Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DOUGLAS
Lachlan’s place sits at the edge of town, the last house before the road gives up and the land takes over. It’s a good spot. Quiet.
The twins are at Ainsley’s for the evening, as are Blair and Finn. Lachlan’s organised a lads’ night. Just three mates, a few beers, and the rare luxury of finishing a thought without being interrupted.
Christ, I need this. It’s been three days since I kissed Ellie. Three days of hauling creels and doing school runs and making dinners, all while reliving that kiss, and my hurried departure, again and again.
I still haven’t spoken to her. I keep telling myself I need to sort my head out first, but three days later, and my head is no clearer than it was on Sunday. The only thing I’ve figured out is that I’m very good at avoiding things.
So, aye. A night off. A few drinks. That’s the plan.
I ring Lachlan’s doorbell. When the door swings open, Gus—Lachlan’s excitable golden retriever—launches himself at me, front paws on my chest, tongue going straight for my face.
“Nice to see you too, Gus,” I say, shoving him back down. As I scratch behind his ears, I nod at Lachlan. “All right, mate. I brought some beers.”
“Cheers. Come on through. Struan’s already here.”
I follow him through to the kitchen, noting the house looks different to how it used to.
Lachlan’s place was always clean—the man runs a tight ship, literally and figuratively—but it used to feel more like a show home than a place someone actually lived.
Now there are trainers kicked off by the door, books stacked on surfaces, Finn’s drawings and photographs hung up on the walls. Blair’s doing.
Struan is already at the kitchen table with a beer, long legs stretched out, his hair in its usual messy bun. He raises his bottle in greeting. “All right, big man?”
“Aye. You?”
“Grand. Lachlan’s making burgers.”
I glance at Lachlan, who’s gone over to the hob to check on the patties. “Burgers? On a Wednesday? What happened to the sacred weekly menu?”
In the old days—and by old days I mean last year—Lachlan had a dinner rota he stuck to like gospel. Monday was chilli. Tuesday was baked potatoes. Wednesday was . . . I can’t remember what Wednesday was, but it definitely wasn’t burgers.
Lachlan doesn’t look up from the pan. “Blair suggested I mix things up.”
“Blair suggested,” Struan repeats, grinning. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“She made a reasonable point about variety. Anyway, there are some chilled beers in the fridge, Douglas, or have one of the ones you brought. I’m going to serve up.”
Soon Lachlan and I join Struan at the table, and we tuck into our burgers and drink our beers.
Before long, Lachlan and I are talking about the water this week.
He’s a ferry captain—a different beast entirely from a fisherman—but he knows what it is to read the weather, respect the tide, and trust a vessel you’ve spent more hours on than you can count.
Struan, on the other hand, tries to join in by chatting about surfing, and that’s just not the same.
Still, when the conversation moves on, he has us laughing by telling us about a client this week who wanted him to knock through a load-bearing wall and could not get it through their head why he wouldn’t do it, no matter how many times he explained.
The food is good, as is the chat, but somewhere around the second beer I notice something. They’re being too nice, Struan especially. The man hasn’t made a single joke at my expense, and that’s not normal. He usually can’t resist winding me up about something or other.
Lachlan’s at it too. Every so often, he steers the conversation back to me in a way that feels deliberate.
I set my bottle down. “All right. What’s going on?”
They exchange a glance. Quick, but I catch it.
“What do you mean?” Lachlan says.
“You two. You’re being weird.”
“We’re not being weird,” Struan says.
“Struan, you haven’t insulted me once tonight. Should I be worried about you?”
Struan opens his mouth, presumably to object, then seems to reconsider. He looks at Lachlan. Lachlan gives a small nod.
“All right, fine.” Struan leans back in his chair and folds his arms. “So. You and Ellie. Are we going to talk about this, or are you going to keep pretending nothing is happening?”
There it is.
“Nothing is happening.”
“Aye, and I’m the Pope.”
“Nothing is happening, Struan. I mean it.”
“You kissed her, mate.”
The words shatter the easy rhythm of the evening. I stare at him. Then at Lachlan, who has the decency to look apologetic.
“How do you—” I start, then stop, because I already know the answer. Ellie told Blair, or Ainsley, or both, then they told Lachlan and Struan.
I take a long swing of my beer. There’s irritation, aye—maybe a flash of embarrassment too—but underneath it, something loosens. Because the truth is, I’ve been carrying this around on my own for days, and it’s been doing my head in.
“Right,” I say. “Fine. Aye, I kissed her. And then I left, and I haven’t spoken to her since. Happy?”
“Thrilled,” Struan says. “Now, why haven’t you spoken to her?”
“Because I don’t know what to say.”
“How about: ‘Ellie, I like you. Fancy going out sometime?’ There, done. You’re welcome.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It really is.”
“It isn’t, Struan. I’m married.”
The word sits there between us. Struan’s expression shifts, something more serious settling behind the easy grin.
It’s Lachlan who speaks next. “When was Leah last in touch?”
“Struan asked me that a few days ago.”
“Aye,” Struan says. “And the answer was three months ago. Has that changed?”
“Nope.”
Struan nods. “And when she’s away,” he says carefully, “do you think she’s . . . on her own?”
I pick at the label on my beer bottle. “I don’t know. She doesn’t tell me.”
I’m not stupid. Leah doesn’t have a steady job, as far as I know.
She’s never mentioned one, at least. But she always looks well put-together when she turns up—new clothes, nice bag, jewellery too, not the look of someone who’s been sleeping on mates’ sofas.
Someone is funding that lifestyle, and it’s not me.
Besides, people gossip. I’ve heard rumours that she has another man, maybe men. Not that I pay much heed to gossip.
“No,” I say. “I don’t think she’s on her own.”
Saying it out loud doesn’t sting the way I thought it might. It’s like pressing on an old bruise that doesn’t hurt anymore.
“Do you still have feelings for her?” Lachlan asks.
“No. The marriage has been dead for years.”
“Then why are you still in it?”
I don’t answer straight away. I consider trying to change the subject, but from the looks they’re both giving me, I know they’re not letting me off the hook tonight.
“Between the boat and the twins, I barely get time to sleep,” I say eventually. “Never mind sit in a solicitor’s office.”
“That’s an excuse, not a reason,” Struan says.
“Divorces cost money. You think I’ve got spare cash lying around?”
“Still an excuse.”
I take a breath. “Fine. Leah barely visits the twins as it is. If I divorce her, what if she stops coming altogether? What if that’s the thing that makes her give up on them completely?”
That one is harder for Struan to dismiss—I can see it in his face.
But he’s not one to give up easily. “Mate, if Leah would choose not to see her own kids because you filed some paperwork, that’s on her, not you.
You can’t put your whole life on hold so she can decide to be a mother for five minutes here and there when it suits her. ”
Jesus, no one has ever said it to me that plainly before. But he’s not wrong.
Lachlan nods. “Struan’s right. This thing with Leah, it’s not helping the twins. It’s just keeping you stuck.”
I open my mouth. Close it again. Pick up my beer, find it empty, and set it back down.
Gus, who’s been lying by the table this entire time, chooses this moment to come over and rest his head on my lap. His big amber eyes look up at me with an expression of profound sympathy. Or maybe he just wants to lick my plate. Hard to tell.
I ruffle his fur.
“Right,” Lachlan says, standing. “I think this calls for something stronger.” He gets out a bottle of whisky and three glasses. He pours without asking and plants one in front of me.
I take a sip. It’s good stuff, smoky and warm.
No one speaks for a while. It’s like we all understand this is a brief respite before the conversation continues.
Eventually Struan says, “Can I tell you something?”
“Could I stop you?”
He ignores that. “Before Ainsley, I was a mess. I didn’t think I was a mess—I thought I was grand.
I had Isla, I had work, I had . . .” He waves a hand.
“Women. Plenty of them, though nothing serious. I told myself that was enough, that I didn’t need anything more.
Casual suited me just fine. But it was bollocks.
Ainsley . . . well, there’s no way of saying this without sounding incredibly cheesy, but she and Isla are the best things that have ever happened to me. Oh, and wee Lily too, of course.”
That’s unusually candid for Struan. And now he’s opened up, Lachlan decides to do the same.
“After Leanne died,” he says quietly, “I shut down. You remember what I was like.”
I nod. I do remember. He was a man going through the motions—doing his job, raising Finn, but feeling absolutely nothing he didn’t have to.
“It took Blair to show me that I was allowed to be happy again.”
The three of us sit with that for a moment.
“You need to stop punishing yourself for wanting something good,” Lachlan adds. “Because that’s what you’re doing.”
I stare at the amber in my glass, swirling it. The thing is, I know they’re right. I’ve known it for a while, if I’m honest. And yet I haven’t done anything about it. Why? Why am I accepting this half-life?
I take a slow breath. “So what should I do?” It’s not a challenge. It’s a genuine question.
“First,” Struan says, holding up a finger, “start sorting out the Leah situation. I’m not saying you need to file papers tomorrow, but you need to get the ball rolling. Make it real. Because as long as that marriage exists, you’ve got a reason to say no to everything else.”
He holds up a second finger. “Second, ask Ellie out.”
“I—”
“Not a walk with the twins. Not a bag of prawns on a library counter. A date. Two adults sitting down and talking.”
I rub a hand over my face. “I haven’t been on a date in years. I wouldn’t know what to do. What would I talk about? Where would we go? I don’t even own clothes that don’t smell faintly of fish.”
“That’s why you’ve got us,” Struan says. “Tonight we’re going to sort you out.”
“God help me.”
Lachlan tops up the whiskies. I take mine gratefully. I’m going to need it.
“Right, then.” Struan rubs his hands together. “Let’s practise.”
I look at him. “Let’s what?”
“Practise. I’ll be Ellie.” He shifts in his chair, straightens his posture, and—Christ—tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. Then he clasps his hands, tilts his head, and bats his eyelashes at me. “Hi, Douglas,” he says in a voice several octaves higher than his own.
“No. Absolutely not. We’re not doing this.”
“Come on,” Struan says, dropping back to his normal voice. “This is for your own good.”
“Struan, I am not practising a date with you.”
“You’re not practising a date with me. You’re practising a date with Ellie. I’m just standing in for her.”
He bats his eyelashes again. Lachlan shakes with silent laughter.
“I hate both of you,” I say.
“So, Douglas.” Struan leans forwards, chin in his hands, the picture of rapt attention. “What do you do for a living? I bet it’s fascinating.”
“I’m a fisherman. You know that. Everyone knows that.”
“Oh, a fisherman! How exciting. Do you catch big fish or wee fish?”
“Mostly shellfish. Prawns mainly, sometimes lobsters and crabs. I use creels.”
“Creels. Wow. Tell me more.”
“I—” I shake my head. “This is so stupid.”
“Hey!” Struan objects, still in his Ellie voice. “We’re trying to have a nice conversation here. Don’t call it stupid.”
I turn to Lachlan for support. He holds up his hands. “Don’t look at me. I’m no good at dates either. Blair made things easy for me by moving into the granny flat in my back garden.”
“Fine.” With a sigh, I turn back to Struan. “Enough about me. Tell me, Ellie, how’s the library?”
Struan drops character immediately. “How’s the library? That’s your opening question?”
“What’s wrong with that? You asked me about fishing.”
“Aye, but unlike you, Ellie has hobbies—so ask her about them.”
I glare at him. “Fine. How’s the fiddle?”
“That’s better,” Struan says, “but not by much. Why not try something like: ‘I love watching you play at the Ferryman’s Rest. How did you get into music?’ A question like that shows you’ve noticed her, and it gives her something to talk about.”
Frustratingly, I have to admit that isn’t half bad. I file it away.
“And then,” Struan says, “when she answers, you listen. You don’t just wait for your turn to talk again.
Anyway, you don’t have anything to worry about, mate.
Ellie’s liked you for ages, right? And she likes you the way you are.
So you don’t have to try and act all smooth or anything like that. That’s not you.”
“Cheers.”
“You’ll be fine. Ask questions. Listen. And for the love of God, if you feel the urge to bolt halfway through the date, sit on your hands and ride it out.”
“Very helpful,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Good. Shall we continue the role-play, or has the moment passed?”
“It’s passed.”
Lachlan, who’s been silently enjoying the show, finally steps in. “You’ll be fine. It’s not like you’re being sent into battle. The main thing is you actually speak to her and ask her out, because she’s not heard from you for a few days now.”
He’s got a point there.
“Aye, okay. I’ll talk to her. Soon.”