by Emma Baird
“Far away,” she finished for him. “Makes no sense to have your company HQ here.”
“And I need to be nearer Heathrow too,” he said, “so I can fly to LA at the drop of a hat.”
“Shouldn’t that be Seoul?”
“Not in the early stages. We’ve got to put the research together and plan a long-term strategy. It’s not definite yet. I need to get there asap, there’s so much work to do. And the thing is...”
This was the bit where he dumped her, wasn’t it? She didn’t blame him. Who wanted a grumpy woman who wasn't able to handle her drink or didn’t know how to behave in public?
Whatever he was about to say, he got no further. There was a discreet tap on the door and a voice called out, “Ms Bukowski?”
She struggled to get up. “Stay there,” Dexter said, jumping out of bed. He wore a tee shirt and boxers, more respectable-looking than Katya in last night’s obviously slept-in clothes.
The door was far enough away for her not to hear the whole conversation though she made out the words ‘profound apologies’.
Dexter shut the door and got back into bed, resting his hand lightly on her head. “They’ve just ‘fessed up to seafood poisoning. A few people had the lobster last night and there have been vociferous complaints. They’ve offered us another night, free of charge. Damage limitation, I guess, and so we don’t write super-rude reviews on TripAdvisor and Yelp.”
“I don’t want to stay another night.” Luxury meant nothing when your head ached, your stomach rattled with emptiness and your mood refused to lift off the floor.
A sigh, so soft she couldn’t be sure.
“What was the thing, then? What were you about to say before?”
The hand didn’t let up stroking her head, fingers applying gentle pressure. As this was Dexter, doubtless he’d done an Indian head massage course at some point and this was what he did now—touching the bits where he knew tension gathered.
“I need to move to London next week,” he said. “And then I’ll be back to LA for a coupla months, probably longer. Kinda crucial if I want to be part of the South Korean launch, and I do. I want that global marketing manager job before I hit thirty-five.”
“Six years, then,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut. If she cried now, she’d never forgive herself. None of that little speech included her. Nope, it was all about Dexter, and Dexter’s wants. And he doesn’t want me. Even though the words stayed in her head, she hated herself for how feeble she sounded.
“We could—”
This was the bit where he suggested a long or longer distance relationship—her travelling to London once more on the rare occasions he made it back from LA, Skype calls and telephone sex. She’d witnessed such relationships at university, where girls and guys who’d moved greater distances than she did in the pursuit of higher education tried their best to stay in touch with childhood sweethearts. It almost always ended in tears.
“No.”
The stroking stilled, and he curled that tall, lanky body around hers. His hands moved to her breasts, but it didn’t seem like a come-on. More a man saying a fond farewell to old friends. The tiny kiss that landed on the back of her neck suggested the same thing—finality. And despite it all, the tumbling emotions and the lingering queasiness, exhaustion overwhelmed her once more, and she fell asleep.
Sunlight streamed in the window, waking her again. It was one of those rare Scottish autumn days where frost touched the trees and grass and the skies were clear. As she moved, Dexter stirred behind her.
“Do you feel better?” he asked.
“Much.” If you discounted the achy-breaky heart bit. “I’ll take a shower.”
Dexter often joined Katya in the shower—soap, hot water and an enclosed space offered tons of fun. The shower in the en suite was made for sharing too. If you straightened your arms out from the shoulders, you wouldn't hit anything if you turned 360 degrees. And it was jammed with expensive shower gels, shampoos and lotions that cost more than she earned for a day’s copywriting. But as she got to her feet, legs still wobbly, Dexter stayed where he was.
The hot water ran over her hair and strengthened her resolution. Keep it light. Keep it cool and make this easy. She wrapped herself in a fluffy white towel and admired the colour the hot water had put back in her face. Now that her eyes were no longer bloodshot, the face in the mirror was recognisable once more and the grin, while manic, at least didn’t make her look sad. She’d taken her clothes into the bathroom with her, so the Katya who unlocked the door thirty minutes was immaculate—hair blow-dried, foundation, blusher, waterproof mascara and lip-gloss in place.
Dexter had dressed too.
“Do you want breakfast?” he said. “I mean, I gotta—”
“No. I’m still too queasy to risk it.” Not true, but why prolong the agony? She’d spotted a Pret at the bus station. They did vegan wraps and flapjacks. Stuff the cost.
As they checked out downstairs, the general manager came out to apologise once more, promising a full-scale investigation would take place. They were welcome to book their free night anytime in the next six months. It stung. She never wanted to see the inside of the Rennie Mackintosh hotel ever again, but knowing she’d never share another hotel night with Dexter made her eyes water once more.
In the street, he hailed her a black cab and then grabbed her, pulling her tightly to him. “Good luck in London,” she said, standing on her tiptoes and kissing him lightly on the lips. They parted beneath hers, an almost automatic reaction—two mouths that knew the power of the perfect kiss and itched to do it in spite of hurt, anger and despair.
She broke away.
“Goodbye, Dexter. I hope the launch goes well and you get that promotion.”
And then she got in the taxi, ordering the driver to take her to Buchanan Bus Station, the black tears running down her cheeks proof that Blissful Beauty lied on the packaging for its waterproof mascara.
She didn’t look back.
CHAPTER TEN
“You’re back early!”
So much for keeping her early return to Lochalshie under the radar. Mhari, who would have wheedled the story out of her, had gone back to her parents for the weekend, leaving the flat empty. When the bus had dropped Katya off on Saturday afternoon, bone-rattled once more, she’d managed to get back to the flat unnoticed. Even a talk with Gaby was out of the question—her happiness too stark a contrast to how Katya felt.
By the time Sunday morning came round, she needed fresh air and exercise. She let herself out of the flat and walked to the far side of the loch where she’d be too far away to bump into any of the villagers. It was a cold, blustery day, and the low winter sun didn’t rise above Maggie Broon’s Boobs, the locals’ affectionate nickname for the two hills on the far side of the loch. Cheeky climbers added stones to the cairns on top of them every year, heightening the illusion.
And breathe... In one, two, three and out for six counts. If you concentrated hard enough on it, deep breathing banished thoughts. In theory.
She headed back, giving the dog walkers and strollers a wide berth. No one raised their hand to wave and the High Street didn’t have its usual complement of people standing in small groups chatting. It was safe to risk popping into the general store for bread.
“I thought you were supposed to be away until Monday morning?”
Foiled. Jamal’s general store was easy to hide in thanks to its narrow, jam-packed aisles. At least until you went to pay for your shopping. Gaby had come in, needing to buy Mena (the world’s most spoiled cat) yet more smoked salmon.
Mena, Katya reflected to herself, had a diet far better than most humans.
Jamal, in his usual position of leaning over the counter, raised his head. He too dealt in the village’s most valuable currency—gossip. Katya shook her head imperceptibly and Gaby nodded, knowing she needed to wait until they got outside. Goods paid for, they headed back outside.
“Monday morning was the plan,” Katya sai
d, “but it turns out a beauty launch makes you so busy you have no time for anything. Or anyone.”
Gaby put down her shopping bag and threw her arms around her. “I can’t believe that stupid workaholic can’t see that you’re the best thing that ever happened to him. When are you seeing him again?”
Ah. “I’m not,” she said, congratulating herself when her voice didn’t crack “I don’t want to, Gaby. He’s moving to London and will be in LA for the foreseeable future. A relationship won’t work.”
Gaby stepped back, holding onto Katya’s arms so she could look at her properly. “What an idiot he is. I can have him killed. That dodgy friend of Jack’s, Lachlan Forrester? He could do it in return for some free website copy where you write euphemisms about the services he offers—I’m in the business of tidying up the world’s gene pool and Need your licence plates changed in a hurry kind of thing?”
For a nano-second, Katya wanted to say yes. Please, Lachlan, take your sharpest knife to Glasgow and kill him slowly and painfully and then perhaps Dexter will know how this feels.
For a nanosecond.
But Gaby’s terrible joke did its work. Once more, Katya managed not to blub or wail about how much she’d liked him and how she’d thought that this time, this time she’d found a keeper.
“Tell you what,” Gaby said. “We’re doing Sunday lunch. Jack’s mum is popping over. You could get her to read your horoscope.”
Jack’s mum was the village’s GP. She doubled up as a psychic stroke fraud, freely admitting to Gaby that she used a combination of social media accounts, body language, universal questions and vague recommendations to make herself sound authentic.
Unbeknown to Gaby, Katya worked for her. Psychic Josie’s website got tons of traffic—90 percent of it people desperate to find out if their partner was The One or if their late grandmother forgave them for being a rubbish grandchild during her life. Psychic Josie sent Katya bullet points for articles, and Katya wrote them up. Clients who paid well and on time, Katya told herself, had the right to ask her to write whatever they wanted. But taking the woman’s advice?
“Yeah, maybe not,” Gaby said. She only trusted her almost-mother-in-law's medical advice and even then that came with a side helping of dire warnings.
“But please come,” Gaby added. “Jack’s a fab cook. He can rustle you up something plant-based.”
Katya’s stomach let out an almighty rumble, making them both giggle. She had eaten little since the disastrous lobster bagel incident.
“Well, that’s settled,” Gaby said. “Go home, get tarted up and we’ll see you in an hour?”
Gaby might have ordered Katya to tart herself up, but she hadn’t bothered herself. When she opened the door to Katya, she wore sweatpants that should have gone to the great clothing wardrobe in the sky years ago, no make-up and her hair in a messy ponytail.
Taking it in, Katya marvelled at it. She longed to get to that stage with a guy—the bliss of being able to slob out in front of someone in your never-seen-outside-the-house clothes and make-up free. Especially if the guy still gazed at you adoringly, as Jack did Gaby. He teased her a lot, but Katya put that down to the way Scots men showed affection.
Waving a ‘hello’ to Katya, he left them to their girl chat and retreated to the kitchen. As a tour guide who spent his summers ferrying people around the Highlands in a mini-bus, he relaxed in the winter by cooking and painting. The oil landscapes that decorated the walls of the living room and hallway were all his. At one time, a painting of his ex-girlfriend, Kirsty, hung in the hallway. Not anymore. Gaby must have persuaded him to sell it or store it in the loft.
In deference to their soft southerner status, Jack had whacked the central heating up and lit the wood-burning stove in the living room.
He stuck his head around the kitchen door as Katya and Gaby settled on the sofa. “Mushroom and pearl barley risotto okay for you?” he asked Katya. “I’ve got some nutritional yeast to sprinkle on the top that can do instead of Parmesan.”
Sometimes, Katya’s treacherous mind put Jack on her dos and don’ts for a boyfriend list. His dos outnumbered anyone else’s.
The front door opened, and Gaby rolled her eyes. “My almost-mother-in-law,” she whispered. “She’s got her own key. I think I might try to persuade Jack that’s not a good idea. Can you imagine?”
She sniggered, stopping when she saw Katya’s face. Too much of a reminder of Katya’s own single status. It would be a long time until anyone burst in on her in a compromising position.
“Sorry,” she said, and got up to say hello to the doctor and her husband, Ranald—a farmer who nodded briefly at them before going into the kitchen to speak to Jack.
The doctor bustled in, armed with plastic bags, clinking bottles and a cake tin. She didn’t look much like her startlingly good-looking son, but they shared the same face shape and eyes, and those eyes picked Katya out straight away.
“Katya, have ye registered with my GP practice yet? And bare feet!” she said, putting her bags down so she could put her hands on her hips. “D’ye know the risks of going around unshod? You might step on glass, cut a tendon and then end up—”
Gaby leapt to her feet and laid a hand on the doctor’s arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll give Katya a pair of my thick socks. Jack asked if you would mind helping him when you arrived? He’s in the kitchen with Ranald.”
Blatant tactics carried out, Gaby grinned at Katya, who smirked back. The good doctor needed careful managing.
“You don’t still call her Doctor McLatchie, do you?” Katya asked. It seemed too formal.
“I don’t call her anything,” Gaby said. “She told me to call her Ca-Ca-Caroline—see? It’s too much of a struggle to say it, so I try to address her directly to solve the issue. Anyway, enough about me. I wanted to ask you about Zac, the new guy. He gave you a lift here when you first arrived, didn’t he? What did you think of him?”
She dropped back down on the couch, accidentally sitting on Mena’s tail. The cat yowled in protest and stalked off to the kitchen to mooch for food. Today’s vegan option was bound to disappoint.
“Loves himself,” Katya said, “and a total flirt.”
“Oh,” Gaby said, her voice crestfallen. “We met him the other day in the general store. I thought he was nice. Fit, as well. I thought you loved blonde hair and blue eyes on a guy?”
“I do,” Katya said, “but my don’ts list includes guys with an over-inflated opinion of themselves.”
Gaby twisted toward her. “That blasted list of yours! He asked us lots of questions—wanting to know all about the villagers and the Lochside Welcome. And how long you and I have been friends. He didn’t seem big-headed to me. You’re too fussy.”
“But better fussy than not, right, Gaby?” Katya flung back at her. “I mean, Ryan for heaven’s sake...”
Gaby pouted and then began to giggle. She dropped her voice, mindful of their other guests. “I never told you this at the time...” Katya raised her eyebrows. Gaby believed in a no-holds-barred best friendship.
“... but he used to call it Little Ryan.”
“OMG! I can’t believe you held back on telling me that until now. How on earth did you keep a straight face?! Promise me you never, never called yours Little Gaby, or Gaby’s flower or, or, or...”
The resulting hysterics made Jack poke his head around the door in alarm, worrying that his beloved or her best friend was fitting. The story cheered Katya up. Yes, she might have moved to the ends of the earth but at least she had Gaby and the regular contact they were used to.
Mena returned from the kitchen, slinking her way across the floor and leaping onto Katya’s lap. Once Kirsty’s cat—and the reason Gaby moved to Lochalshie—Gaby now spoilt her far more than Kirsty ever did. Gaby, the one-time cat hater too.
Katya tickled the little thing under her chin and she purred, while Gaby made cooing noises and told Mena she was a very clever girl.
The doorbell sounded once more, and Gaby
jumped up to answer it.
“Are ye sure? I dinnae want to intrude.”
‘I dinnae want to intrude’ was the least truthful statement out there. Gaby gave Katya a rueful smile when she returned, the visitor in tow. Red-cheeked from the cold and wind and wrapped in a fake-fur-lined parka, scarf and hat leaving only the top of her face visible, Mhari peeled off her outer layers and plonked herself down on the armchair opposite the sofa—faking surprise at Katya’s presence. Katya knew she knew of her return. And here she was, ready to ask a hundred questions.
“So, a nice wee Sunday roast, then?” Mhari said. “Has Jack made Yorkshire puddings too?”
Gaby’s mouth twitched. “Hundreds of them. Roast potatoes by the dozen and tons of gravy too.”
From the kitchen, they heard a snort of laughter and the back door opening. “Thanks, mate. Are they the shiitake ones? They’ll be perfect,” Jack said to someone, and the doctor began a lecture on the perils of eating raw veg. When she returned to the living room bearing a bottle of wine and glasses, Katya suspected Jack had just booted her out.
The doctor poured wine into the glasses and sat down on the other armchair. Katya shook her head when offered, Friday’s mortification too recent.
“I’m thinking of joining Tinder,” Mhari said, startling all of them. After extensive debate on the subject, Katya and Gaby had decided Mhari was asexual, finding others’ love lives far too interesting to bother getting one of her own.
“Do you remember that guy you met on Tinder?” Gaby asked Katya, starting to laugh once more.
“Oh aye?” the doctor piped up. “Were ye not always worried that these fellas would hae some nasty wee rash—”
“No, no. Tinder is safe enough,” Gaby threw in. She’d told Katya the doctor tended to fixate on other people’s genitals.
“Which one?” Katya asked, causing the doctor to round her mouth in astonishment. Surely it didn’t shock her someone might try Tinder more than once?
“There was the one that Katya turned up to meet at Norwich train station, but when she got there, it was obvious he’d not used his own picture on the site so she about-turned when she saw him waiting outside WH Smith’s.