by Alice Ross
Before her husband’s death, Morag had been a vibrant character, who’d loved her job as the local librarian. After the accident, her confidence had shrivelled to nothing. She couldn’t face returning to work, had no energy to see her friends, and nothing held her interest for more than five minutes. Like a timid tortoise, she’d retreated into a shell, only popping out her head to face the world when absolutely necessary.
All of which broke Flora’s heart. Her mum was still an attractive woman. And at only forty-nine, young enough to find love again. But whenever Flora dared to suggest she do something outside her rigid routine, Morag unfailingly maintained that she was perfectly happy as she was.
Precisely why this trip was such a big deal for her.
Precisely why Flora could not have put it off.
And precisely why she had a plan to ensure her mum enjoyed every single minute of it.
The first item on Flora’s plan – unbeknown to her mother – was to purchase the wedding dress as soon as possible, thereby enabling them to shift the focus of the day to more normal activities – like a nice lunch. Determining to try on no more than half a dozen dresses – and to make her choice from that meagre selection – she’d had something simple in mind; something that wouldn’t be too difficult to transport when she cancelled the event and had to return it to the shop.
Morag, however, appeared to have quite a different vision.
‘Absolutely not,’ she tutted, as Flora emerged from the dressing room in a simple white satin sheath. ‘Far too understated.’
‘I prefer understated.’
Morag shook her head. ‘Understated is fine for low-key events. But you’re not having a low-key event.’ She turned to the middle-aged assistant at her side. ‘She’s getting married in a castle.’
‘A castle!’ The assistant shunted her thick-rimmed spectacles further up the bridge of her nose. ‘Heavens, why didn’t you say.’
In the flurry of tulle, netting, lace and sequins that then ensued, Flora found herself rammed into a frock so big, much serious shimmying was required before she could squeeze through the dressing room door.
Eventually – through an exhausting mix of swaying and waddling – she came to stand in front of her mother, whose face lit up brighter than the Oxford Street Christmas lights.
‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, pressing a hand to her chest. ‘Now that is definitely more like it. In fact, I think that could well be The One.’ As a tear streaked down her face, she grabbed her handbag and began rummaging inside for what Flora hoped was a tissue, and not the plastic container with the blue lid.
‘That’s definitely The One,’ concurred the assistant. Whether because she really did think it was, or because the dress cost three times as much as the original simple one, Flora couldn’t tell.
In her opinion the dress most definitely was not The One. But as it would be coming back to the shop anyway, she kept her views to herself.
‘Would I be able to return it if… you know… anything happened between now and the wedding?’ she asked.
Behind her spectacles, the assistant’s beady eyes widened. ‘Goodness. I’ve never been asked that before.’
Flora tried to keep her tone airy. ‘It’s just… well, you never know what might happen, do you?’
‘Like what?’ piped up Morag, equally aghast.
Flora shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ Then, before she could stop herself, ‘I might… change my mind.’
Holding her breath as she awaited her mother’s reaction, Flora awarded herself a humongous mental kick. Mere minutes before, she’d determined to make the day one Morag would enjoy, so why had she then blurted out such a destructive statement? One that had the potential to ruin the day and propel Morag’s astounding progress right back to the starting block. What had she been thinking? Obviously not much.
And how to now dig herself out of this monumental crater into which she’d unwittingly hurled herself, she had no idea.
Pulse quickening, she almost jumped out of the ridiculous dress when, to her amazement, Morag threw back her head and roared with laughter.
Lovely warm tinkling laughter that Flora hadn’t heard from her mother for years.
The assistant joined in.
As did Flora. But rather than warm and tinkling, hers had a definite hint of the hysterical about it.
With the notable exception of those few anxious seconds in the dress shop, Flora’s plan ran like clockwork, both her and Morag thoroughly enjoying their day in Inverness. They’d had a nice lunch, a good mooch around the city, and a scrumptious cream tea.
Watching her mother dozing on the train on the way home, handbag – and therefore plastic container – clutched to her chest, a strange mix of emotions skittered through Flora: delight at seeing her mum happy again; and dread at imagining how she’d take the news of the cancelled wedding.
Not for the first time, the idea pirouetted into her mind that it would be easier to go through with it. That by doing so, she would be the only person to suffer, whereas breaking it off would affect many more people – Morag, Joe, his parents, Amanda, the entire village.
But, she quickly reassured herself, their upset would be fleeting. They’d soon forget about it; move on to the next village drama. Whereas if she did go through with it, she’d be forever berating herself for her pathetic lack of courage.
For all she was itching to set matters back on the right track, to sit down with Joe and have a proper heart to heart, Flora didn’t see him the following day. He was busy doing stuff for his mum, who couldn’t use her sprained arm at all.
The next time she saw him was in the staffroom at Glenduff on Monday morning, where, to her bemusement, he was showing a piece of floating feather wallpaper to – of all people – Noah.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, not sure she really wanted to know.
‘Showing Noah our new wallpaper,’ he clarified, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Flora cringed inwardly. She already suspected, from his astonished expression upon being informed of their forthcoming nuptials, that Noah considered them beyond barmy for even thinking about tying the knot at their age. Now he probably thought they were certifiable for a) buying wallpaper, and b) thinking anyone else might be remotely interested in it.
‘Told him what a bargain it was,’ continued Joe proudly. ‘And how we’re thinking about using it for a feature wall.’
‘Huh.’ Mrs Mack appeared like a dark cloud at Flora’s side. ‘In my day you had woodchip and you liked it or lumped it,’ she huffed, before sidling off.
‘I thought it was wattle and daub in her day,’ sniggered Joe.
‘What? In a cave?’ snorted Noah, before the two of them burst into laughter.
Flora heaved a weary sigh. She’d scarcely slept a wink the night before, worrying about how time was running out for her to talk to Joe, and dreading the next few days with “photographer” Noah. Still, she had to admit that for all the Australian appeared to find her a constant source of amusement, he did seem quite nice. And it wasn’t his fault her trousers had made an impromptu trip south in front of him. But even so, she still didn’t have the energy to deal with him at the moment, not least because, when he looked at her with those turquoise eyes, it triggered several strange – yet not unpleasant – physiological changes within her – namely stomach fluttering, heart stuttering and pulse thrumming. All of which were completely alien. And all of which made her feel decidedly odd.
‘Are you ready to make a start?’ she asked him, resigning herself to her fate for the next couple of days, and concluding that the sooner they started, the sooner it would be over. ‘I have the suggested itinerary. And Amanda’s loaned us her car. We’re starting at the peak on the eastern side of the loch.’
‘Nice way to spend a day,’ chortled Joe. ‘Certainly beats me installing six radiators in the new tearoom, doesn’t it, Amy?’
The junior receptionist’s pretty round face flushed crimson as she shrugg
ed off her coat.
Joe appeared not to notice. ‘You two have fun,’ he instructed Flora and Noah. Before turning back to Amy, holding out the scrap of wallpaper, and asking, ‘What do you think of that then?’
‘And this is my tripod. Fully extendable, with a ball head and only one knob for all adjustments.’
Flora gulped. Hovering at the side of Noah’s slightly crumpled bed as he talked her through his photography paraphernalia scattered on the duvet, she weighed up how best to respond to that latest piece of information. She’d rather not respond at all. Just as she’d rather not have gone upstairs with him at all. Every one of her instincts screeching that it wasn’t a good idea, she’d cobbled together a couple of hasty excuses: a dodgy knee after her yoga exertions, and a severe case of vertigo. She’d voiced neither. First, because any mention of yoga would undoubtedly result in more sniggering; and second, because the vertigo excuse – even by her standards - was cringingly lame. Alone with him now, though, so close to a bed, feeling dizzy and disconcerted, she wondered if she might not be suffering from vertigo after all.
Aware of his expectant gaze on her, she cleared her throat, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and croaked, ‘Well, it’s certainly an impressive set of equipment.’
‘That’s what all the girls say,’ he snorted.
Causing Flora’s cheeks to flame.
‘Shall we get on?’ she urged, desperately needing to escape the room and all its Noah-ness. The T-shirt he’d worn the previous day dangled from the back of a chair, and a wet towel hung over the radiator. A towel that had obviously dried his newly-showered body minutes before. The overall effect was quite… overwhelming. ‘I’ll carry these,’ she announced, swiping up a couple of pieces from the bed, then, without waiting for a reply, haring out of the door.
Outside, Noah trailing behind her, Flora gulped down breaths of the unseasonably warm March air as if they were her last. She had to get a grip, she chided herself. It couldn’t be healthy obsessing about T-shirts or towels. She’d never given a second thought to Joe’s towels. And if she ever happened upon one of his dirty T-shirts, she simply tossed it into the laundry basket – without battling the urge to press it to her nose and suck in the scent. Which made her wonder if she might be losing her marbles. She wouldn’t be surprised. The lack of sleep, added to the wedding stress, did not a good combination make. She had to talk to Joe this evening. Before the whole of Aberboyne had passed comment on the wallpaper.
‘Morning, young Flora.’
Colonel Dunlop’s plummy voice shook her out of her reverie.
‘Morning, Colonel,’ she replied, unable to resist a smile as he came to a stop in front of her – in his baggy shorts and greying vest. ‘Out jogging again?’
‘I most certainly am. Got to keep in shape, you know. Working on my abs this week. What is it you women like these days? The torn look, or something.’
‘Ripped, Colonel.’
‘That’s it. Although the most I’ll probably manage is a minor tear. What are you up to?’ he asked, one bony hand indicating the tripod and camera over her shoulder. ‘Another one of these activity things, is it?’
‘Photography today.’
‘Ah. Something sensible at last. Was a bit of a dab hand with the old lens in my day, you know. Once won a prize for a picture of a jam tart. Or was it a roly-poly? Anyway, whatever it was, it was a bloody good photo. Even if I do say so myself.’
‘Goodness,’ chuckled Flora. ‘Is there no end to your talents, Colonel?’
‘Well, I’m not very good at ice skating,’ he guffawed. ‘But keep that to yourself. I have my reputation as an all-round athlete to maintain.’
And with that, he shot her another of his winks, attempted a star jump, then jogged off towards the castle.
‘He seems a real character,’ remarked Noah, catching up with her.
‘He is,’ confirmed Flora. ‘We all adore him. He’s really funny and he has some fascinating tales to tell. He’s lived all over the world.’
‘How long’s he staying here?’
‘We have no idea. He only came for a fortnight – back in September. Since then, he’s been extending his stay for four weeks at a time. He says he’s fallen in love with the place.’
‘Hmm. Well, I can see how easily that could happen,’ uttered Noah, something in his tone causing Flora’s legs to weaken.
Flora had never driven Amanda’s car before. Nor, as she suspected the zippy little convertible had cost more than most of the houses in Aberboyne, did she particularly want to today. Amanda, though, had insisted. Even after Flora had informed her that she’d scarcely driven since she’d passed her test four years ago. Clipping on her belt in the driver’s seat, her legs still shaking, Flora couldn’t decide if it was the prospect of handling such an expensive piece of kit, or of spending the day in such close confines with Noah, that was making her so jittery.
Whatever the reason, she determined not to make another asana of herself. She should look upon the next couple of days as an opportunity to redeem some credibility; to show Noah that she played a vital role at Glenduff; that Amanda valued her opinion on important matters – like the viability of photography courses; and to prove to him that she was an independent, modern woman.
But before she could do any of that, she had to drive the wretched car.
Unlike the little old Micra in which Flora had taken her driving test, which had come to life simply by turning a key, Amanda’s zippy red convertible featured a more complicated system involving a card and a button.
Following the instructions Amanda had given her, she slotted the card into the relevant slot and pressed the button.
Nothing happened.
Hmm. Had Amanda said to do something with the clutch too? Yes, she did believe she had. Trying again, Flora removed the card, slid it back in, depressed the clutch and jabbed the button again.
The car kangarooed forward. Before coming to a halt.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
In the passenger seat, sunlight glinting off the golden, muscled arm he’d casually draped over the side of the vehicle, Noah raised his other hand to his mouth and gave a little cough. ‘No problem,’ he replied, without turning his head to her.
Flora slanted him a look. Had she detected a lilt of humour in his tone? If she had, it was totally unnecessary. Most people would stall a strange car the first time they drove it. Even Jeremy Clarkson. Probably.
Doing her best not to become flustered, she withdrew the card once more, slipped it back in, depressed the clutch, pushed the button, and put her foot on the accelerator.
The car shot forward. Before stalling.
Another strange sound came from Noah’s throat.
Recalling something Joe had once said, Flora piped up – in quite a haughty tone, ‘I think it might have a faulty fuel pump.’
Noah didn’t reply. He couldn’t. Begrudgingly swivelling her head to him, Flora discovered that his fist was stuffed into his mouth and his shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.
Indignation rocketed through her. Right. She’d start this car if it was the last thing she did.
She rammed the card back in. Pressed the button, then the pedals. And, after a juddery start, they were on their way.
Apart from a near collision with a pheasant, and a bit of an altercation with a pothole, Flora negotiated the twenty-minute drive to the peak without incident. An achievement on which she silently congratulated herself as she parked up, noting that all signs of Noah’s previous amusement had disappeared, replaced with blatant awe.
‘God,’ he exclaimed, turquoise eyes scanning the view. ‘This is stunning. It looks like the entire world is made up of mountains, one ridgeline after another disappearing into the distance. It’s a photographer’s dream,’ he said, turning to her and grinning.
Flora smiled back. ‘So what are you waiting for then?’
He didn’t wait. In a flash he’d set up his tripod and was clicking awa
y. While Flora sat on a boulder, trying to remove the lens cap from the camera he’d given her.
‘How much is this worth?’ she asked.
‘About two grand. So don’t drop it,’ he warned.
As Flora almost dropped it.
‘Blimey,’ she puffed, lassoing the strap around her neck. ‘If you’re forking out that much on equipment you must be a pro.’
‘Will be one day,’ he informed her, fiddling with the lever on the tripod. ‘Studied photography at uni for four years. Won a couple of awards. Had a few pictures printed in the national press. Planning to start my own business when I settle down.’
‘Back in Australia?’
He shrugged. ‘Who knows.’
‘And will you be settling down any time soon?’ enquired Flora, admiring an alternative view - of the muscles in his forearm as he continued his tinkering.
‘Nope. Not for a long time.’
‘Right. So… no girlfriend then?’ she heard herself asking, quailing the moment the words left her mouth. What difference did it make to her whether he had a significant other or not?
‘Nah,’ came back the reply. Then, straightening, he turned to her, fixing her with a look she hadn’t seen before. ‘Unlike you and Joe, I haven’t found anyone I want to spend the rest of my life with.’
Flora gaped at him, the words ‘rest of my life’ amplifying and echoing in her head, as a ton of panic toppled over her.
‘Must be nice though,’ he continued, still gazing. ‘Finding someone you want to spend the rest of your life with.’
Flora’s guts began to churn. ‘Yes. Yes. It must. I mean… it is.’ Oh God. This was even more torturous than being alone with him in his room. She had to change the subject. Haul it onto far less tremulous ground – like the price of potatoes, or the winner of Masterchef.
Much to her horror, though, before she knew what was happening, Noah had abandoned the tripod and come to sit beside her – so close she could smell his shampoo again. Which led her thoughts back to his towel. And one step beyond that – to him in the shower.