by Alice Ross
‘Morning, gorgeous,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek.
Flora wrinkled her nose. It was sweet of him to say so, but she wouldn’t put herself in the ‘Gorgeous’ category, even when she wasn’t in mismatched pyjamas with unbrushed teeth and bed-hair.
‘Joe has a surprise for you,’ announced Morag excitedly.
Flora’s heart nosedived. She’d had quite enough of Joe’s surprises to last her the next half-century.
‘Hurry up and get ready,’ her mum urged.
‘Actually, I’m not feeling that great,’ croaked Flora, apprehension scuttling through her. ‘I thought I might just stay in bed and—’
‘Oh no. You won’t want to miss this.’
‘You really won’t, Flor,’ concurred Joe, his eager expression reinforcing Flora’s suspicion that any demurring would serve as much purpose as anti-freeze in the Sahara.
‘So? What do you think?’ Joe pressed, half an hour later.
They were in the centre of Aberboyne. Outside a pebble-dashed, semi-detached house. A house Flora knew all too well.
‘It’s your gran’s old place,’ she said, stating the obvious.
‘I know.’ Joe produced a key from the pocket of his jeans with a flourish worthy of any magician. Then, after unlocking the door, he pushed it open and gestured for her to enter.
Trepidation stealing up from her toes, Flora did as he bid, coming to a standstill in the hall. She’d visited the house many times when his gran lived here, before she’d passed away in the autumn, an embolism bringing about her sudden demise. Despite the place standing empty over the winter months, it still smelled of wine gums and piccalilli.
‘Well?’ Joe’s grin was so wide, Flora wondered it didn’t split his face. ‘What do you think?’
She puckered her brow. ‘About what?’
He rolled his eyes in mock despair. ‘About us living here. We could do it up. Make it exactly the way we want it. I could do most of the work myself. I’m learning loads from the other trades. That way we’d keep the costs down and have more money for furniture and stuff.’
Panic began fluttering in Flora’s chest. ‘But I… I thought your parents wanted to sell it.’
‘They did. Before our engagement.’
‘Right.’ Flora caught her bottom lip between her teeth as the filaments of the web tightened a shade further around her. Now would be the perfect time to tell him how she felt. To put the record straight and bring an end to all this nonsense. But he looked so happy, the thought of what it might do to him made her feel sicker than she already did.
‘We could knock this out,’ he said, striding into the lounge and resting a hand on the adjoining kitchen wall. ‘Be all open-plan. It’s what everyone’s doing these days. And upstairs we could use the small room as a study. Until we need to convert it into a nursery,’ he added with a wink.
Oh God. Sweat prickled Flora’s armpits. Whether she was about to take a very sharp pin to Joe’s happiness bubble or not, she had to put an end to this. It was driving her nuts. And it wasn’t fair on him either. There he was, concocting all kinds of plans, blissfully unaware of how they were the very last thing she wanted. Summoning the necessary courage, she dragged in a breath of wine gum/piccalilli-infused air, and on the exhale opened her mouth to begin her speech – the speech she’d rehearsed in her head dozens of times. But, before she could vocalise a word, a call came through the front door.
‘Cooee. Only me. What are you two lovebirds up to in there?’
It was Mrs McLuckie from the post office, who lived in the adjoining house. Her brassy permed head appeared around the open door. ‘Don’t tell me. You’re moving in,’ she exclaimed.
‘We are,’ confirmed Joe, puffing out his chest.
Mrs McLuckie clapped her hands together, before scuttling over and yanking Flora into a hug. ‘I can’t wait to tell Angus,’ she gushed, referring to her husband who worked at the pub. Between the two of them, Flora had no doubt that every Aberboyne household would be updated with this latest development in her life within a maximum of two hours. ‘We’ve been wondering who our new neighbours would be. Ooh, it’s going to be lovely having you two next door. You must be so excited. How fabulous being young and making all these plans for your future.’
Flora bit back a sigh, wishing she dared confess that none of this had featured in her plans for her future. Not one single bit of it. At least not at the tender age of twenty-two. But then again, none of her life had panned out how she’d imagined it thus far…
As a teenager Flora had dreamed of going to university. She’d excelled in maths and science at school and had planned to go on to study structural engineering. She’d wanted to travel, see things, experience different cultures, use a gap year to make a difference to the world – like helping build a school in South America, or teaching in Africa. Whether or not she would have done any of those things, she’d never know. Because she hadn’t had a chance to try. All opportunity had been wiped from her menu, the same day her dad had been wiped off his motorbike - by an Italian tourist driving on the wrong side of the road.
Flora had been seventeen at the time, studying for her Highers, on track for the grades she needed to secure a place on her chosen course at Edinburgh University. Her dad’s death, however, had not only knocked her academic goals off track, but had derailed her entire life. Unable and unwilling to leave her mum, who’d taken years to recover from the tragedy – and would probably never be fully reconciled with it - Flora had remained by her parent’s side, in Aberboyne. But did that mean that that was it now? That, scarcely into her twenties, her life would always be in Aberboyne? That the nearest she’d come to experiencing foreign cultures would be a takeaway curry on a Friday night? And the nearest she’d come to her structural engineering dream would be putting together flat-pack furniture? And as for doing it all with Joe, how could she possibly be sure that he was the right man for her? She hadn’t even kissed another boy, never mind had another relationship. And the way Joe had become her boyfriend, had also been via an alternative, unplanned route. There’d been no surreptitious fancying, no shy looks ping-ponged across the classroom, no fluttering butterflies or blushing acceptances of first dates. That development, just as with all major changes in her life, could be traced back to the day of her dad’s death…
News of the tragedy having been relayed to the school, reducing Flora and her close friends to snivelling wrecks, her teacher had appointed Joe to accompany her home. Up until then, Flora hadn’t had much to do with him. Living up to his name, he’d been an average Joe – average build, average looks, average intelligence. Like the whiteboard, desks, and wonky poster of the solar system on the wall, he’d formed part of the background. And, because of that, Flora had never awarded him much thought. On the worst day of her life, however, he’d been kind and sweet, and hadn’t minded at all when she’d blubbed incessantly and wiped her snotty nose on his new blazer. He’d simply and sympathetically delivered her into the arms of her distraught mother, before silently slinking off, returning four days later bearing flowers and condolences, and being invited in for a cup of tea. From there on in, he’d always been around – just like a loyal, faithful, old dog.
Rather than love at first sight, Flora’s feelings for him had developed gradually – warming up like one of Morag’s chicken casseroles in the slow cooker. However, accompanying those feelings had been the constant nagging question that, had it not been for her dad’s death, would she and Joe ever have teamed up? She loved him. How could she not? He was kind, considerate, funny, hardworking. And he worshipped the ground she walked on. But was that enough? Did she love him more as a friend than a future husband? And why did merely imagining spending the rest of her life with him fill her with terror, and the thought of having his children ignite a raging panic attack?
‘You all right, dear?’ enquired Mrs McLuckie. ‘You’re ever so pale.’
‘Not feeling great,’ croaked Flora, having the sensation of standing
on sinking quicksand. ‘Think I’d better go home.’
Then, before anyone could utter another word, she shot out of the door and hared down the street.
After informing Morag that she didn’t feel well – which wasn’t a lie – Flora made straight for bed. She snapped shut the curtains and, without bothering to undress, crawled under the duvet, wrenching it right up over her head. Lying there, engulfed in swirling panic, she knew she’d have to man up and nip all of this in the rapidly burgeoning bud. Because if she didn’t, the way the weeks were slipping by, she’d soon find herself being nudged up the red carpet at Glenduff – the eyes of the entire village once again upon her. And, in a repeat of her failed recorder recital, she knew she wouldn’t be able to go through with it.
‘Joe called to see how you were,’ Morag informed her, when Flora eventually dragged herself downstairs late afternoon, in such a fug she tripped over her own foot three steps from the bottom, and toppled down the rest, landing on her knees. ‘He said you weren’t answering your mobile.’
‘I switched it off,’ muttered Flora, rubbing her knees, and feeling no less exhausted for her duvet time. She’d tried reading but, after staring at the same page for twenty minutes not taking in a single word, had closed first the book, then her eyes, hoping sleep would allow her some respite. That, too, had proved a fruitless endeavour. Leaving her completely shattered.
Evidently detecting her less-than-enthusiastic tone, Morag narrowed her eyes. ‘Everything all right between you two?’
A faint glimmer of hope dawned on Flora’s horizon. Here was a chance, an opportunity to finally admit – after weeks of hauling around the burden – that things weren’t all right. That she didn’t want to get married. Not to Joe. Not to anyone. That she was too young; she needed to live a little; establish her own identity in the world before becoming half of someone else’s. Merely imagining the relief that would piggyback her words once they began to flow brought tears to her eyes.
But tears threatened for quite a different reason when, all at once, Morag piped up, ‘I’ve been thinking. And I’ve decided that I don’t hold with this buying your wedding dress off the internet nonsense. I think we should do it properly. Have a day out. Take the train to Inverness and scout round every single dress shop. And, if we have any energy left after that, we could go somewhere nice for dinner, and maybe even to the cinema.’
Flora’s jaw plunged to somewhere near the Antarctic. In the five years since her dad’s demise, her mum had scarcely shown a flicker of excitement about anything. Nor had she left the house unless absolutely necessary. Indeed, so bad had she been for the first couple of years that Flora had harboured serious concerns that she might be becoming agoraphobic. She was convinced that it was only through much coaxing and patience on her part, that Morag hadn’t developed the condition. Even persuading her to attend the Valentine’s Day party at the pub had taken weeks. But now, here she was, suggesting a trip to Inverness. Completely off her own bat. Under any other circumstances, Flora had no doubt she would have broken into a little jig at this momentous leap in progress.
‘What do you think?’ Morag’s eyes twinkled expectantly as she beamed at her daughter.
Leaving Flora – with the sensation of now being up to her neck in quicksand - with little choice but to beam back, and reply: ‘Great idea.’
Chapter Three
In an occurrence less frequent than planetary alignment, the Scottish March weather continued its clement streak, Monday morning dawning fair and sunny. Walking to work, surrounded by nature’s wonderful springtime offerings, Flora caught sight of a couple of rabbits hopping about in the distance. She wondered if they had as many problems as she did. She doubted it. An agony aunt’s inbox didn’t have as many problems as she seemed to be carting about on her slim – increasingly knotted - shoulders.
Lost in her dismal thoughts, she was about to veer off onto the track that led to the back of the castle, when old Colonel Dunlop – one of the guests, who’d recently celebrated his eightieth birthday - came jogging towards her, in a pair of navy baggy shorts that skimmed his bony knees, a vest top that might once have been white, and a headband that seemed superfluous to requirements given he sported all of six hairs on his liver-spotted bonce.
‘Morning, young Flora,’ he said, coming to a halt and jogging on the spot in front of her. ‘How are you today?’
‘Very well, thank you, Colonel,’ lied Flora. ‘You’re up early.’
‘Indeed I am. No point wasting a day like this.’ He ceased his jogging and attempted something that might have been a star jump, feet making a brief departure from the floor, arms making a fleeting forty-five degree departure from his sides. ‘Up and at it! That’s what we used to say in the army.’ He laced his hands together and stretched them over his head. At the loud creak that accompanied this manoeuvre, Flora quirked a concerned eyebrow. The colonel, meanwhile, didn’t seem remotely perturbed. ‘Off to do a mile or two around the loch, then I’ll see you back at HQ for a bit of brekkie,’ he pronounced, before giving her a jaunty salute and jogging off.
Flora chuckled as she watched him go, resolving to do some exercise of her own. She’d always meant to. In fact, for the last three years, the establishment of a regular exercise routine had often featured on her To-Do list, along with giving up sugar (apart from that found in chocolate - obviously), and finding a publisher for her Princess Flora story, which would be snapped up by Disney and made into a blockbuster film. But while the latter two schemes were as likely to happen as Aberboyne being twinned with Las Vegas, there was slightly more hope for the first – thanks to Amanda’s intervention. Because, along with the new laird’s brilliant ideas of converting the stable block to a tearoom, and using the castle as a wedding venue, she also had plans to offer a variety of short courses at Glenduff.
This proposal had been relayed at a staff meeting, where Amanda had also detailed her intention to temporarily remove one staff member from their usual duties, and allow them to spend time with the various course leaders during their stay, trialling the activities as if they were a paying guest.
Sitting behind Mrs Mack, listening intently to the speech, Flora’s gaze had latched onto a little spider scaling the old woman’s coiled silver plait, before darting off towards her ear. Briefly tuning out from Amanda, Flora recalled one of Joe’s tales about a spider nesting inside someone’s ear, and the ear having to be subsequently lopped off. Aware – thanks to Mrs Mack’s incessant moaning – that the woman had many other complaints and could probably do without adding a missing lug to the list, Flora had raised her hand to the woman’s head to divert the insect, at the exact moment – unbeknown to her – Amanda had requested a volunteer for these temporary new duties.
Her boss announcing, ‘Thank you, Flora,’ had jerked her back to the present, just before everyone in the room had started clapping.
‘I’ll let you have the list of dates and names as soon as we finish here,’ Amanda had added. ‘Oh, it’s going to be such fun.’
Aware she’d landed herself in yet another pickle – and wondering if she should just go the whole hog and swap her usual perfume for pickling vinegar - Flora had managed something resembling a smile in response, only about forty-seven-and-three-quarters per cent sure as to what, exactly, she’d offered her services for. But, as the first activity leader would be arriving today, the remaining fifty-two-and-one-quarter per cent would soon be provided…
Yvonne - of Yvonne’s Iyengar Yoga - was, so her website claimed, a highly qualified instructor, who could – her videos demonstrated - twist herself into more knots than a friendship bracelet. Despite her dwindling spirits, Flora was looking forward to the two days she’d be spending with the guru. Yoga reputedly calmed the mind, relieved stress, and reduced muscle tension – all of which she desperately needed. Indeed, so keen was she to not only try the practice, but to show Amanda that she was taking her new responsibilities seriously, that she’d splashed out on her preparations, buyi
ng a pair of orange harem trousers, a pink mat, a strap, two blocks and a flesh-coloured thong. Slightly extravagant, but who knew? If yoga was the means of achieving a body like Yvonne’s, and a calm and clear mind, then there was a high possibility that it might well become her Thing.
In an unoccupied guest room upstairs, resolving to put all her personal problems behind her for a few hours, not only because this could be yet another successful venture for Glenduff, but because it might also benefit her, Flora pulled on her new kit, added a turquoise Yoga Girls Are Twisted T-shirt, hefted the rucksack into which she’d shoved her mat, blocks, belt and bottle of water over her shoulder, and was walking along the landing on her way to reception when she came face-to-face with Mrs Mack.
‘You had a fight in the paint shed?’ the old woman sniffed, eyeing Flora’s new garb with a mixture of horror and disapproval.
Flora refused to let the remark rile her. Granted, the T-shirt did clash slightly with the trousers – which she hadn’t realised were quite so bright until she’d pulled them out of the packet that morning. Nor had she realised quite so many different shades of orange existed. But she had no intention of admitting any of that to Mrs Mack. ‘Actually, these are authentic Indian colours,’ she retorted – in her most knowledgeable tone. ‘In reverence to the sun,’ she added, scrabbling around for anything that might bolster her defence. ‘That’s why one of the most popular yoga moves is called the Sun Sanitation.’
Or was it Salvation? Or Saturation? Or Salutation? She couldn’t remember what Yvonne had called it on the internet video.
Whatever it was, the information didn’t impress Mrs Mack, who narrowed her eyes a shade further. ‘Are those trousers seconds? Or are they designed for someone with three legs?’
Feeling a spike of indignation, Flora tilted up her chin. ‘They’re harem pants. Gwyneth Paltrow never wears anything else for her practice.’