Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
STRUAN
The van rattles along the winding road to Bannock, and I drum my fingers on the steering wheel in time with the radio. Friday afternoon—best part of the working week. Not just because I get a break from sanding and painting, but because I’m about to collect my wee girl.
A tractor lumbers out of a farm track ahead, trailer stacked high with hay bales that wobble precariously with each pothole.
I drop down a gear, biding my time until the road straightens, then swing out and overtake.
The farmer raises a hand from the wheel in that universal countryside greeting, and I return the gesture.
Nancy Sinatra’s voice crackles through the speakers: “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’”. I find myself grinning like an eejit. Christ, this song. It’s pure Ainsley Reid energy—all sass and sting, ready to crush a man under those wee heeled boots she wore last night.
God, the way she’d watched me play, those green eyes tracking my every move across the strings. And when she’d danced with Blair, that plum dress clinging to her thighs, swishing around her legs with every spin . . .
She’d smiled—not that she’d aimed it at me. Nah, too busy pretending she’s not interested. But I saw the way her cheeks flushed when I called her bonny—the prettiest shade of pink. She can play ice queen all she likes, but I know attraction when I see it.
I shift in my seat, willing my body to calm the fuck down. Because nothing says “responsible father” like getting a semi thinking about your neighbour on the way to pick up your kid.
Still. Only one more week of the refurb, then I’m no longer her builder. After that? All bets are off. We’ll see if those walls of hers stay up.
A thought niggles as I navigate another bend. Maybe it’d be smarter to find a tourist for a one-night reset. Rather than the woman I live next door to. The woman I’ll see every bloody day whether things go well or spectacularly sideways.
Aye. That would be smarter. But not as fun.
Bannock’s Main Street opens out ahead of me, its stone buildings bathed in late-afternoon light.
Flower boxes run along the pavement, bright against the grey stone.
I pass the pub—the Pheasant—then Morag’s Bakery, which I’m keen to visit since the cakes are supposed to be amazing, but it’s always shut by the time I get here.
I turn right onto the narrow side street that runs alongside the River Garve.
I’ve got to give it to her, Sophie picked a cracking spot to live.
Old stone cottages, doors and window frames all painted in bright colours, wee tidy gardens full of flowers, and back gardens backing right onto the water.
Dead-end street too, so barely any traffic.
As I pull up outside her place, a wee girl darts across the lane, giggling, a blond guy a few years older than me chasing after her. “Callie!” he calls, laughing. “Come back here, you wee menace!”
I can’t help smiling, remembering when Isla used to be that small—about the same age as Ainsley’s wee girl, Lily, come to think of it.
And there I go, straight back to Ainsley again. Christ. What is it about her? Is it just that she tells me to bugger off when everyone else laughs along?
I get out the van and walk up the short path to Sophie’s bright yellow door. I knock then try the handle and, as usual, am able to let myself in. Sophie’s philosophy: in a place like Bannock, what’s the point of locking your door? Used to make me nervous, but her house, her rules.
The smell hits me first—onions, mushrooms, something creamy. I follow my nose to the kitchen, where Sophie is stirring a pot, her dark-blonde hair twisted up in a messy bun.
“What you making? Smells almost edible.”
She starts then turns, wooden spoon in hand. “Struan! Didn’t hear you come in. It’s mushroom stroganoff, and it smells better than edible, thank you very much.”
“Aye, well, I’ll be balancing out all your veggie meals by letting Isla eat her body weight in sausages over the weekend.” I wink at her. “Might even teach her how to grill a steak rare enough to moo.”
Sophie shakes her head but smiles and pulls me in for a quick hug. “Honestly, Struan, you never change.”
“Aye, well, one of us had to stay predictable.”
She laughs then calls up the stairs, “Isla! Your da’s here!”
“Hi, Da!” Isla shouts back. “Be down in a minute! Just finishing packing.”
I remember when she was smaller and the second I walked through that door, she’d come thundering down the stairs and launch herself at me. Now it’s “be down in a minute”. Growing up, I suppose.
“She was a wee bit upset earlier,” Sophie says, turning back to her cooking. “Katie and Freya are having a sleepover tonight.”
“Ah.” I lean against the worktop. “And she can’t go cause I’ve got her.”
“Aye, but these things happen. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. She knows that. But she was still disappointed.”
“You should’ve texted me, Soph. I could’ve picked her up tomorrow morning instead.”
She glances over her shoulder. “I didn’t want to cut into your time with her. You already have her for less of the week than I do.”
“I’m not a monster, Soph. I do let her have pals.” I grin. “If something like this comes up again, just give me a shout. It’s not a big deal.”
“You sure? Because . . . well, I was thinking we could do a sleepover here at some point and invite Katie and Freya over. But it’d need to be at the weekend—a school night just wouldn’t work.”
“Course I’m sure.” But even as I say it, there’s a wee flicker in my gut at the thought of losing a night with my girl.
Christ, Walker, you’re a grown man. You can cope with losing one Friday evening so Isla can have a sleepover with her mates.
“Great, I’ll check with the other mums. Maybe next weekend?”
I shoot her a smile. “Works for me.”
“You can tell her in the van, if you like. Might cheer her up.”
“Aye, will do.”
Sophie nods, then takes a breath. “Actually, while we’ve got a minute . . . Mei’s coming for dinner tonight, and . . . I’m going to ask her to move in.”
My stomach does a weird little drop. Mei, here permanently, part of Isla’s everyday life in a way I’m not—
And then I catch myself.
What’s wrong with me? I like Mei. Besides, Sophie deserves this and Isla adores her. I really need to get it together.
I pull Sophie into a hug. “That’s brilliant news. She’d be daft to say no.”
Sophie relaxes against me. “You sure you’re okay with it?”
“Course I am. Mei’s great.” And I mean it. Between the two of them, Isla’s going to be fed, loved, and fussed over to within an inch of her life. That’s a good thing.
“Don’t say anything to Isla yet,” Sophie says after I let her go. “Not until Mei’s given me her answer. And I’d like to be the one to tell her.”
“My lips are sealed.”
Footsteps on the stairs pull both our gazes to the doorway. Isla appears, rucksack slung over one shoulder, curls escaping from her ponytail.
“You’ve grown again, wee yin,” I say, opening my arms.
She walks into the hug, but it’s quieter than usual—no full-body tackle today. Sophie’s straight in checking Isla’s bag, then her Dexcom, then rattling off reminders to me about sensors and hypo snacks and logging carbs and all the usual diabetes stuff.
“Got it all, Soph,” I say, smiling so she knows I’m not annoyed. “We go through this every Friday.” I nudge Isla with my elbow. “You’d think she’d trust me by now, eh?”
She gives a small smile. “She likes to fuss, doesn’t she?”
“Can’t help it,” Sophie says. “Habit. Right then, have a good evening, both of you.”
“Bye, Mum.” Isla gives her a quick squeeze before slipping her hand into mine.
As we head for the door, I glance back at Sophie, give her a small nod, and mouth, “Good luck.”
“So,” I say to Isla as we leave Bannock behind us, “tell me about this primary four reading group, then. You showing those older kids how it’s done?”
“It’s fine.” She looks out the van window.
“Just fine? Come on, you must be reading some good stuff. What have they got you on? War and Peace? The complete works of Shakespeare?”
A tiny smile tugs at her mouth. “We’re doing Charlotte’s Web.”
“Ah, the spider book. Classic. Though personally, I always thought Wilbur was a bit of a drama queen.”
“Da.” She rolls her eyes, but the smile’s still there.
“What? He was! ‘Oh no, I’m going to be bacon!’ Meanwhile, Charlotte’s out there writing actual words in a web, and does she get any credit?”
She giggles, shaking her head like I’m the daftest person alive.
Good. That’s better.
“Listen, princess, your mum said you were a bit upset earlier. About the sleepover?”
Her smile falters. She nods.
“Tell you what,” I say, like the idea’s just occurred to me, “how about you have your own sleepover? At your mum’s place. Next weekend, if it suits Katie and Freya.”
She turns to me, eyes brightening. “Really?”
“Course. I’ll pick you up Saturday morning instead of Friday night. Give you the whole evening with your pals.”
“Can we have pizza? And watch films? And make friendship bracelets?”
She’s already planning the whole thing out. There’s no “but that means one night less with you, Da!” Not that I expected it. Besides, her grin right now is worth trading a Friday evening for.
“Sounds good to me, and I’m sure your mum’ll be fine with all of that.”
She pulls a wee notebook from her rucksack—because of course she packed a notebook—and starts scribbling. “We’ll need snacks. Good ones, not healthy ones. And maybe we could do makeovers? Oh, and ghost stories!”
I chuckle. There’s my girl.
“Can we go to the shop tomorrow? To get crisps and sweets?”
“Absolutely.”
She beams at me, a proper smile this time. “Thanks, Da.”
“Anything for you, princess.” I nod towards a sign for Duntreath. “Fancy stopping at that restaurant you like? The one that does the ice cream sundaes?”
“Yes!” She actually bounces in her seat. “Can I get the one with the sparklers?”
“If you eat some actual food first.”
“Deal!”