“Shall we begin again, then?”
“Oui!”
Poppy switches lanes and the BMW races past a sign marking the entrance to the Inverness Coast Guard Helicopter Search and Rescue Station.
“Did you see that?” I lean forward and watch the coast guard sign become a small black dot in the passenger side mirror. “Do you know what we just passed?”
“No,” Fanny says. “What?”
Poppy looks in her rearview mirror and taps her brakes.
“We just passed a coast guard base.”
“So?” Poppy frowns at me, pushing the gas again.
“So”—I look at Poppy and waggle my eyebrows—“I wonder if the coasties are as cute as Ashton Kutcher in The Guardian?”
“What is a coastie?” Fanny asks.
“Guardsmen,” Poppy corrects. “They’re called guardsmen, not coasties.”
“What is a coastie?” Fanny repeats.
I flip my visor down and look at Fanny in the lighted mirror. “A member of the Coast Guard. Haven’t you seen The Guardian with Ashton Kutcher?”
“Non.”
“What?”
Poppy and I look at each other with horrified expressions. Though we haven’t been friends for long, we somehow manage to tune into the same frequency and begin sending each other a flurry of telepathic messages.
Is she serious?
You tell me, she’s your best friend.
She hasn’t seen The Guardian?
Is that even possible?
Hasn’t every post-pubescent woman in the free world ogled—er, watched—Ashton Kutcher play a brash young recruit in the action-adventure drama about a small band of highly skilled Coast Guard rescue swimmers selflessly risking life and limb to save souls adrift on a ferocious sea?
We can’t allow one of our own to stumble around, alone in the dark. We have to show her the light.
“Oh, this situation tragique must be remedied as soon as possible, ma cher amie.” I flip the visor back up, pull out my iPhone, and check to see if The Guardian is available online. “Voila! The Guardian is available for download on iTunes and instant streaming on Amazon. We are watching it tonight.”
“You’re serious?”
“Completely!” Poppy says.
“It’s that good?”
“Fuck to the yeah!” I slip my iPhone back into my pocket. “Let’s put it this way. I would leap naked into the frigid black waters of the North Sea if I thought one of those guardsmen at the Inverness Station was half as sexy as Ashton Kutcher in The Guardian.”
We all laugh.
I am so happy I can’t stop from clicking my Wellies together. This is the way girl trips are supposed to roll. Laughing. Bonding. Talking about hot men. Traveling Pants moments.
Poppy and Fanny have dropped their swords, and, while they’re not exactly bosom buddies, they are making an effort to get along. Do you hear that wahhhhhhhhh? That would be a celestial choir singing.
My phone blings, and I wonder if Jesus is sprinkling a little more miracle dust over my life. If He can soften one French heart, He can soften two, right?
I hold my breath and mentally cross all of my fingers and toes as I pull my iPhone out of my pocket again and open my e-mail application. I have a new e-mail, but it’s not from Luc. It’s from Big Boss Lady. I feel like someone plunged a dagger in my heart and is twisting and pushing it slowly, deeper. The air leaks from my lips in one long, defeated exhalation. I push past the pain and read the e-mail.
TO: Vivia Perpetua Grant
FROM: Louanne Collins-London
SUBJ: Assignment
Vivia,
Your Bishop Raine piece was hilarious. That was quite a get! Well done.
I know you will deliver an equally splendid piece about your visit to MacFarlane Sheep Farm. Mr. MacFarlane provided us with a wonderful press packet of his farm, but please be sure to take some photographs of the women in your group learning how to shear sheep. Naturally, you will need to have them sign the standard photo consent release forms.
Next week, you head to Glasgow to interview the principal actors in A Strange Case, a cinematic adaptation of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The director has forced everyone connected with the picture to sign a confidentiality agreement. He’s keeping his casting choices hush-hush.
Your POC at Film City Studios in Glasgow is Tiernan Dawson. Check in with him at nine o’clock on the morning of the first at their press office, 401 Govan Road (T: 0141 445 7244).
All the best,
Louanne Collins-London
Managing Editor
GoGirl! Magazine
Fanny reaches forward and squeezes my shoulder.
“Est-il de Jean-Luc?”
“No.”
I hand my phone to Fanny to let her read Big Boss Lady’s e-mail because I can’t speak. Disappointment has clogged my throat. Fanny has had my phone for only seconds before she lets out an eardrum piercing squeal.
“Oh. My. God!”
“What?” Poppy hits the brakes. “What’s wrong?”
“Sorry!” Fanny’s voice is girlishly high. She giggles and squeals again before reading the e-mail to Poppy.
“So?”
“So,” Fanny says. “Everyone has been talking about A Strange Case. I don’t even follow pop culture – not like Vivia, anyway – and I’ve heard the rumors about the gigantic budget, the Oscar-winning director, and the battalion of actors vying for the lead role.”
“Oooo!” Poppy turns to look at me. “Maybe you’ll get to interview David Tennant.”
“Or Zac Efron,” Fanny pipes in. “Zac freaking Efron!”
“Zac Schmack.” Poppy takes her hand off the steering wheel and flicks her wrist as if shooing an annoying fly. “Did you miss the part about David Tennant?”
“David who?”
“Doctor Who.”
“Who is Doctor Who?”
“Who is Doctor Who?” Poppy looks at me with her mouth hanging open. “Cor! Are you sure your best friend is from France and not some antediluvian island? How can she not know about David Tennant?”
I shrug. “I don’t know who David Tennant is, either.”
“I am gobsmacked.” Poppy slaps a hand to her forehead. “You must know about Doctor Who. Your mum is British.”
Poppy’s mention of my mum unearths the wispiest ghost of a memory of visiting my grandparents at their home outside Manchester and watching strange television shows on their old Zenith while eating butter cookies with raspberry jam filling.
“Wait! Wasn’t Doctor Who a silly science fiction show? If David Tenant was on that show, he must be ancient.”
“Silly science fiction sh-show?” Poppy sputters. “What are you on about? You must be off your trolley! Doctor Who has been on the telly since the sixties. It is a significant part of British pop culture.”
“Ooo-kay, but it’s a science fiction show, right?”
Poppy puts both hands back on the wheel, inhales through her nose, and exhales through her mouth several times. Who knew a science fiction show could transform the unflappable Poppy Worthington into a hyperventilating Lamaze student? I have seriously taken the starch out of her stiff upper lip and it’s kinda funny.
“Doctor Who is a science fiction program about a Time Lord.”
“Time Lord?” Fanny repeats.
“Yes, the Doctor—or Time Lord—is a time traveling humanoid who explores the Universe in his TARDIS.”
“Tar-dis?”
I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“A time-traveling space ship.”
“Okay, then,” I say, opening my eyes wide. “It sounds…”
“I know, it sounds bonkers, but it is really quite brilliant…and funny. You should watch it some time.”
“I suppose I will have to since I might be interviewing Doctor Time Lord.”
“The Doctor.” Poppy corrects me. �
��The Doctor is a Time Lord.”
“Wait a minute!” I frown as the wispy memory materializes more fully. “I think I remember watching an episode with my Gran set on a planet of caves run by warlords who were, like, intergalactic arms dealers, or something.”
“Season twenty-three. ‘The Trial of the Time Lord!’”
“If you say so,” I shrug. “I just remember my Gran kept feeding me stale butter and jam cookies so I would—”
“Jammie Dodgers!”
“What?”
“The biscuits. They’re called Jammie Dodgers and they’re the Doctor’s favorite.”
“Dude! You’re totally fangirling over the Doctor.”
“She is, isn’t she?” Fanny chuckles.
“I am British.” Poppy sniffs. “I don’t do fangirl.”
“Bullshit!” I poke Poppy in the arm. “You’re a David Tennant fangirl. It’s cool. I used to get that way over Ronnie Radke, the singer from Falling in Reverse.”
“Used to?” Fanny cries.
“Yeah, I think I am outgrowing him.”
“The end of an era.”
“I know, right?” I switch my focus back to Poppy. “So, tell me, have you always jonesed for the geezers or is it just this old Doctor dude that gets your juices flowing?”
“Vivian!” Fanny slaps my shoulder. “That is disgusting.”
“It’s all good. I’m not an ageist.”
“Ha! Ha!” Poppy laughs. “David is not a geezer.”
“Leave her alone, Vivian.”
Look at me, bringing foes together under a common banner. Too bad I couldn’t pop into Doctor Who’s space ship and travel back to the early nineteenth century; I’ll bet a few hours with me and old Nappy and Wellington would be slapping each other on the backs and swapping war stories like a couple of old cronies. “Waterloo? Where’s that?”
Poppy looks in her rearview mirror at Fanny. “You really like Zac Efron?”
I pull down the visor and look at my best friend.
“Well,” Fanny confesses, blushing. “I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for singing High School Musical ditties.”
“I hear you,” Poppy says. “And I wouldn’t kick David out of bed for eating Jammie Dodgers.”
While my two friends engage in girl talk, I send Bishop Raine a text.
Text to 44 20 7834 6600:
Thanks for the interview. You scored me huge points with Big Boss Lady.
Text from 44 20 7834 6600:
Who is this?
Text 44 20 7834 6600:
Vivia.
When he doesn’t respond I send another text.
Text to 44 20 7834 6600:
Vivia Grant. We met at Boujis.
Text from 44 20 7834 6600:
Right. Are you the brunette with the flag pasties?
Text to 44 20 7834 6600:
No. I am the GoGirl! reporter in the sequined mini-dress you tongue raped.
Text from 44 20 7834 6600:
LOL. Right. I remember. Glad my musings put you in right with the man..or the wo-Man. If praise from authority is what motivates you, California Girl, I am glad I could give you a boost up the corporate ladder.
“That’s odd.”
“What’s odd?” Poppy asks.
“I just sent Bishop a text thanking him for the interview, and he responded as if he barely remembered meeting me.”
Poppy chuckles. “That’s Bishop. Don’t take it personally. You know the Hollywood types—they suffer from attachment ADD. They’re only faithful to whoever is fawning on them at the moment. What have you done for me lately mentality and all.”
“Wow. I thought you were friends.”
“I am friends with Bishop—as much as anyone can be friends with a celebrity.”
“I thought he was different.”
“He is definitely different.”
Poppy and Fanny laugh, but I stare bleakly at my girlish pink rain boots and curse my flirtation with Bishop “I fink my Mockney accent makes me sound urbane” Raine. What a fool I was jeopardizing my relationship with a truly urbane man for a night of hollow ego-stroking.
Then again, it’s not like I had an affair. It was one stupid, meaningless, unsolicited kiss. How was I supposed to know Bishop Raine would stick his tongue down my throat or that the bobblehead bitches would snap a picture of us kissing and send it to Steven Schpiel? I love Luc, but he’s being totally unfair about this one.
“Bishop Raine. Zac Efron. David Tennant. Steven Schpiel. Luc de Caumont.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I am fed up with men. If a fleet of female aliens landed on this planet and enslaved every last one of them, I wouldn’t care.”
“Well then,” Fanny says, “it’s a good thing we are spending the week on a farm with only women for company.”
Chapter 17
Make it Rain
Vivia Perpetua Grant @PerpetuallyViv
In 2009, a Scottish sheep farmer paid over $380,000 for an 8-month-old breeding ram. #BaaadInvestment
When we arrive at MacFarlane Sheep Farm, a cluster of charming cottages surrounded by rolling green pastures, the sun has settled low in the cleavage of two paps.
I read in my DK Eyewitness Travel Guide the Scottish refer to mountains as paps. I also learned: Drambuie, an aged malt whisky infused with honey and spices, is Scotland’s most popular potent potable; “sláinte,” which means to your health, is the preferred drinking toast; Ecclefechan Tart is a fruit pastry served with ice cream; and women outnumber men by five percent. Sophisticated alcoholic beverages, desserts served à la mode, and female domination. Something tells me I am gonna love this place.
Poppy follows the winding dirt drive to the end and parks the BMW beside a stone barn. Thick gray clouds have rolled across the sky like an old down blanket, just waiting to fall and shroud the world in darkness. A few determined rays of light punctured holes through the clouds and are streaming from the heavens to the hills, spotlighting herds of trembling sheep huddled together against the dying light.
“Have you ever seen anything more beautifully ominous?” I whisper, holding my iPhone up to snap a shot of the landscape. “I can almost see Rob Roy MacGregor reiving cattle from the hills.”
“It looks like a scene from Outlander,” Fanny murmurs.
A tall, barrel-chested, broad-shouldered man wearing jeans tucked into Wellies and a thin T-shirt walks out of the barn and stares at our car, a scowl marring his handsome face.
“I do believe we just found your Jamie, Sassenach.” I whisper to Fanny. “Sweet Shortbread! He’s one delicious-looking man.”
The scowl fades from the Scot’s face, replaced by a roguish grin. We open our doors and get out.
“Fàilte lassies! Fàilte tae MacFarlane croft.” He strides across the barnyard, closing the distance between us in three long-legged strides. “I didnea ken ye’d be arrivin’ so early.”
“My name is Vivia Grant,” I say, holding out my hand. “I am the columnist with GoGirl! I believe my editor contacted you.”
He takes my hand and shakes it.
“My name is Angus MacFarlane.” He says, switching from his thick Scottish brogue to slightly accented English. “Welcome to MacFarlane Farm, lassie.”
“Thank you.”
Angus quirks a brow. “Nice Wellies.”
I look down at my rain boots, the weak sunlight reflected off the glassine pink toes, and grin.
“Thanks!”
I am introducing the strapping Scot to my friends when several more strapping Scots emerge from the barn and form a semi-circle around Angus, muscular arms crossed over muscular chests.
I am vaguely aware that Angus is speaking. His lips are definitely moving, but my eyes are doing this crazy pendulum thing—as I swing my gaze from Angus to the hot Scots, Angus to the hot Scots.
Seriously? Some potent mystical substance must be in the water in the Highlands because the men are freaking huge—and gorgeous.
I look around for a stripper pole and Matthew McConaughey in black leather chaps and cowboy hat because we must have stumbled onto the set of Magic Mike III. That’s the only explanation I can think of for this freak testosterone explosion.
I am envisioning Angus kicking off his Wellies and dry humping the ground while I make it rain with a fistful of twenties, when Fanny elbows me in the ribs, pulling me abruptly and painfully from my dirty daydream.
“Ow!”
One of the Scots, a tall strawberry-blond hottie with a military crew cut and chiseled cheekbones, notices the rib jab and grins. I flush from the tips of my pink rubber clad toes to the tips of my ears.
“Vivia!” Fanny nudges me again. “Did you hear what Angus just said? He offered to take our luggage to our cottage while Fiona leads us on a quick tour of the farm.”
I narrow the focus of my gaze on Angus, only Angus. “You don’t grind, er, mind, I mean?”
“Och, ye’re havering,” Angus says, waving a hand at me. “Of course I don’t mind. Dinnea ye fash yerself.”
While Poppy opens the trunk to remove our luggage and Fanny wrestles half of the entire Louis Vuitton travel collection from the backseat, I pretend to send a text to avoid making eye contact with any of the Scots—but particularly the grinning strawberry-blond hottie. His piercing blue-eyed gaze has completely discombobulated me. It’s like he used laser vision to peek inside my brain and read my dirty little thoughts.
My phone blings and vibrates. I open my e-mail box and the find the message I have been waiting to receive ever since Luc walked out of our hotel room five days ago. My stomach flips.
TO: Vivia Perpetua Grant
FROM: Jean-Luc de Caumont
SUBJ: I love you
I haven’t called because I need some time to think. I’ve also been having problems with my mobile. I can’t access my voicemail or text messages, so if you need to reach me, please send an e-mail or call the chateau.
The term ended last week, which means I am free for the summer. My brother asked me to lead a bike tour for Aventures Caumont. I leave for the Côte d’Azur in a few days, but will call you when I return.
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