One Hot Scot

by Donna Alam

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Rory replies, lifting our hands to his chest, curling his larger ones around mine. ‘So why don’t you just piss off.’

  ‘And let you take advantage of a poor, defenceless widow? No chance.’

  He stares down at me, his gaze watchful and confused—demanding an explanation. An explanation I can’t offer, because I literally cannot speak; shock, anxiety and fear weighting my tongue.

  ‘Give it a rest, Mel,’ Natasha says, pushing her way into the room. ‘She might be poor right now, but she’s no’ defenceless.’ She shoots me a supportive smile. ‘The kettle’s boiled, by the way.’

  ‘No, but she’s grieving!’ Malady screeches.

  ‘Not divorced?’ I doubt anyone but me hears him ask.

  I still can’t reply as Nat interjects in her best Godfather voice, ‘Marcus Pettyfer sleeps with the fishes, capisce?’

  ‘Is that you’re married name?’ interjects Malady. ‘Why does it seem familiar?’

  ‘Put a cork in it,’ scolds Nat as Malady brings a hand to her mouth.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Malady spits through splayed fingers, and instinctually, I know what she’s about to say next. ‘Pettyfer, the Sheikh’s petty thief! That’s what they called your husband, didn’t they?’ They. She means the press. ‘He stole millions—you had wardrobes full of designer shoes and handbags! And you drove around in a Rolls Royce while your cleaning ladies hadn’t been paid in six months!’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ I protest. ‘They didn’t say. Not until afterwards, not until he was dead. I didn’t kill him!’ I actually squeak when I realise what I’ve said, my expression crumpling as Rory’s silver gaze turns to steel. ‘I—I didn’t, despite what the newspapers said. I told you, you wouldn’t want to know,’ I almost wail.

  ‘Oh, fuck.’ Nat’s whole body seems to sag. ‘You haven’t told him?’

  ‘Had you any plans to?’ Rory asks quietly, my hands still in his.

  ‘I didn’t know how. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.’ He looks almost physically hurt and my heart sinks. ‘But it does. Oh, Rory, it really does. Rory, please. You’re hurting my hands.’

  His fingers relax. Not so welcome is his action of loosening them. Or of his taking a step back.

  ‘Now see what you’ve done,’ Nat fumes, turning on Malady. ‘If you’d kept your neb out, this wouldn’t be happening.’

  ‘Me? She’s the one whose affairs with rich sheikhs caused her husband to top himself.’

  ‘Where the hell are you spouting this shit from?’

  ‘It was in the newspaper,’ she replies, affronted.

  ‘From the reliable source of news whose yesterday front page read An Oompa Loompa Let Me Suck On His Willy Wonka? You know Jack shit, you stupid cow. You’re a joke, and so’s your fucking marriage.’

  ‘I’ll not let you talk to me like that!’ Malady puffs out her chest like an indignant hen.

  ‘Why not? Everyone else does. D’you think the whole village doesn’t know my Lloyd only works so many hours because he can’nae stand his wife?’

  ‘And I’ll thank you to keep my husband out if this.’

  ‘Sure, why not,’ Nat says, throwing up her hands, her voice becoming louder. ‘And yet, I still wonder if he knows his wife has had more fingers inside her than a ten-year-old bowling ball!’

  Apoplexy is a good word. It’s also a perfect description of how Melody looks right now. She looks strangled and yet fit to burst—veins popping out on her head—right before she charges for Nat. Which is a mistake, in my opinion, because Nat has at least eight inches on her.

  ‘I’ll have ye!’ she yells. Like a berserker. A total berserker.

  ‘Go for it,’ Nat responds laughing and throwing out her hands. ‘Come on—cut a bitch!’ In the split second it takes her to throw back her head, Malady’s gaze shifts, eyes alighting on the knife next to June’s scones.

  ‘No!’ I yell, as Malady’s arm stretches out. Suddenly, cups, teabags, bottles of tint and tubes of hair colouring scatter to the floor as Rory reaches for the mad woman, hauling her from her feet.

  ‘Enough. That’s enough!’ he yells, dangling her a little higher and out of reach of the knife.

  ‘I’ll have her!’ she yells again, struggling against him. ‘She’ll no’ speak about me like that!’

  ‘Why not? It’s true,’ Nat taunts.

  ‘You.’ Rory points a finger at Nat. ‘Not helping. And you,’ he says, his gaze flashing to mine. ‘I can’t do—not here. I’ll sort this,’ he says giving mental Melody a small shake. ‘And you come and find me. You know where. And, Fin? Be prepared to stay a while, because it seems to me you’ve a lot to tell.’

  And with that, he manoeuvres his manic cargo through the open door.

  ‘Hey, Malady. TripAdvisor called!’ yells Nat and her parting shot. ‘They want you to know your vag won first place as the most visited place in Scotland award!’

  ‘I’ll fuck you up!’ she yells, her voice moving away down the hall.

  ‘And I’m gonna tell everyone you’ve got ginger pubes!’

  ‘Not helpful,’ I say, the distant protests of Melody still calling out.

  ‘It’s making me feel better,’ Nat retorts. ‘She gets on my tits. She’s a real cock pocket—a fucking cunt canoe.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘And what did tall, dark and fuck me mean by find him?’

  ‘He’s not dark.’ Not terribly.

  ‘His fucking mood was,’ she says, carrying on. ‘So does he mean find him now, or when he’s sorted his head out?’

  Oh, hell. ‘He means find him—over at the house.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Fin

  ‘The world is a-fucking-gainst me.’

  ‘What? What’s gone on? Who do I need to open a can of I’ll-fuck-you-up on?’

  ‘No one.’ At least not yet. In Ivy’s tiny Fiat, I sit at the entrance to the rapidly flooding causeway, the rain pounding against the windscreen so hard the wipers can barely cope with the downpour. I’d be risking it crossing in a SUV. In this tiny Italian tin can I’d be afloat in no time.

  I’d followed Rory out of the salon; he’d had maybe a half hour head-start at best. I should have followed him straight away but I’d panicked and second guessed. Would he still want me? Was I going to him only to be spurned? But there was only one course of action; I needed to find him. To explain. To tell him how much he means to me.

  Time and tide wait for no one? Fuck Nature. The only thing stopping me from bawling my eyes out is Nat on the other end of the line.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yeah. Yes, I am. But I’m not where I want to be, because the fucking tide has fucking well come in.’ I’m not going to cry or sob, but I didn’t say I wasn’t going to wail.

  ‘Ah, no way. What’s to do?’

  ‘I’m just going to sit here and stare at the ocean until it goes the other way.’ Sit here and stare over the small stretch while thinking about what a fuck up I am.

  ‘Don’t be an arse. It’ll be hours before it’s safe to cross. Come back and we’ll make some sort of a plan.’

  ‘There’s no planning my way out of this one. And what if Malady turns up again?’

  ‘That’s not likely. She’ll no’ show her face again for a while, not after showing her real one today.’

  ‘I’m such a dumb—’

  ‘If you say fuck again June says to tell you she’ll wash out your mouth.’

  ‘I’m on speaker phone?’ My question is more groan than actual words.

  ‘That you are, dearie,’ comes June’s cheery tone. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were so keen on the young man?’

  ‘I don’t think I realised myself until today. I told myself it was just, well, sex.’

  ‘There’s no such thing, hen.’

  ‘Unless your name is Natasha,’ the woman herself scoffs.

  ‘You keep tellin’ yourself that,’ says June dryly. ‘You might not have menti
oned him, but I could tell the minute you walked in he meant a lot to you.’

  ‘I didn’t tell anyone. I guess I just wanted to keep him—it all—to myself.’

  ‘Apart from that first time.’ Nat chuckles. ‘You know, when Ivy got shit-faced drunk? You shared plenty then.’

  ‘Oh, did she kiss and tell?’ asks June, a kind of starry-eyed thrilled.

  ‘There wasnae much talk about kissing, but her skirt was full of tells.’

  I brace my free arm on the steering wheel. Then bang my head on it repeatedly.

  ‘What was that?’ June sounds startled, so I stop.

  ‘She’s probably head-butting the steering wheel.’

  ‘Young lady,’ June chastises. ‘You come home.’

  So I do.

  Crossing, take two, is much later. It’s dark and still wet. Actually, the weather is wet enough to put anyone off travelling over an already ocean swept road. Not that I’m completely alone, it seems, as a silver van follows me. The winding roads aren’t the easiest to navigate in the dry or daytime; wet and at night they’re almost frightening, my hands grasping the wheel so tight that I have to keep flexing my fingers to ease the strain. The trailing van doesn’t help, sitting on my tail, its lights bright enough to make me anxious.

  I finally slow as my headlights sweep the weather-worn sandstone lions; the gatekeepers of Tremaine House. Rubbing my temples, I make the tight turn almost one handed, the beginnings of a stellar headache kicking in.

  ‘Asshole,’ I mumble as the van passes the end of driveway slowly. For a moment, I thought it might follow me.

  At the back of the house, I park near the stables, right next to Rory’s truck. The cottage is empty, I can tell. It looks kind of abandoned, though that could be my anxieties speaking here. I don’t get out of the car, not right away. The prospect of seeing him, of explaining my idiocy, is all too terrifying. But I’ve come this far, and some might see it as some sort of kismet that we’ve met a second time. Hit it off a second time.

  I’ve been broken and damaged, but I feel none of those things when I’m with him.

  Get out of the car. You can only try. I don’t bother locking it, wary that I might be making a journey back again.

  The scullery door is unlocked, the kitchen door beyond also. As my boots echo on the flagstone floor, I suddenly realise I haven’t changed since this morning; leggings and, what were once, a high shine pair of riding boots. Gucci, of course. A teal fine knit sweater and a parka swiped from Ivy. I run my hand through my hair in an attempt to tidy it and realise I don’t have any makeup on, and haven’t all day.

  I’m not going to win any award for most pulled together today.

  The winding narrow service hallways feel excruciatingly long. It’s almost like they’ve grown and lengthened since yesterday, but as I begin to climb the stairs to the first floor, I hear his voice and think he must be on the phone . . . until I hear another voice, this one with a much higher pitch.

  ‘Rory, darling,’ the voice purrs seductively. ‘Look at the picture. Does it look like a lie?’

  I stop in my tracks, my heart taking up residence in my throat. Though it’s hard to make out Rory’s words, hers I hear just fine. I don’t like her tone. No, her tone frightens me. Makes me want to run away, because I don’t want to be involved with another man of this ilk. A philanderer. A cheat. Instead of listening to my fear, I edge my way closer, my feet taking me to the entrance of the room earmarked for the cocktail bar, where my body practically hugs the wall.

  ‘Looks authentic, sure.’ He sounds almost casual, but for the touch of something more tense in his tone. ‘I’ll give you that and my congratulations, but I’ve no idea what you’re doing here, Beth.’

  Beth. She doesn’t sound like a Beth. More like a Clarissa or a Simone. Someone’s spoiled little princess.

  ‘I told you, I flew up in the jet with Kit, though I had to beg him to give us a little time alone. I have to tell you,’ she adds with a tinkling laugh, ‘he isn’t terribly impressed.’

  ‘You told him,’ Rory states rather flatly.

  ‘There’s no hiding, silly. I’m bursting out of my clothes!’

  ‘You look the same to me.’

  ‘What a delicious compliment. Come closer,’ she coaxes. ‘I’ll let you feel. Give me your hand.’

  Nervous before, but just plain sick now, I begin to feel the pinch of my nails against the skin of my palms. The only thing keeping me upright and here is the need to know conclusively, to know that I’m not hearing things. To be sure. But my fear is there in Rory’s words.

  ‘And you told him it was mine,’ he says now angrily.

  My heart plunges from my throat to the pit of my gut, but still I can’t move.

  ‘But of course, and I reinstated the building contracts. We’re going to be family after all.’

  ‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ he grates out. ‘No wonder he left me that fucking voicemail—he said he was going to tear off my balls. This is your doing,’ Rory spits. ‘You crazy—’

  ‘Don’t be mad, darling. I had to tell him. You weren’t listening. You said you’d come home. But don’t worry, I told him you’d proposed.’

  I inhale a sharp breath, the string holding together the fragments of my fragile heart with an audible snap.

  ‘You really are full of shite, Beth.’ He laughs then, though he sounds far from happy. ‘There’s no fucking way it’s mine, and I’m for sure not marrying your crazy arse.’

  My feet begin to move, but not in the direction I expect them to. I’m not leaving. Instead, I’m suddenly on the threshold of the room, where Rory stands, a sonagram image in hand.

  ‘It’s not mine. I always wear a condom and I check . . . ’

  Oh, Rory. That’s not true.

  It’s a strange thing to watch his emotions turn: anger to confusion, confusion to shock, shock to fear, and as the grand finale, fear to regret. It’s all there in his gaze; a gaze now pleading with mine, each emotion having flickered momentarily to life. And then died. Much like my insides.

  ‘Fin.’ From the other side of the room, Rory’s neck moves as he swallows past the weight of his lie.

  ‘How wonderful—I’m so pleased you’re coming around to the idea, Daddy. Fin is a darling name for a boy!’

  She looks like her voice; even from her back, I can tell. A spoiled city princess. Like the one I used to be. Rory stands rigid—stunned. I suppose I might be heartened by the lack of response his fiancé shows; she doesn’t notice, doesn’t see the nuances of this man. As she steps closer, sliding her arms around his neck, those thoughts turn to ash.

  I can’t help the sound that escapes my mouth, past a fist that holds back gut wrenching sobs. I don’t hear his response as I stumble away, the parquet tiles slippery beneath my feet.

  I can hear him shouting my name, but I don’t wait. Unlike Lot’s wife, I won’t look back at what once was.

  Stumbling, fumbling, running; I have one hand against the wall, the other clapped to my lips. I need to be outside.

  I’m going to vomit. Please don’t let it be here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be near him ever again.

  The pain in my chest is sharp, but I’m at the front door without even realising, not registering that Ivy’s car is out back.

  I don’t care. I’ll walk home. I’ll swim. I’ll hide. I’ll crawl under a bush and fucking die.

  My shoulder registers his fingertips as I jerk away, pulling hard on the heavy front door. I know I’m crying, sobbing, mumbling words that aren’t wholly sentient, as I duck under his outstretched arms and into the cold, dark night . . .

  . . . and into the flash of a camera.

  Finola, how does it feel to have your husband back?

  Fin, did you know he’d faked his own death? Did you help him?

  Fi—do you know where he hid the millions he stole? Has your staff been paid?

  Mrs. Pettyfer, how does Kit Tremaine feel about this? Were you lovers before
?

  Does your new bloke know his fiancée is already married?

  Lights flash so brightly, it’s like being reborn. Into hell. I’ve been photographed before, some red carpet affairs, and always felt like meat then. This. This right now, I have no words for. I can’t really comprehend their questions, my mind still back in that room watching her slide her arms around him.

  Is it true your husband encouraged you to sleep with Sheikh Ahmed to distract him from his theft?

  Fifi, is it true you were once a high class call girl?

  A hand catches my elbow from behind; despite the chaos in front of me, I jerk from it as I turn and hiss. ‘Stay away from me.’

  I step on the first stair, shielding my eyes from the glare of lights, faltering and awkward as I stumble again. It’s with instinct, rather than gratitude, that I grasp the hand reaching out for me again, catching my forearm and pulling me up from my temporary collapse. In one smooth movement, I’m tucked into his side. My heart sighs Rory, even as, instinctually, I know it isn’t him.

  ‘Don’t answer,’ he murmurs in a deep baritone. ‘Keep your head down.’

  I don’t need the instruction, like I don’t need to know him, even as my body responds, pressing closer to his side.

  I peek up from under my lashes, and while he looks so much like Rory, his touch feels all wrong.

  Kit—Kit! What’s your take on the husband?

  Will you be expecting a cut of his stolen millions?

  Kit—did you pay her?

  His body draws tight as we reach the bottom step, surrounded by questions, cameras, and flashing lights. Kit opens the door to something low and sleek—I know instantly it’s a Mercedes—buffering his body between the door and the crush. Arms still around my shoulders, he pushes me into the passenger seat, a moment later sliding into the opposite side.

  ‘Fin, I presume?’ In the absence of words, I nod my head. ‘Fucking Anna,’ he mutters to himself, as the engine purrs to life.

  ‘What?’ My head snaps up.

  ‘Anna’s my assistant.’ He frowns as he pulls away, narrowly avoiding one of the more persistent yelling figures. ‘She led me to believe you were a man.’