Chapter 7
The Anchor, Eastercraig’s only pub, was like a second home to Paolo. Sometimes, after a few more pints than the National Health Service would advise, he felt he could curl up on one of the sofas with a blanket and doze off by the warmth of the fire’s dying embers. Alas, he never would because Mhairi would make him pay for a room. She was running a business and not a charity.
In winter it was toasty and snug inside, the windows steamed up and people’s cheeks were ruddy from their snowy, rainy, sub-zero journeys to get there. Summer, on the other hand, enticed everyone outside. The picnic benches which ran alongside the pub’s whitewashed walls were all full, standing groups clustered together, spilling over the pavement and into the road, and some patrons had taken their drinks across the road and were sitting on the harbour wall, legs dangling over the edge.
‘There are a number of signifiers summer has arrived,’ he said, as they ambled along the front, past the fetchingly painted terraced houses — Holly’s included — to the sound of the sea slapping gently against the harbour walls.
‘Like ice creams replace potato waffles in the chiller cabinet at the shop,’ suggested Skye.
Paolo lifted an arm towards the skies, and swept it round expansively. ‘Migrating birds change the make-up of the local species.’
‘Beer gardens fill up, patio heaters are put inside.’
‘And chests are out.’ The further north in the United Kingdom you got the lower the temperature was at which people stripped off. On the front at Eastercraig, it couldn’t have been higher than twenty degrees Celsius, and yet strappy dresses were on, and — for a number of men — pecs were out.
Skye raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you warning me you’re about to follow suit?’
‘Christ, no,’ said Paolo. ‘There’s warm weather and then there’s general decorum. Oh, there’s Greg — Holly’s boyfriend.’
A very tall man with broad shoulders, and mussed up auburn hair, ducked through the door of the pub and jogged towards them, a bottle of red wine in hand. He clapped Paolo on the shoulder, and pulled him in for a man-hug before stepping back.
‘Paolo! How’s it going?’ he asked. ‘And you’re Skye?’ He turned to her, giving her a broad smile. ‘Greg Dunbar. How d’you do?’
‘Nice to meet you.’ Skye stuck out her hand, and he shook it.
‘I’d love to stay and chew the fat, but I’m taking this back to Holly, having negotiated with Mhairi to let me have it at shop price. Not that she’s going to have more than a soup?on, seeing as she’s on call. Maybe I could water it down for her. Posh Ribena?’
‘Criminal.’ Paolo laughed. ‘She’s a mint tea girl at the moment. Feel free to grab some leaves from the terracotta pot outside my flat.’
‘I very well might, thanks. And have a lovely time in Eastercraig, Skye. I have a vague recollection of seeing you about when we were younger, but you had pink hair in the old days, no?’
‘That was me,’ Skye confirmed.
Greg said goodbye, and strolled off down the front towards Holly’s. Paolo and Skye hovered outside the Anchor, scanning for seats.
They swooped in as soon as an outside table became free, and Skye went in to buy the first round. Paolo took up one side of the bench, pressing his back against the wall, and put his feet up. His face was already warming up. He whipped his sunglasses out of his back pocket.
In front of him, the harbour hummed with people. Schools weren’t out, so it wasn’t heaving, but it was noticeably more crowded than it had been the previous month. Tourists who came up once the milder weather appeared had been steadily trickling in, keen to visit picturesque fishing towns like Eastercraig on tick-off-the-sights tours of the Highlands. He often heard the word ‘quaint’ floating through the air.
‘Oh my, what a gorgeous little town,’ came a dreadful approximation of an American accent from behind him.
Paolo turned around to see Hamish Glennis standing behind him, faking a jaw drop in disbelief at how picture-book the scene before them was. His heart flipped. Or did it flinch? All the same, he was happy to see Hamish, overall, wasn’t he?
‘I’m afraid that wasn’t very convincing,’ said Paolo. ‘But points for enthusiasm.’
Hamish smiled. ‘I never was very good at accents. You’d think I’d improve, considering I hear them all day long.’
‘Plenty of tourists up at the castle?’
‘Literal coachloads,’ said Hamish. ‘I can barely keep up with them. We had a couple of people wander off this week. They wanted to get close to one of the hairy coos for a perfect photo, only the poor thing had a calf with her and got angry. Thank God nobody was hurt.’
Paolo rolled his eyes. ‘Honestly. You’d think people would know better.’
‘Right? And I need to find a replacement admin assistant. My usual summer temp, Maeve, came in for a week, and went off to look after a sick relative. Mum and Dad try their best, but they’re pretty technologically challenged.’
‘Agency?’
‘Yeah, but they’re struggling to find someone who wants to work weird shifts in such a remote place. I’m firefighting.’
‘Don’t say we need to cancel swimming on Friday?’
For the last few months, they had gone swimming in the leisure centre pool at Cawcross, about twenty-five minutes from Eastercraig, every week without fail. Paolo revelled in the chance to have Hamish to himself for a whole hour during these sessions. The trouble with Eastercraig was you could never turn a corner without seeing someone you knew, all wanting to stop and discuss the weather and the roads, and in his case, their pet’s ailments. The pool offered them an uninterrupted slot in which to catch up.
‘Och, I don’t want to. I’d quite like to be able to do ten lengths of decent front crawl before the month is up. Can I let you know on the day?’
‘Sure.’ Paolo nodded.
The previous winter, during a storm, Hamish had got into trouble at sea, having set out to rescue his dog. Wolfie, an enormous wolfhound with a love of swimming with the local seals, had been swept out on a strong tide, and when Hamish had followed, in a ramshackle boat, he had ended up falling in. Aside from the waves and the temperature, Hamish was a weak swimmer, and it was a miracle both had survived.
Paolo, keen to help Hamish recover from the ordeal and to be safe in future, had offered to teach him to swim.
While he had attempted to persuade Holly and Chloe that altruism was his primary reason for offering to lend a hand, he eventually admitted that lust came into it too.
He corrected himself. It was more than lust. Lust suggested nothing other than basic instincts, and Paolo’s feelings extended far beyond physical desire. He wanted to spend time with Hamish, doing couple-y things. Having brunch, browsing antique shops, curling up on the snuggler — which by very definition cried out to be used that way.
The bloody snuggler. For now, the only person he was going to be snuggling was Skye, who he decided he liked but wasn’t really his type. First and foremost because she was a woman.
She emerged from the pub with a pair of gin and tonics, took one look at the table and let out a shriek. ‘Hamish Glennis!’
Hamish’s face lit up at the very sight of Skye. He flung his arms out wide, and she set the drinks down and threw her arms around him. ‘Skye Edmonds. Can it be?’
He pulled her in for a tight hug, ruffling her hair, then stepped back to examine her properly.
‘Gosh, given I couldn’t make dear old Dorothy’s funeral, where we would have crossed paths, I reckon the last time I saw you was your final year at uni — you still had pink hair, I think. And it was that year that my parents expanded corporate event hosting up at the castle. You and I spent half our summer acting as wait staff. Remember those guests whose dinner went on until four in the morning and you had to wake me up when I fell asleep in the pantry?’ Hamish chuckled at the memory. ‘It’s been ages! How the devil are you?’
‘I’m well,’ Skye said, stepping back. ‘Well, not that well. You know I time my visits to Eastercraig with moments of despair. That said, I did come of my own accord, rather than being dispatched by my parents.’
Hamish frowned slightly. ‘Do I need to worry about you?’
‘Not sure. I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I’m guessing you two know each other? Small town that this is.’
‘Of course,’ said Hamish, seeming to remember Paolo was there. ‘Paolo, Skye’s an old friend. We used to spend our summers sitting by the burn, going and checking on the hairy coos, and attempting not to make a mess of the silver service. But how do you two know each other?’
Paolo took a glug of his drink, allowing the gin to burn off the whack of envy at Hamish’s obvious joy at the sight of Skye and giving himself an excuse not to speak. He chided himself. Jealously was fast becoming an instant reaction of his, and it wasn’t becoming.
Paolo was a romantic at heart, even when outward appearances suggested otherwise. The other day he’d told Chloe her baking endless cakes for Angus made him want to puke when, actually, he was delighted for them. He wanted more than anything to have that for himself. He wanted to make other people puke.
He remembered the previous day’s dramas and his plimsolls drying on the line, and decided he didn’t want any more puke at all. Be careful what you wish for, and all that.
‘Skye’s staying with me,’ Paolo said. ‘While Hugh’s away. She’d thought she’d come and see him, but he’d neglected to mention his holiday and letting his cottage out.’
Hamish smiled. ‘Well, that’s grand. You sure you’re OK, Skye?’
‘Yup. Paolo stepped in when I needed help. He’s saved me from uncertainty. It’s why this week, all his drinks are on me. Maybe we can grab coffee when you have time, and have a proper catch up . . . ?’
Skye tailed off, staring at the back of a man as he propped a bike up against the railings, slung the helmet over the handlebars and strode towards the Anchor.
‘That’s him,’ she hissed, her head swivelling around to follow him. ‘It’s Angry-handsome man, who was sat on my rock yesterday. The one who’s heading inside.’
‘Who? Bear Sinclair?’ asked Hamish.
Skye turned back and snorted. ‘He’s called what ?’
Paolo leaned in. ‘Bear Sinclair. I think it’s a nickname, I don’t know what for. He’s an architect, in charge of turning some derelict outbuildings at Auchintraid Farm into luxury holiday retreats. Chloe was too scared to ask him about it when he arrived at Auchintraid, because she said he’s brusque and all business.’
‘Certainly the vibe he gave off yesterday. Couldn’t wait to get away from me.’
‘Apparently, he refused Chloe’s carrot cake. Home-made at that,’ Paolo continued.
‘Further evidence of his joylessness,’ said Skye.
‘Hot, though,’ said Paolo.
‘Yeah, he’s not bad looking, is he,’ Hamish chimed in. ‘If noirish Scandinavians are your type, Skye.’
Skye considered this. ‘I like Henning Mankell. And IKEA — what’s wrong with IKEA, Paolo?’ she asked, as Paolo gave a faint wince at this. ‘The furniture’s good quality and the meatballs are great . . .’
‘Nothing, except it’s not exactly noirish,’ said Paolo. ‘And I prefer my furniture from quirky antique shops and my meatballs home-made by my Nonna Maria. Anyway, you were saying?’
‘I like a lot of Scandinavian stuff, but first, I don’t think he’s that Scandi, not with a name like Sinclair, and second, based on our first encounter, I’m not sure I like him. Look, here he is.’
Bear Sinclair, who indeed looked noirish in a Scandinavian way, in a roll neck and jeans, his pale blond hair flattened from the helmet, walked briskly over to the harbour side of the street. Drink in hand, he leaned against the railings.
Paolo watched as Bear sipped his pint. Skye and Hamish were eyeing him too.
‘This is like stalking,’ Hamish whispered.
‘We’re not stalking him, you twazzock. We were here first,’ said Skye.
Hamish chuckled. ‘Other stalking, you twazzock. Look at us, we’re all keeping our heads low as we stare at him, wondering what he’ll do next.’
‘Och,’ said Paolo. ‘I think shooting him and sticking his head on a mount would be a bit extreme.’
Skye laughed out loud, and Bear turned to look at them. His face remained passive as he gave a nod to Paolo, who had encountered Bear up at Auchintraid. When Bear saw Skye though, his brow furrowed, and he turned away.
‘Oooh. You were right. He doesn’t seem too keen on you,’ said Paolo. ‘Was that a sneer?’
‘I think it was disinterest,’ said Hamish.
‘Scorn,’ Paolo countered. ‘Definitely scorn.’
‘Detachment,’ said Hamish, giving Paolo a grin.
‘Utter hatred,’ Paolo said, meeting Hamish’s eyes, in which Paolo was certain he could discern a twinkle.
‘Apathy.’
Skye interrupted. ‘Are you two going to spend the next ten minutes swapping single words?’
Paolo looked at Hamish. They exchanged mirthful looks then turned to Skye.
‘Apologies,’ said Hamish, failing to smother a smile. ‘It was a bit of fun.’
Paolo nodded, forcing a serious look. ‘Hopefully no offence caused.’
He and Hamish swapped amused glances one last time, before Paolo grinned and looked down. For that brief moment, he had that feeling. The one like when you’re cycling down a hill, feet hardly having to pedal, freewheeling at speed, with everything else in the world disappearing for a second.
Surely Hamish felt it too.