by Emma Baird
Dexter’s first visit to Great Yarmouth. So far all their meet-ups had taken place either in London or Glasgow, or midway points in between. It had taken her three hours to get the flat half-way decent looking.
The thought of showing him around made her nervous. The guy was returning from LA. Wouldn’t Great Yarmouth’s shabby 1950s seaside charm be lost on him? But on a clear sunny day Caister-on-Sea beach was heavenly, and she had a sneaky fondness for the Merrivale Model Village. As a child, her mother had taken her and her sisters there all the time. The four girls found the perfectly formed tiny houses, castle and cricket pitch fascinating and they speculated endlessly on the imaginary inhabitants of the place.
Nerves and excitement fizzed together. I can’t wait, I can’t wait, I can’t wait... She moved to the fridge. Dexter was due in another couple of hours, which gave her time to rustle up something to eat. They could go out, but so far they had spent their time together in hotels. Katya had never made a man a meal in her flat before. Besides, if you ate something in your home you didn’t have too far to go if lust hit you half-way through the main course. And she had Gaby’s news to share too. What would Dexter make of it?
Katya took the food out of the plastic bag she’d dumped next to the sink. She’d bought the stuff the day before, but storing choice items in a communal kitchen was a mistake. Thanks to the cold weather, she’d been able to keep the food, well-wrapped in linen bags, outside. She peeled butternut squash and chopped onions, ginger and garlic for a Thai-style curry. Dexter shared her food views—responsible adults who cared about the planet should eat a plant-based diet most of the time. Even if both of them cheated occasionally, sliding down the slippery slope of cheese, chocolate and cream.
Half-way through cooking—the kitchen filled with the warm, toasty smells of dry-roasted cumin, coriander, and garlic and ginger—her phone buzzed.
Dexter. Fab. He’d arrived early and wanted the directions to the house.
“Katya.”
Funny how much information you got from a single word. This one told her instantly she was not about to hear good news. And that the guy who delivered it was about to utter an all-too-familiar excuse. She beat him to it.
“You can’t make it.”
“I'm stuck in LA. A meeting dragged on and on and on, and now there’s another one planned for the next day. I haven’t had a moment to myself to pee, let alone phone my girlfriend.”
Multiple sorrys followed. And a harking back to the warning he’d given her when they met up in London the week before. The launch of a beauty brand in a new country was A Big Thing. All employees were now in lock-down, working every hour of the day and night. You needed strategies and plans for everything—from social media, to digital ads, YouTube videos, celebrity ambassadors and more.
The flurry is short term, he added, but short-notice delays and cancellations were to be expected.
Great. Her American boyfriend had integrated himself so well into British culture, he sounded like an all-too-regular announcement at a railway station.
I will not cry.
The burnt-bitter smell in the air reminded her she’d taken her eye off the curry. She took it off the gas ring and hoped that she could rescue the top. Good job only one of them would be eating it, as the bottom half appeared to be inedible. She’d given flatmate number four £20 to clear off for the evening. Was it too late to phone him and say, “Hey, you can come back if you want. There’s some burnt, leftover curry if you like. And... um... can I have my twenty quid back?”
Dexter promised he’d make it up to her. How about a long weekend in Glasgow as soon as he got back? He would organise and pay for everything—her train fare, the hotel, a meal in the best restaurant the city offered. She resisted the urge to yell, “It’s not good enough!”
“I’m sorry,” he said. That word again. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you super-soon!”
And that was it. Goodbye, Dexter. His haste to leave her was beginning to feel unnervingly unflattering.
Later, having finished the unburnt portion of curry and washed it down with an ice-cold lager she’d ‘borrowed’ from the fridge, she phoned Gaby.
When she’d spoken with her on the train back from London the other week, the first question she’d asked had been, “How sorry?” in relation to Gaby’s apology for all the exclamation marks she’d used in her text message. “There is a special place in hell for people who use too many of them.”
“Oh, shush your fussy self!” Gaby said, her voice light and joyful. “My news is worth that many exclamation marks. It might make even you consider using one or two of them. So... drum roll, here goes, Jack has asked me to move in with him.”
“Congratulations,” Katya said, genuinely pleased. Though if Gaby moved in with Jack that meant she was staying in Lochalshie. Until eight months ago, Katya and Gaby had lived five minutes from each other for most of their lives. When Gaby’s long-term relationship imploded, she’d needed to get out of town fast, and ended up cat-sitting for someone in Scotland. Katya missed her like a limb.
The less noble part of her couldn’t hold back the bite of mean, green jealousy at the moving-in-together news. Gaby escaped a ten-year relationship scar-free and moved seamlessly on to another one with another (much nicer) guy. Whereas Katya wasn’t even able to persuade her boyfriend she was worth missing a stupid marketing meeting or two for.
“That’s not the real news—oof, oh, yes it is,” Gaby continued. “Jack, stop it! That’s—”
Katya held the phone away. Other people’s love lives should be conducted in private.
Gaby came back on the line, breathless and spluttery with giggles. “The not real, real news, then! If I move in with Jack, Mhari needs a flatmate. And Lochalshie is far closer to Glasgow and Dexter than Great bloomin’ Yarmouth.”
“Mhari,” Katya said, her tone dry but her heart fluttering with the possibilities such a move presented. “The universe’s nosiest woman. Who once shared a video of you with the world where you emerged from the loch, a full wardrobe malfunction on show via your nipples standing to attention?”
“Best video on YouTube,” came a shout in the background. Jack. “I knew then Gaby was the girl for me. I coined the Nora Nipples nickname, by the way.”
“You didn’t!” Gaby’s outrage made her smile. No, he didn’t. He’d figured out early on that one of the wonderful things about Katya’s best friend was that she was too easy to wind up. It was like taking candy from a baby.
Gaby wasn’t distracted for too long. “Heart of gold, Mhari,” she said. “You’ll have fun. Plus the flat is three hundred times better than the one you’re in—El Crappo Villas.”
‘El Crappo Villas’ counted as a fair description. She shared it with four others. Plus the additional tens of thousands if Katya tallied up the cockroaches, dust mites and mice that occupied the building, thanks to landlord neglect and neighbourly slovenliness. The wallpaper peeled from the walls, the furniture came from Ikea’s 1999 catalogue, and streak marks covered the double-glazed window, which looked out on an overgrown garden and bins that hadn’t been emptied for a month.
It was the norm for people their age these days. No possibility of getting on the housing ladder unless the happy accident of birth provided you with wealthy parents able to sell off one of their city properties or cash in their final salary pension to provide you with a 50-percent deposit. A flat-share somewhere else wouldn’t propel Katya into home ownership, but it might mean more cubic metres for her rent money. And soon, soon much more money was coming her way.
She scrabbled for the sensible excuses. “I’ll need to see it.” She had—when Gaby moved in a few months ago, she insisted on a house-warming party, and invited Katya. The flat was a 60s-style two-up two-down pebble-dashed building with a communal garden at the front and back, and its rooms far more spacious than the ones she was used to.
“What about work?”
Well, what about it? As a freelancer, all she needed was an
internet connection. When Gaby first moved to Lochalshie, the connection had been problematic depending on where in the village you were situated. She’d had to move into Jack’s house to work. And look where that had led. Nowadays, Gaby assured her, Lochalshie was as fully mast-up as every other place in the country. Flip, if she wanted proof, Gaby only needed to turn on FaceTime and show her...
“No thanks,” Katya jumped in. God knows what she would see. Gaby and Jack cuddled up naked or something. She wouldn’t put it past her best friend—a big believer in share and share alike with one’s closest acquaintances.
“I’ll think about it and let you know.”
As she stared out the kitchen window now, one of the neighbours’ dogs wandered in front of the over-filled bins and pulled out the contents, scattering rubbish everywhere. Lochalshie was much closer to Glasgow than Great Yarmouth. She pictured herself nipping down to the city every weekend, maybe even on the odd evening. Much, much, much better than the present situation. She and Dexter would have time to find out the ordinary bits of each other. It would allow her to reassess the pros and cons list again and work out if her scoring was correct.
It had to be easier than the current situation where he travelled to London or she went to Glasgow and too many of their supposed weekends together got cancelled at short notice because of Dexter’s work commitments. But did it mean something—Katya upping sticks and moving to be closer to Dexter when they’d only been together a few months? Might he see the move as threatening, one person pushing fast-forward on a relationship when the other was still taking it slow and steady?
Ah well. No need to tell him yet.
“Okay,” she said when Gaby answered the phone, “I’d like to move to Lochalshie.”
Gaby cheered so loudly Katya had to hold the phone away from her ear.
“When can I move in?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Was this the daftest thing she’d ever done? The question kept popping up in Katya’s head. Her mum had thrown her hands up in horror when Katya told her she was leaving the metropolitan magnificence of Great Yarmouth and heading for the wilds of Scotland.
“But it rains all the time up there!” she said. “And they don’t like English people. They’ve never forgiven us for decapitating Mary Queen of Scots.”
“Good job I’m part Polish then,” Katya replied. “And I think the Scots have probably recovered from the queen’s unfortunate demise, given that she was executed more than 400 years ago. After Scotland booted her out of the country in the first place.”
Her mother might be right about the rain, though.
Madeline expressed caution too. She’d sent Katya an email after the Edmund Morris & Co interview, saying CeCe Green had been “blown away by your brilliant writing style and professionalism. Could you afford to move to London now? It would be much more practical for you to be in the big city. I could set you up with some work to tide you over until the writing job starts.”
“I’m moving to Scotland,” Katya typed back, “for personal reasons. I’m sure I’ll be able to work remotely and can conference call clients in London any time.”
A long reply came back, detailing that personal reasons were none of Madeline’s business but was Katya absolutely, one hundred percent, totally sure a move to such a remote place was wise? By this time, Katya had told her flatmates and landlord she was leaving, her flatmates had found her replacement in record-quick time and she no longer had a choice. She specified this. Madeline came back with a lukewarm response but wished her well and said she’d try to advise accordingly.
Waiting for the next flight to Glasgow three days later, her worldly goods piled into a suitcase and a rucksack, Katya pushed away thoughts of jumping on the Stansted Express and returning tail between the legs to Great Yarmouth. Madeline’s wariness had reinforced every single doubt.
No, this was the right move, she told herself. Gaby was in Scotland, the best friend she’d always lived so close to until this year. And moving closer to Dexter wouldn’t make him less of a workaholic, but at least she’d only be a few hours away. Meeting up with him would no longer be an epic journey.
By some miracle, Katya had wrestled her deposit back from the landlord, which meant she’d enough spare cash to buy something at the airport—well, something small. Airport shops didn’t have a reputation for bargains. Blissful Beauty displays featured prominently in the duty-free shop and the saleswomen waved the glow serum in her face.
“Look who it is!” a voice cooed behind her. “Didn’t I say to you this morning, I wonder what happened to that girl and her gorgeous boyfriend?’”
Katya spun around, startled. Madge and Beryl from the hotel, the women who’d stared so hard when she’d had her snatched twenty minutes with Dexter in London. They went by the real, much better names of Lois and Angeline, and, having introduced themselves, decided she ought to tell them all about what happened the other week. Other people’s love lives were too, too fascinating.
“Can we buy you a drink, darling?” the Lois one asked. “In the first-class lounge?”
A new experience for Katya, the first-class lounge was worlds apart from the bog-standard bit of airports—harsh overhead lights, plastic chairs and people lugging around oversized bags. Most people in the lounge wore business dress, and uniformed waiters glided among them offering glasses of wine and champagne and little nibble-y things. She sat down. Lois and Angeline placed themselves either side of her, boxing her in.
She told them the names she’d made up for them in her head. They burst out laughing and said they needed to rethink their outfits if a stranger gave them such terrible nicknames.
“You told me this was trendy,” Lois accused Angeline, pulling at the waistband of her paper-bag tied midi skirt. “I said, didn’t I, that elasticated waists strayed too far into little old lady territory, ones you might call Madge and Beryl!”
She winked at Katya. Katya knew they didn’t give a stuff. Lois’s skirt was bright tangerine, a loud clash with her scarlet lipstick and the pink streaks through her bobbed dark hair. She spoke loudly, the voice of someone who’d never considered her opinions uninteresting, controversial or otherwise not worth airing.
The waiter brought over a bottle of champagne, and Lois and Angeline dived in. Katya accepted a glass too. Freebies in her world were few and far between.
“We love shampoo, don’t we, Angeline?” Lois chortled. “We pretend to be Edina and Patsy from time to time. I’m Patsy, obviously, even if I’ve never managed the art of smoking three fags at one time.”
More chortles. Katya knew the programme—Absolutely Fabulous hadn’t done her PR profession’s reputation any favours. And despite protestations otherwise, Lois was pure Patsy, Joanna Lumley—thin, seedy and ready to weigh up every situation and work it to her advantage.
“So,” Angeline said, her voice a soft purr compared to Lois’s strident tones. “Your delicious American boyfriend! Delectable, desirable and yet you finished on a low...”
Her hand moved to cover Katya’s, a comforting squeeze. So comforting, she told them who he was, what he did and why his job kept him so busy promoting Blissful Beauty’s stuff left, right and centre.
Lois raised her eyebrow. “Blissful Beauty? Isn’t that the company Caitlin Cartier set up? Her glow serum is a miracle product.”
Katya helped herself to a bowl of something. Bombay Mix at a guess. “Sure is. Dexter works all the hours God sends for her and he’s devoted to her—though not in that way. I hope she realises just how much. But he’s promised me a long weekend in Glasgow when he returns from LA.”
Champagne on an empty stomach made you too talkative. Lois topped Katya’s glass up.
Angeline tipped her head. “Did he? How splendid. We can recommend all the best places in Glasgow, can't we, Lo-ee-lo? I found this place once where I ate the best fish and chips I’ve ever had. Part of a chic hotel in Merchant City for discerning clients. What are your plans for when you get together with this
chap again? Long-distance relationships are the pits.”
She sighed, shrugging her shoulders right up to her head and screwing up her face.
Katya gave in to the urge to confide. Secrets were often easier to share with strangers whose advice wouldn’t rely on previous knowledge of her.
“As it happens, I do. I’m moving to a small village in Scotland because it’s nearer Glasgow where Dexter is based, so it should be easier for us to see each other.”
“Where?” Lois asked. When Katya said Lochalshie, a look flashed between Lois and her sidekick.
“Do you know it, then?” The village was tiny. No one in Great Yarmouth had heard of it before Gaby moved there.
“Yes,” Angeline said. “Beautiful spot. Now, tell us all about how you met the splendid Dexter.”
By the time Katya rolled out of the lounge half an hour later, she was pie-eyed. And too aware she’d told them too much, wittering on about how she felt about Dexter and her disastrous relationship history. She’d spent the half an hour doing the opposite of the British stiff upper lip, a concept she believed made people better, not worse. Lois and Angeline hadn’t said where they were going, but her guess was somewhere exotic and expensive. At least she would never see them again.
The announcement went out over the tannoy that Flight 349 to Glasgow was boarding. Unlike Lois and Angeline, Katya was flying Ryanair, and that airline did not supply lounges, free booze and nibbles. She made her unsteady way to the gate, its space crowded with bodies. The steward at the front called out those who’d splashed out on the aisle and front seats to get those precious extra inches of legroom. Katya wasn’t going to board anytime soon.
One seat remained at the gate, but by the time she got there someone had beat her to it, dumping his own bag on the ground.
“Oh, sorry! Do you want the seat?”
As quickly as he’d sank into the plastic chair, he leapt to his feet just as she moved forward, so they were only inches apart.
“Whoops!” He took a step back, hands held out in supplication. The opposite of Dexter, Katya took in dark blonde hair, greasy at the roots, which framed a broad face and large blue eyes, his body squat and muscular. He was taller than her, but only just, the eyes meeting hers in frank appraisal.