Highland Fling

by Emma Baird

  “So, does someone want to tell me what’s going on?” I ask. I’ve positioned myself so I can watch them, and I rack my brains for the rest of Katya’s signs of a liar.

  “Well,” Kirsty says, “So brilliant I found Ryan here! I decided I’m not much of a Dating Guru if I can’t help my friends out, right?”

  What friends? Oh. She means me. I shift my stare to Ryan. I’d thought the seven-hour car journey was on his own initiative. He shuffles in his chair.

  “And what could be better than organising a little reunion for two people who are meant to be together! We flew up here on the red-eye from London this morning. Such devotion on Ryan’s part!” She claps her hands once more, and I wrinkle my brow and think, not as devoted as driving himself all the way up here from Norfolk. “As you might imagine, my job makes me very sentimental. It broke my heart that so many miles separated you and poor Ryan, and you were unable to resolve your differences!”

  “But what about Kayleigh!” I burst out, and Ryan’s eyes flit away from mine.

  “He can explain that,” Kirsty says, nodding her head graciously at him. “Tell Gaby what you told me, Ryan.”

  “Kayleigh made a play for me, and I held off for weeks. And I felt sorry for her. She’s a carer, you know. Her mum has multiple sclerosis and two other kids. Kayleigh has to look after them as well. She’s the sole earner so I couldn’t say no—I mean sack her. She came in everyday, all the way from Cromer. On the bus too, even though that fare is £3.50 each way, and then poor Kayleigh needing to go to the supermarket on the corner as soon as they drop their prices on the sandwiches so she can buy a half-price lunch.”

  Ryan mumbles on. “It was that stupid ‘the grass is always greener on the other side’ thing, but when I got to the other side, I found the grass was brown and dried up, nothing like as rich and succulent as it was on my side of the—”

  My jaw drops open. I’ve never been compared to grass, and if I’m lucky enough to lead a long, long life may it never ever happen again.

  Kirsty’s eyes, when I turn in her direction, are glassy. “Isn’t that so beautiful?” she asks. “I wish I’d filmed it! If I uploaded it onto the Dating Guru website, seven hundred women would have proposed to him then and there! Goodness me, you must be the luckiest woman on earth!”

  Mena walks back in and leaps onto my lap instead of Kirsty’s. I assure Kirsty it must be a temporary thing, her cat’s preference for me, and do a dance of joy inside. The little things, right?

  “Kayleigh was a one-off, Gaby. I promise. I’ve regretted it every day. Didn’t you see what I did on Facebook?”

  Kirsty nods solemnly. “I’ve seen it. I used that one for a post on my website—the perfect example of a man who’s desperate to get you back. You should have seen the comments, Gaby! Everyone agreed with me. I made it anonymous, but all my followers begged the girl to get back with him. Begged, Gaby! A guy—or a girl—is allowed one mistake, don’t you think?

  “And then there was your list,” she adds, her tone stern, “the one that ended up on Twitter. Not nice. Not nice at all!”

  Whatever. I need to talk to Ryan alone. The Dating Guru’s comments stop me asking what I want to know. And too many things make no sense to me. How did she find him, for instance? I’m 99 percent sure I never told her Ryan’s name. One big alarm bell goes off in my head, another of the points I remembered from Katya’s CID guide for new detectives trying to figure out liars. Liars embellish their stories with little bits of this and that to make them sound authentic.

  Dring! The doorbell sounds again, making the three of us start. In all the weeks I’ve lived here, I’ve never been as popular. Has curiosity got the better of Mhari and she is outside the door, hopping from foot to foot and demanding I let her in so she can check the situation out? Ryan begs me to ignore the bell, but I tell him Lochalshie is a small place and here, neighbourhood relationships count for a lot. Not answering a doorbell is akin to stealing or running rampage through the village with six cans of neon-coloured spray paint and re-decorating all the houses and bus shelters.

  Muttering, “I’m coming, I’m coming” at whoever presses the bell again, I’m still saying the words when I open the door.

  “You are? I’d never have guessed.”

  On the one hand, the delightful Jack on my doorstep early in the morning, eyebrow raised and a dirty smirk in place is a welcome sight.

  “Gaby, sorry to bother you so early but I wanted to find out how you—”

  On the other hand, the circumstances of his first visit here and him desperate to find out how I am couldn’t have come at a worse time. Kirsty has lived with cats a long time, all the better to pick up their expert way of quick and silent movement. I’m thrust to the side as a heavily perfumed body pushes past me and flings itself on Jack. His eyes meet mine above her perfectly coiffed head. I search for signs of distress, shock and repulsion, but all I see is puzzlement. The mini-bus is parked outside the house and empty of tourists.

  “I’m so excited to see you!” Kirsty doesn’t bother lowering her voice. Across the street, I spy Mhari and wonder how many coffee breaks she can squeeze into her working day. She’s back to using the slit throat gesture, echoing how I feel now. “Are you off to Doune Castle for another tour?” Kirsty asks. “History’s my favourite subject, so I’ll be able to help you out. And I’ve got so much to tell you.”

  Jack’s mouth has opened and closed a few times in what might be a ‘rescue me’ plea for help. Kirsty turns back and points past me to where Ryan stands in the hallway. “Besides,” she says. “We should leave Gaby and Ryan to talk. He travelled all the way from Norfolk to see her. Can you believe it? So romantic!”

  She grabs his hand and pulls them both to the mini-bus, leaving me opening and closing my mouth in silent objection. The bus roars off minutes later, heading east and Kirsty’s hand held up, fingers waggling goodbye. I fight the urge to return the gesture in a much cruder way.

  I blink, remembering that fantasy I had where Jack whisked me away in his mini-bus, and we headed for that luxury hotel in the middle of nowhere. Seems I was the understudy all along. The fantasy’s real star is back and about to experience that roaring fire and the soft rug for real. Oh, heart, thou art well and truly daft, I mutter to myself. The sooner you get over this silly crush, the better for your owner’s well-being.

  CHAPTER 22

  Mhari watches the bus drive off, her face the picture of comedic dismay. I shut the front door and force my attention back to Ryan.

  “Is that Kirsty’s ex?” he asks. “The guy she’s trying to get back with?”

  What other answer is there? “Yes,” I say. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll show you around the village.”

  It will take all of ten minutes, but it beats sitting in the house. I start at the loch-side and wonder at the tactlessness of the weather, which has decided against reflecting my mood and is instead sunny, dry and whisper it, warm. The dog walkers pass us, various golden retrievers and Labradors tearing ahead in a bid to obliterate the wild bird and duck population.

  “I meant it,” Ryan says as we stop to watch them, the water lapping at our feet. “About missing you. I threw you out of the house without thinking it through. Then, I got so upset the only way I thought I could get your attention was to make it public. That’s why I put all those messages on Facebook. And you never responded. Ten years, Gaby! We can’t just throw it away.”

  I drop to the ground, pulling my knees up to hug them and Ryan seats himself beside me. He tries to snuggle up—the ever-present wind has a way of getting under any gap in your clothes—but stops when I shake my head.

  “It was your own decision to come here, was it?” I try. When I thought Ryan had done it all himself—decided to visit me, woken up at silly o’clock to do so and then driven for seven-plus hours—the gesture impressed me. My heart might even have fluttered a little. Knowing he flew up here with Kirsty knocks the shine off. Perhaps he talked her into it, though. Persuaded
her she should return and I could give up the cat-sitting gig early.

  “Yes,” he says, but when I ask, “Sure about that?“ he shakes his head.

  “Okay, no. The truth is Kirsty got hold of me. Someone had added a link to that Facebook plea I made to the comments on one of her blogs and she worked out I was your ex and got in touch. She told me she had a plane ticket going spare because her agent wasn’t able to come with her to Scotland. A first class flight too, Gaby, they give you—”

  “Ryan,” I interrupt before I get the details, first-class travel not being something I give two hoots about when I’m trying to work out the sincerity of my ex’s claims.

  “I know it doesn’t sound as good,” he says, and I raise my eyebrows at the honesty, “but when she suggested it and how romantic it would be to drop in and surprise you, I thought—”

  “Yoo-hoo!”

  Never attempt a private conversation in the open in Lochalshie. The mad barking should have alerted me. As we get to our feet, Stewart lumbers into sight. Scottie is off his leash, and he runs around the both of us, yapping his head off. By the time Stewart reaches us, Scottie has gone through his repertoire of tricks—rolling over and playing dead for a few seconds before leaping back to life and wagging his tail in expectation of treats.

  “How’re ye, Gaby?” Stewart says, sticking his hand out. “Is this your ex, then?”

  Ryan takes his hand. “Hoping not to be the ex too much longer.”

  With a quick aside to Scottie that he is the best wee dog in the world as he does his ninth dead impression, Stewart’s forehead creases at that.

  “Oh, aye? But whit about the American bloke Dexter? Isn’t he waiting a wee bit and then he’s going tae take you out for chips, Gaby?”

  How, how, how does he know? Two possibilities—Mhari, who wouldn’t think anything of installing listening devices all over Lochalshie, so she never misses out on any key bit of gossip. The more likely explanation is that I spilled my guts to blasted Jolene when she force-fed me those three Pimms. Curses on her and curses on Stewart.

  “What?” Ryan’s replaced his until now ‘I’m doing my best to convince you of my sincerity’ benevolence with fury, his eyes screwed up, and his mouth pinched. “Who the hell’s Dexter? You broke my heart when you left and, now I find you’ve been carrying on behind my back!”

  Stewart holds both hands up. “No, she didnae, big man. She’s no’ done anything except kiss him, and Mhari says he jumped on her and took her by surprise.”

  Mhari. I might have known.

  “And she wasnae going out wi’ you at the time, was she? So you cannae call it carrying on behind your back, can ye?” He folds his arms and eyes Ryan beadily. An unlikely champion, but a nice one.

  Ryan holds his hands out. “Er, yeah. Sorry, Gaby. I didn’t mean it. It’s just... just hard when you’ve been with someone for so long, and then your life changes just like that. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to waking up and not having you beside me.”

  To my astonishment, Stewart wipes a hand across his eyes. “Gaby,” he says. “I like this yin much better than that American bloke. It’s awfy romantic!”

  It is? Nothing I’ve seen of Stewart and Jolene’s relationship so far convinces me either of them has a close acquaintance with the soppy and sentimental. Still, it makes me look at Ryan afresh. “Do you want lunch?” Ryan asks me. “On me. Wherever is best around here?” He casts an eye in either direction, the absence of anything chain restaurant shaped plain. Ryan loves a cheeky Nando’s and PizzaExpress in that order. So do I, but they don’t encourage romance or intimate conversations.

  “Over there,” Stewart points at the Lochside Welcome. He shows no signs of leaving us on our own either. As the hotel’s his second home, this is to be expected and his company saves me from having to talk, my head churning with everything that’s happened over the last four hours.

  The hotel’s busy, the usual Saturday crowd that gathers for boozy brunches and lunches. I get waves that Ryan clocks and realise that I’ve established myself as an honorary resident, never mind I’ve only been here for eleven weeks and two days. It’s enough to give a girl the warm and fuzzies, though I also note that no-one bothers disguising the huge ‘and who’s HE?’ that appears in comedy speech bubbles above their heads. Ashley waves, halting a conversation he’s having with his chef to wander over. I’m his favourite person ever since I stuck Dexter in front of him and Ashley wrangled close to six figures for the Blissful Beauty launch.

  “We’re trying out a new pizza,” he says, “in honour of Caitlin and Blissful Beauty. Would you do me the honour of sampling it?”

  By the time we get a table and place our order, Stewart has left us, the attractions of the bar far too tempting. “What’s the Caitlin and Blissful Beauty thing?” Ryan asks, and I explain, throwing in the fact that little ol’ me thought up the whole idea. Impressive, hmm? The Brit in me who believes it’s vulgar to boast and thus can’t say any more when Ryan does not pick up on what a huge deal that was.

  “I know our relationship grew stale.”

  I stare at him, shocked. Ryan’s like most guys. He’d rather scoop his own eyeballs out than talk about his feelings. Whenever I attempted a ‘what do we want from our relationship’ chat, he’d clam up at once. The words he says now have the echo of Dating Guru advice. The woman must have spent their entire journey up here coaching him.

  “I could change, though. We could go out more. To Norwich. London even. And, um, if you want to live somewhere else, we could do that.”

  Blimey O’Riley. We are talking about the man who loves his home town so much he has its name tattooed on his back. True. And what would he do about his job? Ryan’s worked for his family ever since leaving school at sixteen. I don’t think he’s got the skills or experience to do anything else. Ryan takes my hand. “Please Gaby,” he says. “Can you think about it? Take your time. I’ve got to go back home tomorrow. And Kirsty’s going to give ‘em a lift back to the airport. You’d make me the happiest guy in the world if you came with me.”

  I open my mouth, about to say, “but what about the cat sitting?” and then I remembered Kirsty’s reappearance, a clear signal she’d changed her mind about the three-month extension. Her big blog project just needs the last bit of work—presumably where she gets Jack back. I didn’t think I’d be able to watch that. It was bad enough wanting someone so badly and not having them. Lochalshie being so tiny, imagine having to bump into the happy couple every day. Kirsty would crow like mad too. If I’m back in Great Yarmouth, I won’t need to see any of it, and I can chalk the whole cat-sitting thing down to experience. Or perhaps that’s what I’ll persuade Ryan to do. Kirsty promised me a glowing reference. We could travel the world together, me working for Melissa and him doing odd mechanic jobs here and there.

  Ryan and I had plenty of fun in the ten years together, such as the first time we went on holiday together as eighteen-year-olds or the Christmas we had when we persuaded my mum and Ryan’s parents that no, we wouldn’t be doing the family duty thing this year because we wanted to spend it alone together. I attempted to make the full four-course Christmas dinner but misjudged how long a turkey takes to defrost and cook, so we ended up ordering takeaway from the local Indian and eating it in front of the telly in our pyjamas. It counts as one of my favourite Christmas’s.

  The happiest guy in the world though. The words don’t ring true. If I went onto the Dating Guru’s website and searched for things to say to your ex to make her come back, would that line appear there? And there are too many people ear-wigging this conversation. I’m reminded of our engagement, which also happened in a public place. Is it safer to say these things in front of an audience where the recipient feels under pressure to respond positively?

  “Ta-da!” Ashley puts the Caitlin/Blissful Beauty pizza in front of us. The topping is pink, the exact shade of the Blissful Beauty logo, and the letters BB made out in grated mozzarella, and silver stars made from goodn
ess only knows. It’s closer to a pudding in appearance than a main course and shouldn’t be appetising, but it smells heavenly. I lean over it, breathe in freshly baked bread, tomatoes, garlic and cheese and let out a sigh of contentment.

  Ryan screws his nose up, then remembers he’s supposed to be on his best behaviour. I move in for the kill. “Kayleigh, then? Was she the first?”

  I can’t see his feet, so I don’t know if they are motionless. I’m willing to bet they are because the hands that until now were fiddling around with the salt, pepper, vinegar and tomato sauce have stilled. There’s a pause five seconds too long before the automatic denial—yes, yes., how can you ask that? Then, he takes my hand, crushing my fingers so I fear for my circulation.

  “She was a one-off, Gaby!” A double squeeze of the digits there. “I promise! A mistake I’ll regret for the rest of my life. I made mine, you made yours. Anyway, Kirsty said everyone’s allowed one mistake, isn’t that right?”

  One mistake, eh? I rack my brain, and remember another receptionist at the garage a few years ago who was also beautiful and our age. Didn’t she resign in a hurry too? And what if it wasn’t because her grandmother died suddenly and she was overcome with grief as Ryan told me, but because he’d had a fling with her and ended it when the guilt set in? If I fix my memory on it, before that there was another saleswoman—aged 22—who left after six months because...

  ... her grandmother had multiple sclerosis and died, and she was overcome with grief.

  Wow. Not even different excuses. I hope Ryan’s donating money to the charity that supports MS. They flippin’ deserve it after the number of times he’s taken their name in vain to justify women having to leave the garage’s employment. I find myself on their side too. If the garage sacked them, how rotten unfair was that?