Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
AINSLEY
The kettle clicks off, steam curling up towards the ceiling while Mum rattles through her kitchen cupboard for mugs.
Da’s through in the living room, keeping Lily busy. He’s still got his cast on, but he’ll be fine with her for a few minutes.
“So,” I say, leaning against the worktop, “a funny thing happened a couple of days ago. Rachel texted me.”
Mum’s hand stills above a mug, a teabag pinched between her fingers. “Rachel? As in—”
“The very same.”
“What on earth did she want?”
“Sympathy, I think. Danny cheated on her too.” I can’t quite keep the bitter edge from my voice. “She thought I’d understand.”
Mum clicks her tongue. “Maybe this is mean of me, but I can’t say I’m very sorry to hear that. There’s a certain poetic justice in it, isn’t there?”
I don’t comment. Don’t need to.
Mum finishes pouring the water, then glances at me with a look I know all too well. “Anyway,” she says casually, “Struan—”
“Nope.” I hold up a hand. “There’s nothing going on between us—as I’ve already told you.”
Mum sighs. A heavy, theatrical sigh that could win awards.
“What was that noise for?” I fold my arms. “Also, Mum, I still can’t believe you gossiped about me behind my back. You know how humiliated I was after Danny. You know how awful it was, with everyone knowing everything. And yet you and Struan’s mum went blabbering away anyway.”
She sets down the teaspoon and turns to face me properly, her expression softening. “I am sorry about that. Truly I am. And if I’d known how it would turn out, I’d never have done it.”
“How it would turn out?”
“Yes. You pushing Struan away before you even gave him a proper chance. That’s the last thing I wanted.
” She reaches out and squeezes my arm. “If Helen and I couldn’t stop blabbing, it’s only because we were both so excited.
Helen was over the moon at the thought of you and her son together.
And me? Well, I was too. After what happened with Danny .
. .” She pauses, lines deepening around her mouth.
“I’d never seen you so small, Ainsley. I hated seeing you like that.
I thought that maybe, just maybe, Struan might help you put all that behind you.
Besides”—her voice lifts—“that lad is quite the catch.”
“Mum!” I gape at her. “Listen to you. You’re still interfering. You just can’t help yourself!”
“What? I’m only pointing out the truth. He’s charming, handsome, and so good with Lily. You told me about how he played Barbies with her on the day your da had his fall. Says a lot about his character, if you ask me.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she’s already leaning closer, voice dropping conspiratorially.
“And, well . . .” She glances towards the living room, where Da and Lily’s laughter drifts through.
“The body on that lad! I love your da very much, but even at his best he never had muscles like that. Honestly, they were all on show when Helen opened Struan’s front door that time.
” Her eyebrows perform an act of pure mischief.
“And, well, let’s just say I caught a glimpse of something else before Struan rushed to cover himself up. All very respectable.”
Heat floods my cheeks. Oh my God. Is my mother really talking about Struan’s dick?
“Mum!” I practically choke. “You did not just say that.”
“What?” She laughs, utterly unbothered. “I’m just saying he’s the full package, that one.” A wicked pause. “And he has a very nice package too.”
“MUM!” My soul attempts a swift exit.
She only chuckles harder, the absolute menace. But then the humour drains away, something more serious settling over her.
“But seriously, Ainsley? Helen . . . she’s worried her boy is lonely.”
I pause, the mug I’ve just picked up frozen halfway to my lips. “Lonely?”
The word doesn’t compute. This is Struan Walker we’re talking about?
The man with the charming grin and a bit of cheeky banter for anyone who passes.
Who plays guitar at the Ferryman’s Rest each Thursday and is surrounded by admirers afterwards, like he’s some kind of rock star.
The guy who’s so quietly confident it’s like he’s never experienced anxiety in his life.
“I doubt that very much.”
“Well, it’s what Helen thinks. He loves the weekend, when he’s got Isla. But during the week, when it’s just him, she thinks he gets a bit . . .” Mum searches for the word. “Down.”
Down?
Are we talking about the same person?
And yet . . .
Something tugs at the back of my mind. The guitar I heard last night.
That slow, aching melody. It wasn’t the first time I caught him playing outside on a Sunday night.
And the last time—before things got out of hand and I came on his lap—he said that Sunday evenings were his least favourite part of the week.
He did seem a bit lonely then.
“Anyway,” Mum continues, “if you don’t think Struan is the right person for you, or you don’t want anyone right now, I get that.
After what you went through, it’d be completely understandable if you wanted to forget about dating for .
. . well, however long you need. Only”—she meets my eyes—“I’m your mum and I want to see you happy.
You deserve someone so much better than Danny was.
And Helen? She wants to see Struan settle down with someone too. ”
I start to object but she holds up a hand.
“And if that’s not with each other, that’s okay! Of course it’s okay. But Struan is a popular man around town. Just be aware that he might, well, get snapped up.” She shrugs. “And, again, that’s fine. If he’s not the one for you, that’s no issue.
“But if a part of you does have feelings for him . . .” Her tone grows gentler. “Please don’t let your fears get in the way of giving him a proper shot. Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say on the matter. I won’t meddle or interfere anymore. I promise.”
“Thank you!” I say, perhaps a little too emphatically. “I’m going to keep you to that promise.”
But internally—annoyingly, inconveniently—I have to admit she’s given me a thing or two to think about.
Not that I’m about to admit that out loud.
I’m back at the house, and it’s just me here. Lily’s staying with my parents tonight, which means I can have a decent sleep and get to the salon early tomorrow without the nursery drop-off dance. A rare gift.
All I want is to change into something comfortable, collapse on the sofa, and let some mindless TV wash over me until my eyes get heavy.
But in my bedroom, reaching for my pyjamas, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. And pause.
My fringe sits perfectly, not a hair out of place. My make-up—soft glam, natural but polished—still looks fresh despite the full day.
This is the image I present to the world. Professional. Put-together. A woman who’s got it all figured out. Even if that’s far from how I feel inside.
I think about what Mum said earlier. About Struan being lonely. I scoffed at the idea because it was absurd. And yet . . .
What if it’s the same for him? What if his carefree demeanour, his easy smile, his cheeky banter—what if they aren’t the full picture? What if there’s something underneath all that charm that he doesn’t let people see?
My heart gives a quiet pang.
The sad song he played on his guitar last night. That said it all, didn’t it? Maybe music is Struan’s way of communicating how he’s really feeling. If so, last night he wasn’t feeling carefree.
Bloody hell. This is what happens when I get time to myself. Time to think.
But what if I am making a terrible mistake?
I stare at my reflection. The woman there is more uncertain than she was a moment ago.
Fuck it.
The TV can wait. The comfy clothes can wait. I should go talk to him. I’ve been putting it off and putting it off, and it’s getting ridiculous. We’re adults. We can have a conversation.
Just talk. Talk and see how things go.
The idea terrifies me. But he only lives next door. I can be there in thirty seconds. Just walk over, knock, and—
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m heading downstairs and out the front door.
The evening air hits my face, cool and bracing. His house is right there, separated from mine by nothing but a low hedge.
But his van isn’t in the drive. And there are no lights on inside.
I knock anyway. Wait. Knock again.
Nothing.
I stand there for a moment, arms wrapped around myself against the chill. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe avoiding Struan is the right call. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something.
I catch myself. Because I’ve not really tried, have I? One unanswered door and I’m ready to give up?
Back inside, I grab my phone and type out a quick message.
Ainsley
Hey. Are you around? Was hoping we could talk
Send.
I watch the screen. The message sits there, unread.
I try the TV. Some property programme where couples argue about square footage and kitchen tiles. I couldn’t tell you a single thing about it because I keep checking my phone every thirty seconds like a teenager waiting for a text back from a crush.
Which is ridiculous. I’m a grown woman with a business and a child and absolutely no time for this sort of nonsense.
I check my phone again.
Still nothing.
I go to the window and peer out. His lights are still off. No van.
Where the hell is he?
Eventually, restless and irritated with myself, I call Mum.
“Hi, love,” she says. “Everything okay? Lily’s fine. She’s just brushing her teeth.”
“Can I say goodnight to her?”
A shuffle, then Lily’s voice, bright and chatty despite the late hour: “Mummy! Granny let me have extra bubbles in my bath!”
“Did she now? That sounds lovely, baby. You be good for Granny and Grandpa, okay? I love you.”
“Love you too, Mummy. Night night!”
More shuffling, then Mum’s back. “She’s off to bed now. Your da’s going to read her a story—one-handed, bless him.”
“Thanks, Mum. For having her.”
“Of course.” A pause. Then, with that annoying maternal instinct: “Was there anything else you were calling about?”
I take a breath. “I’ve been thinking,” I say slowly, “about what you said earlier. About Struan.”
I can practically hear her perking up on the other end.
“And I’ve been thinking . . . maybe I should give him a chance.”
“Oh, Ainsley!” At the joy in her voice, I half expect confetti to burst out of my phone speaker. “That’s wonderful! I knew you’d come round. I just knew it.”
“Mum—”
“Sorry, sorry. Not meddling. I’ll behave. Go on.”
“The thing is, I went to speak to him but he’s not in. I messaged him and he’s not replying. And I know there’s nothing I can do about that, but now that I’ve decided I want to talk to him, I feel all restless and I can’t focus on anything else.”
“Give me a few minutes,” Mum says. “I’ll see if I can help.”
She hangs up before I can protest.
I pace the living room. Check my phone. Pace some more.
When it rings again, I answer before the first ring finishes.
“Had a word with Helen,” Mum says. “Seems he’s gone out for dinner. To a place called the Glen Garve Resort. Heard of it?”
My stomach drops.
The Glen Garve Resort.
That’s where Struan was supposed to take me. On the date we never made it to.
“Ainsley? You still there?”
“Yes,” I manage, my voice coming out strange. “Thanks, Mum. I’ll . . . I’ll sort it from here.”
I hang up before she can ask questions.
He’s at the Glen Garve Resort. For dinner.
That’s not the kind of place you go alone. It’s fancy. Romantic. The kind of place you take someone you’re trying to impress.
A date. He’s on a date.
My hands shake slightly as I try calling him. It rings and rings, then goes to voicemail.
I try again. Same result.
Fuck.
I’m pacing now, properly pacing, wearing a track in the carpet.
I remember what Mum said about Struan being a catch. I remember Lindsey McVey, the blonde jogger, and the bathroom quote she turned into a proposition. I remember the crowd of women around Struan after his gig at the Ferryman’s Rest, all twirling hair and flirty smiles.
Has he already moved on? Has he gone on a date with someone else?
And if he has . . . do I have any right to feel upset about that?
I told him—insisted, in fact—that I wanted us to be neighbours and nothing more. I shut him down. Multiple times. I practically slammed the door in his face.
So why does my chest feel like someone’s reached inside and squeezed?
Jealousy. That’s what this is. Hot and ugly and completely irrational.
I have no claim on him. None at all.
But God, this is just my luck, isn’t it? I finally decide that maybe Struan and I could work, and I’ve left it too late.
Fine. I’ll talk to him in the morning. What else can I do?
But then a worse thought surfaces, cold and unwelcome.
Is Struan the kind of guy who’d sleep with a woman on a first date?
Of course he is. Hell, we didn’t even make it to our first date because we were too busy fucking in his bedroom.
Which means tomorrow morning might be too late.
By then, he might have already—
No. No.
I stop pacing. Stand very still in the middle of my living room.
There’s only one thing for it. If I can’t get through to him on the phone, I’ll have to go speak to him in person. At the Glen Garve Resort. Tonight.
The thought is absolutely terrifying.
But I’ve let fear control me for too long. Fear of being hurt. Fear of being humiliated. Fear of trusting someone again only to have it blow up in my face.
And where has that fear got me? Alone in my house on a Monday night, pacing holes in the carpet while the man I might actually have feelings for is out with someone else.
No. Now is the time for action.
I head upstairs to my bedroom and throw open the wardrobe. My fingers move past comfortable jumpers and practical work clothes until they land on something else entirely.
This one.
I pull it out. The dress I picked for our first date.
Green velvet. Long-sleeved, above the knee, hugs every curve. The kind of dress that makes me feel like I’m calling the shots.
The Glen Garve Resort is a fancy place. I need to look like I belong there.
A flash of hesitation. Christ, am I really doing this?
But then I lay the dress on my bed—the bed Struan built, with his own hands, because I couldn’t manage the bloody flat pack—and sit down at my make-up table.
I study my reflection. The woman looking back is scared. But also determined.
If I’m going to walk into that restaurant and potentially make a complete fool of myself, I’m damn well going to look incredible while doing it.
I reach for my make-up bag.