I’ll need to start all over again.”

  I try my best to sound soothing. There’s a loud trill in the background—the landline.

  “What’s that?” Katya asks and exclaims too when I tell her. Like me, she’s never used one before. I beg her to carve out some time to visit me and hang up, picking up the other phone just as the answer machine kicks in.

  “Gaby!”

  Aha. Mena’s owner, no doubt checking up on my care of her cat. And yet again, sounding breathy almost as if she is jogging at the same time.

  “Mmm?” I say and mouth ‘Miaow, Mena’ to the cat who ignores me, busy as she is with her advanced cleaning ritual. As Kirsty talks, she begins on her bottom. I tell myself this means nothing.

  “I thought I’d update you on my plans! I knew you’d be desperate to know what I’m doing!”

  I make agreement-type noises. Kirsty’s original reason for needing to employ a cat sitter was that she had to escape after a relationship ended. At that stage, I wasn’t aware she was an internet star and a YouTube celebrity. Maybe she’s in London meeting with sponsors or something.

  “I’ve come up with this A-MAY-ZING idea! I’m going to personalise my blogs and podcasts, you know? I’ve always concentrated on giving people advice, but it’s my story they want to hear, isn’t it? I need to take my own advice, Gaby, and I’ll document every stage of the journey. Guess what my destination is?”

  “Um,” I say, but she doesn’t bother waiting for the answer.

  “Jack, of course! I mean, I’ve got millions of followers, and they all use my advice to find a man. It makes perfect sense for me to do so. Boyfriend Hunter takes a new direction. I’ve already hinted at it in blog posts and updates, and people tell me they can’t wait to see what I do. I’m going to call the blog Christina’s Tips for Moving Date to Life Mate. Isn’t that brilliant?”

  Lame, Katya says in my head. I nod agreement. If you need someone to think up a red-hot title for you, don’t do it yourself, ask my mate. She’s the words woman.

  “Why did he break up with you?” Kirsty is more likely to tell me what I’ve been dying to find out ever since I moved here. Mena stops licking her bottom and looks at me. I have tried asking her, but so far the answer has only been a yowl.

  There’s a pause, then the words come out in a rush. “He said we didn’t want the same things. He’s wrong, though. Jack doesn’t know what he wants, but by the time I’ve finished with him, he’ll want me more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. I’m going to implement a ten-step process and when people see how successful my methods are, imagine how many followers and fans I’m going to get.”

  As well as Jack. I keep the thought quiet though. I don’t want Jack to go back to Kirsty for obvious reasons. I’m under no illusions I stand any chance with him, but at least if he’s on his own, I have a five percent chance instead of a big fat zero. Besides, Kirsty is the Dating Guru. She’ll have lots of information to hand to help her. And she strikes me as one very determined lady. This. Is. Not. Good. News.

  “Will you help me, Gaby?”

  Argh. “Um, I don’t know what—”

  “I can tell you’re on my side. Jack is the love of my life. He just doesn’t know it yet. But I know it. The first time I met him, my heart fluttered to new life and flooded with joy.”

  I must repeat that one to Katya. She’ll howl with laughter.

  “Tell me,” she says, the voice dropping to a purr that would do Mena proud, “Does he still have that painting of me hanging in his upstairs hallway?”

  “Yes,” I say, the word coming out through gritted teeth.

  “All I need you to do is talk about me from time to time when you see him. Mention how heart-broken I am, that I spend my evenings crying and confused, trying to work out what I did wrong. Oh, and also say that there’s a bad boy billionaire who is very interested in me.”

  “A bad boy billionaire?” I repeat. “Like Christian Grey?”

  “Yes. Jack’s beautiful looking, but he’s not a billionaire. I need him to feel guilt and pain that he’s hurt me, but also threatened. These are the emotions that will bring him back to me. My agent says if I can get him to propose in two months, we’ll be able to generate amazing publicity for the... oh, nothing.”

  She pauses and then goes back to telling me how dreadful the split was for her and how unexpected. There she was, drifting along totally in love and making plenty of money from her website when BAM, out of the blue it came. The text Jack sent her telling her he needed to talk. She thought he was going to propose and spent ages making sure she looked her best so that when she uploaded the pictures on Instagram no-one would be surprised her boyfriend felt the need to ask her to marry him after only three months. But no! He’d told her instead that he didn’t feel they wanted the same thing, and he wasn’t comfortable continuing their relationship. Jack, she mutters darkly, has a history of never lasting longer than three months
in a relationship. She’d thought she would be the woman to change him.

  Kirsty even cries and, I wonder uncharitably if this is just to convince me of her heartbreak. I mean, when she talked about the living proof her solutions worked, I wondered if she only wants him back so that her website will do better if she has Jack in tow.

  “So, you will help me won’t you, Gaby? Imagine how amazing your review on the cat sitter site will be if you help me with this too!”

  That almost sounds like a threat. And imagine how terrible it will be if you don’t. But then she adds one more thing, and the tearfulness sounds genuine. “When I lost my dad seven years ago, I vowed I’d only ever date or marry a man who was every bit as good as my father. Jack is such a man, Gaby. I must get him back.”

  My mum and dad split twenty years ago, but I saw a lot of him as I was growing up. The thought of either of my parents dying sends shivers down my spine. Kirsty lost her dad at a young age.

  Yet again, I could hardly say no.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Mena, have you ever heard of FOMO?” I ask solemnly, and she shakes her head. I’m kidding. She’s a cat and does not understand anything I say, but I’ve succumbed all too quickly to crazy cat lady behaviour and now carry out serious conversations with her. This works best if you make up the answers yourself.

  “Fear of missing out,” I say, pulling open my bag to check I have my notepad, pens and phone. “Rhetorical question, Mena. No-one could argue that going to the village library for a meeting of the Lochalshie Highland Games committee comes anywhere near the top ten things to do.”

  Yes, Jolene might not be Dexter-like in her assessments of my work, but things I thought were requests turn out to be orders. Attending the next meeting of the games committee is one of them. It’s a Friday night—yup, Friday, not a Tuesday or anything—and I’m heading to the library to discuss the plans for this summer’s Highland Games. How did this happen? And yes, if I were to post my plans for this evening on any social media site, I doubt my followers would call it a FOMO moment.