One Hot Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘How many suitors did she trot out this time?’ Raya’s mother is also a woman desperate for grandchildren to spoil.

  ‘None this time, especially after my last visit. I told her if she kept playing those games I wouldn’t return at all.’

  I laugh, imagining her mother’s face even as I silently acknowledge she’ll have some other angle to play. Raya’s mother is like a dog with a bone in her quest to find her only daughter a husband.

  ‘On the contrary, she spent most of my visit in bed, thrashing about and bemoaning the fact that she’d be dead and gone before I ever blessed her with grandchildren.’

  ‘Oh, man. I hate to think what she’ll have up her sleeve next. Maybe you should tell her you’re a lesbian.’

  With a protracted sigh, she tells me she’s already done that. ‘She said there’s no word for a woman who desires another woman in our native tongue, and I told her that hadn’t stopped amme Bahar. My aunt.’

  ‘Ouch. An inadvertent outing?’

  ‘Not at all. The family choses to ignore. Well, it was worth a shot,’ she says, sighing. ‘But speaking of shootings, how close were you to committing violence yesterday?’

  ‘Ivy told you.’

  ‘In an email.’ There’s an awkward pause where we both silently acknowledge their joint handling of this. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there to tell you in person like I’d hoped to be.’

  ‘I don’t like that you were both willing not to tell me indefinitely.’ I feel my shoulders rise along with a lick of anger. It’s there. Like a budding flame.

  ‘Is there an easy way to tell the one you love that her husband, the man she’d devoted several years to, was worth less than shit on her shoe?’

  Soraya rarely curses; in this case I think it’s well warranted.

  ‘It was confirmation,’ I say quietly. I hate admitting this to anyone, but it’s time I face facts. I ignored the signs and I’ve no one to blame but myself. ‘I still can’t pretend I’m comfortable you both hid this from me.’

  ‘You need to put yourself in my shoes. When I found these . . . these abominations, my first instinct was to tell you. You are my friend above all things, and friends deserve honesty. But you weren’t well, so in Ivy I had to trust.’

  My head hits the back of the sofa. Have I been such a basket case? Before the thought is fully formed, I already know.

  ‘I’m over it all.’

  Soraya’s melodious laughter floats over the line. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?’

  ‘Probably more apathy than fury, if I’m honest.’

  ‘While we’re on the topic of honesty, I need to tell you some tabloid TV show has been in contact with the office.’

  ‘TV show?’ My heart rate spikes.

  ‘Don’t worry—they were just sniffing around. Inevitable, I’m afraid. I’m told there are several rich families in East Asia who are short some millions following dealings with Marcus. And, of course, there’s Sheikh Ahmed. I do believe there would be a sizable queue to watch Marcus’ demise, were he not already dead.’

  This isn’t news. Not exactly. She’s hinted as much before, though the confirmation makes me feel ill. This is the reason I was almost arrested; Marcus made me partner in his business without telling me, then forged my signature on several fraudulent transactions. It was only because of Soraya’s quick arrangements that I was able to leave the country on her family’s jet.

  ‘I’d be at the front,’ I whisper. ‘I dread to think what would’ve happened if you hadn’t gotten me out.’

  ‘You’d have had a few days stay in a very warm jail cell, dear. That’s all. It was very easy to prove your innocence.’ Even though I ran. ‘Unfortunately, news of such things brings out the sharks.’

  ‘What do you think they’re looking for, these journalists?’

  ‘Salaciousness, I expect. Someone to blame.’

  ‘You mean me?’ I feel suddenly sick. Terrified.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. Things will blow over. You aren’t to blame.’

  ‘Then why do I feel so guilty?’ Still. In so many ways.

  ‘Guilt is in your DNA, Fin. Let it go. You married a rich man who you thought made his wealth honourably. Lived honourably. It’s not your fault that neither of these things were true. My God, I’m so cross the coward killed himself!’ Her final words sound as though expelled through gritted teeth and followed by a noise drawn from the back of her throat.

  ‘Please don’t spit on the travertine.’

  ‘Why? Do I pay you to clean it?’

  ‘I might end up doing it yet,’ I say, adding a wry laugh.

  ‘Always the comedienne.’

  ‘I’m not laughing,’ I reply, even though I clearly am. ‘I can’t think why those journalists are looking for me, because seriously, funds are getting pretty thin.’

  ‘I have your jewellery,’ she adds. ‘I can courier it to you.’

  ‘No.’ We’ve already discussed this. I didn’t know that our driver, gardener, maid and cook hadn’t been paid for six months. ‘You need to do as I ask. Please.’ Pay them what’s owed, their bonuses, too. Settle their visa fines with the labour courts. Arrange flights back to their homes in Nepal and the Philippines, if that’s what they want. All this and I had no idea. What must they have thought watching me traipse in and out of the house with my designer shopping bags, climbing into my Porsche while they worked unpaid? I want none of it—nothing. The trappings of my previous life are tainted.

  ‘I have someone working on their fines,’ she says wearily.

  ‘That’ll cost, too.’

  ‘He’s already on my payroll and that’s no concern of yours.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I say, not unkindly. ‘I appreciate your help.’ Again. Still. Always.

  ‘No. Enough. I will speak of it no more.’

  ‘Thank you. For everything.’

  ‘Stop. You are my friend and I’d now like to speak of other things.’

  ‘More interesting stuff? Great. How’s Eduard?’

  ‘Insatiable still,’ she replies in a sultry tone. ‘I’ve never known a man to last so long.’

  ‘No, me either.’ My response is a little more droll, because I don’t mean in the sack, though she’s told me of his stamina often enough. I’ve never known Soraya to entertain a man for so long, though this one is super-hot. Supermodel hot. Because he’s a model and he’s . . . also super-hot.

  ‘And speaking of other things, I have good news for you.’ She pauses dramatically. ‘A job interview!’

  ‘Soraya,’ I say in a warning tone.

  ‘Now, before you go getting all moralistic, it is only an interview.’

  ‘An interview where?’ And knowing her, the interview will be purely for appearances sake. I know she means well, but I hate the huge amount of favours I’m racking up from friends.

  ‘London. It’s a job perfect for you. You did say you loved living in London, didn’t you?’

  As she begins listing the company profile and their prestigious clientele, my mind starts to reel. I need a job—money—all of that. I know London having studied there, but am I ready to start again on my own?

  ‘How long before the interview?’ My heart rate speeds up and I can feel the phone slip a little in my wet palms.

  ‘I’m emailing you the details now. You need to set up a time as soon as you can. I must tell you, the opportunity is amazing—’

  I zone out from her validation; her recounting of how perfect a fit this will be. Instead, I pick up the local newspaper lying folded on the arm of the sofa. It’s a free circular, folded open to the classifieds page. I had no idea this thing still existed, I think, as my eyes scan the headlines.

  Household and electrical items for sale.

  Pets and livestock—a litter of kittens. Hens.

  Property for sale and rent—flats, cottages. A farm.

  Positions Vacant—it’s here where a small, square advertisement catches my eye.

  Site Manager


  Developer requires part-time assistant to the Project Manager in the inception stages of a local boutique hotel. Must be flexible and have excellent organisational skills.

  I’ll admit it’s not perfect, but it’s enough to make my heart pitter-pat as my eyes scan the text a second time.

  ‘Fin, darling, are you there?’

  ‘What? Yeah, sorry. I was just taking notes.’ Sort of.

  ‘But I’ve sent the information you need in an email. Make the appointment, book a flight to London. Use the townhouse for the night. The housekeeper is expecting your call.’ Her mother’s Knightsbridge townhouse. This is Soraya to a T. She sorts shit out. ‘Let me know how it goes.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘You don’t sound so enthused. This is perfect for you.’ I can hear the reprimand in her tone. She can’t help it; it’s just the way she is. I don’t doubt that it is perfect, other than I’ll be alone. Not that this would occur to Soraya.

  ‘I am,’ I reply. ‘I mean, I will be. It’s just, you know, a lot to take in.’ And I’m also a little distracted by the possibility I’m now holding in my hand.

  ‘Good. I must dash, darling.’

  ‘I’ll go check my emails now.’

  We make our goodbyes and hang up. And I do check my emails . . . right after I apply for the position in the classifieds.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fin

  Sulphates. Isopropyl alcohol. Formaldehydes . . . hang on; formaldehyde. Isn’t that used for embalming?

  Making a mental note to ask Mr. Google later, I place the bottle from the delivery on the newly installed shelf, straightening the bottle next to it, which leads to my repositioning its companion, ensuring the labels of the whole row are aligned.

  ‘Oi.’ Nat pops her head around the door of the treatment room, or the room I’d rename, if it was up to me. Which it isn’t. I’m only required to carry boxes of wax, spatulas and other unfathomable stuff. I’ve tried to impart one or two bits of advice, but Ivy isn’t interested in any of my business acumen, or the fact that I’ve loads of experience arranging huge promotions and corporate events. Major hotel chains. Racing circuits. High-end brands. Nope, I’m only fit for donkey work. Oh, and answering the phone.

  This is Auchenkeld High Street, not Fifth Avenue, she’d said.

  I’d told her I thought treatment room makes the place sound a little like a dentist, though I suppose having your hoo-ha waxed is marginally less painful than say, a root canal.

  ‘What?’ I eventually answer, meeting Nat’s tone without turning around.

  ‘There’s a hottie out front asking for you and your OCD tendencies. And stop fiddling with those bottles. You know I’ll only mess them up when you’re not here.’

  ‘Me?’ My heart literally stops; Ka-thunk, restarting again as I inhale. Christ on a cracker, what if the hottie is Rory? Turning to face her, I don’t get to ask if it’s him, because I’m too dazzled by her ensemble, alternate words falling from my mouth instead.

  ‘What on earth are you wearing?’ Didn’t Ivy tell her we’re here to work? We’d all agreed to come in this morning to help with a delivery and to smooth any teething problems following the opening week. In short, today is a rubber gloves day and Nat is dressed more for a stripper’s pole. ‘I’ve got panties bigger than those shorts.’

  ‘Oh, babe,’ she says stepping closer. ‘That’s—’ her hand reaches out, squeezing my elbow, ‘—so sad. I hope you weren’t wearing them the other night.’ Her smile is full of sympathy and I realise she’s actually being serious.

  As she turns left out of the door, I pull myself together. I’ve always liked underwear. Tiny lace panties and demi-cup bras, not that I’d ever wear them with legwarmers and heels as daywear. But I’m not kidding about her shorts. I do have larger items of underwear, though make a mental note to throw those unattractive items out. I’ll wear my expensive underwear from now on. For myself.

  I am woman, hear Rory make me roar!

  Rory. Oh, shit. But it can’t be him. He can’t be lost again, can he? Because he didn’t know who I was the other evening.

  I shake off my anxiety and turn right into the main salon, almost walking smack bang into Ivy.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I ask, spying the man over her shoulder. Not Rory. He’s a little shorter, though massively built. And Rory’s no slouch. He faces the shop window giving me the opportunity to study him from his close-cropped dark hair down. Shoulders as wide as the side of a house, the massive bulk tapering to a trim waist and a backside you could bounce pennies off.

  ‘No idea,’ Ivy whispers back. ‘But it’s a shame,’ she continues, with a slow shake of her head. ‘The best ones are always batting for the other side.’

  ‘How’d you know he’s . . . you know?’ I whisper, pulling on the back of her shirt.

  ‘Well, if he’s not gay, his boyfriend is labouring under a massive misapprehension. Skinny jeans,’ she adds sadly and as though that answers everything. Over her shoulder, she slides me one of those looks. You know the kind. A look that says, I know. ‘A couple of years in LA has my gaydar honed like a high powered laser beam.’

  LA to this place. There’s still something not quite right about that.

  ‘Did Nat say he wanted me?’

  ‘Not for what’s between your legs, I’ll bet. Ow! What was that for?’

  Mr. Body-Beautiful turns at Ivy’s exclamation.

  ‘Would you look at that—the fine Finola!’

  Deep set brown eyes and a wide smile in a face that’s so familiar on a person that is so not gay. I have personal knowledge of this, unless he’s switched teams since he screwed his way through half of the population of our high school. He may also have fumbled with my virginity while we were off our faces on whisky one time. Normal teenagers get drunk on cheap cider, but we had to go with the hard stuff. But fumbled. Yeah. Not succeeded. Not beyond second base. And so awkward the following day. However, it’s a tale I’ll take to my grave, because this hunk of muscle happens to be Ivy’s big brother.

  Big being the operative word.

  ‘Mac!’ I exclaim, darting forward to be pulled into a bear-like hug. ‘Jesus, when did you become a giant?’

  ‘Say what you mean,’ Mac says, laughing and all warm brown eyes and perfect teeth.

  ‘You looked like a string bean last time I saw you.’ My words are muffled by his solid sweater covered chest. Cashmere, if I’m not mistaken.

  ‘Maybe you should come home more often, then.’ There’s no accusation in his tone and I can almost hear the smile in his words. ‘And talkin’ of changing, last time we hung out,’ he says, pushing me back, one hand curled around my shoulder. ‘You had blue hair.’

  I feel my hand self-consciously at my head. Although the blue went a long time ago, I’m still getting used to short hair. ‘Has it really been that long?’

  ‘What, since you abandoned us?’ His eyes crinkle ever so slightly in the corners, his hand uncurling from my shoulder to rub a darkly bristled chin. ‘Well, now, Ivy was going through her Twilight phase, hoping the sparkly one would ditch the one wi’ the resting bitch face—’

  ‘You take that back!’

  ‘And you wore converse and ripped jeans, not designer denim and Gucci running shoes.’ His eyes travel the length of me, appreciatively. Okay, so I’m not really dressed for cleaning, but a girl has her standards, only mine are a little further from the pole than Nat’s.

  ‘Ah. Now I see. Ivy said you’d gone gay,’ I say, swatting his chest. The Mac I know would barely know the difference between a muumuu and jeans in general, let alone be able to correctly label designer wear.

  ‘You know better than to believe that doaty wee minx,’ he says, shooting his sibling a glare.

  ‘Shut it, bawbag,’ Ivy fires back, slipping back into the vernacular, though her accent was always much milder than his.

  ‘You’re jealous of my good looks. Just ‘cos you’ve got a face that’d make an onion cry.’

  ‘K
ids, settle down,’ I interrupt with a smile I can’t hide. ‘It’s great to see some things don’t change.’

  ‘Besides, Fin here knows that’s not true,’ he says, pulling my body into his and draping an arm over my shoulder. ‘Right, hen?’ His chuckle echoes through his chest, warm and masculine and not unlike the man himself. And suddenly I do remember how not true this is, in a little more detail than I’d like.

  Please, God, don’t let this show on my face, I silently pray. My cheeks begin to heat at the thoughts of our drunkenly joined pasts. It was like getting it on with your cousin that evening.

  ‘It’s wellies you’ll be needing, not designer gear.’ Mac lifts his hand to push a lock of hair behind my ear and this, coupled with my memories, pushes the moment up to DEFCON awkward. I spring from his arms, coming to stand next to his sister.

  ‘But it’s good to see you,’ he says, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘What are you doin’ back in town? I thought you’d married some mogul from down south and were off living the highlife abroad?’

  My fixed smile falters, though I can feel the corners of my mouth twitching as I try to keep it in place, all my previous warmth and lightness draining away. He might be right about my clothing; Gucci shoes and Balmain Jeans. Sweater by Donna Karan. These are my last season’s wardrobe, and I don’t just mean they’re from the previous fall’s catalogue. They’re actually my very last season of designer wear. As in, I’m no longer wealthy enough to buy these sorts of things. I doubt I have enough in my checking account to buy a pair of Wellington boots for the rain.

  Focus on the clothes. Don’t think about what else he said.

  ‘What?’ Mac asks, his smile falling. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Well, don’t I feel like a dildo at a wedding?’ Both our heads swing to Ivy and her absurd exclamation. ‘Hang on,’ she says, scrunching up her nose. ‘That wasn’t right.’

  ‘Pretty sure it’s spare prick at a wedding, brat,’ Mac says, half-laughing.

  God bless that girl intervening at my distress, even with that bout of ridiculousness.