Chapter 2
Alistair
Dear Mr Macabe
“Please tell Dr Macabe that if he agrees to park his petrol-guzzling monster truck in his allocated parking space, I shall make every effort to blow-dry my hair after seven a.m. It’s called a compromise.”
As this is your third complaint this month alone, might I suggest taking this matter directly to Miss Lang to see if an agreement might be met.
Kindest regards
Julia
Skye Holidays and Rental Homes
The bloody kid was in my front garden again.
Sitting cross-legged in denim dungarees. Long blonde pigtails that were already tangled. Her tongue poked between her lips as she slotted cubes of Lego together.
Nope. Not today. I didn’t have time for her distractions.
Pressing the fob for my Land Rover, it beeped to life. The kid immediately snapped her head up. “Hi, Ali.”
I hated that nickname.
“See this line here,” I said without preamble, pointing down the middle of the two properties.
My half was neatly trimmed. A perfect patch of crisp green lawn that I clipped once a month without fail.
Theirs made my eye twitch every time I looked at it.
A mess of too-long grass and weeds I knew Isla Lang called “wildflowers” because she’d dumped the empty seed packets in my bin.
“You’re supposed to stay on that side of it. ”
The kid’s nearly translucent eyebrows pulled together. “Are you a policeman?” Her accent was a lilting mix of crisp English and Scottish, a rolling ‘r’ sneaking out here and there.
“No.”
She turned the Lego over in her fingers, a City Space Explorer I recalled seeing in the Lego shop on my last trip to Edinburgh. “Then I don’t think you can own grass.”
“Oh yeah, says who?” Real mature. Had I truly sunk so low I was picking fights with a kid?
“Me.”
Oh, well in that case. “Look—” What was her name again?
Her mum always called her “sunshine”. I had the pleasure of hearing it fifty times a day through my living-room wall.
But was that her actual name? “Kid. You’re what, six?
Respectfully, what the hell do you know? ” I fully sounded like the Grinch.
It wasn’t that I hated kids. I had two nieces. A quarter of my patients were children. I just . . . they were unpredictable. I hated unpredictable. How was I supposed to comfortably converse with someone when I couldn’t even vaguely anticipate the next words out of their mouth?
“I’m seven.” She held up the correct number of digits. “And I’m super smart. The best in science class.”
Despite my annoyance, a huffed laugh slipped out of me.
She tilted her head, continuing to study me, nose wrinkling like she somehow found me lacking. “Mummy said I shouldn’t talk to you because you’re a grouchy old man, but you don’t look that old.”
Another huff. What else had my insufferable neighbour been spreading about me? That I kicked puppies? Howled at the moon once a month? “Your mummy is probably right; you shouldn’t talk to strangers.”
She continued as if I hadn’t repeated the age-old adage that was spouted to every child. She’d probably climb into a stranger’s van for a bag of sweets, too. “You aren’t a stranger; you’re a super spy.”
Fucking kids, man. I crossed my arms, finally accepting I was having a little fun. “What gave me away?” Her mum might be a nightmare, but at least the child was semi-entertaining.
“Your hairy face.” She rubbed her own chin. “Only a spy would have a chin that hairy. To hide your identity.”
“Oh yeah?” I brushed a hand over my jaw.
My wee sister, Heather, lovingly called it my depression beard.
Super spy felt infinitely better. “Does your dad have a beard too?” I absolutely had the personality of an internet stalker.
As soon as something piqued my interest – or my annoyance – my brain demanded every scrap of information I could get my hands on.
In the case of Isla Lang, there was very little.
I’d learned her name from a misdelivered council bill. I knew she worked at Brown’s, had been raised in the south of England if her accent was anything to go by. And everyone in Kinleith seemed to adore her.
I knew she drove a beat-up old car that was better suited to a scrapyard and dressed like an extra from The Brady Bunch – all bold prints, little skirts and sunset colours. A smile that could launch a canned laugh track.
I knew that she was messy and disorganised, always rushing from her house like she was late for something.
I knew that at least twice a week she sat on the rusted old patio furniture in her back garden and stared at the stars.
If I hadn’t seen her walking in daylight with my own eyes, I’d have begun whittling my furniture into stakes weeks ago, because the woman did not sleep.
She banged about in her kitchen until midnight, only for her alarm to blare through our shared bedroom wall at four a.m. Every day like clockwork.
At six a.m., she blow-dried her hair.
After that, I was granted fifteen minutes of blessed silence before the music started. Everything from Marvin Gaye to Fleetwood Mac. I felt like I’d poured an energy drink directly into my brain.
I knew more about her morning routine than I had about Juniper’s. And we’d lived together for two years before our separation.
Outside of that, I made a point to know as little as possible about my neighbour.
Didn’t stop me from being curious though.
And her ex made me very curious.
A flashy Audi – the same model half the arsehole doctors at my old surgery used to drive – came by now and again, dropping the kid off, rarely picking her up. Presumably her dad. But he never got out the car, never spoke to Isla.
I knew I could ask my siblings. He clearly lived locally. But I had a feeling – and I wasn’t sure why – that as soon as I opened my mouth, questions like: What’s his height? Does he have a full head of hair? What can he bench press? might spill forth.
“Nope . . . he cooks at a seafood restaurant.” The word came out with a slight lisp thanks to her missing two front teeth, but she hit all the syllables correctly. “If I want to be a spy when I grow up, will I need a beard?”
“That depends. Do you want a beard?”
“I don’t know. I think it might be itchy. Maybe I’ll just be a fairy. Or a chef like Daddy.”
“Why not both?” I needed to get out of here, wind the conversation down. But I stopped suddenly at the sound of the front door opening.
“It’s time to go, sunshine – oh, hey.”
My head snapped to the left before I could stop it. The sun was too bright to fully see Isla – or perhaps the light was coming from behind her – but her voice made the back of my neck prickle.
My annoyances with my neighbour went in this order:
1. She was hell-bent on disturbing the peace.
2. She looked like a fucking angel.
I’d noticed it the day after she moved in.
I’d been going over the patient records for the surgery – the undigitised records – and resisting the urge to bang my head against the wall when I’d heard a grunt, followed by a low curse coming from the front garden.
The complaint already fully loaded in my throat as I’d thrown the door open.
Then I’d spied Isla flat on her back on her weedy lawn, a half-rotten fence panel clutched in her small hands, a smudge of mud coating her cheek . . . and my breath had caught.
My attraction was tangible, untimely and really inconvenient.
A distraction I didn’t want and couldn’t afford.
Just like it was now as she stepped out of the house and I took in her messy blonde curls, the same colour as the barley from the distillery.
She was short. Curvaceous in a way that made my mouth water every damn time.
It didn’t exactly help when she held a tray of pastries in her hand.
She always brought the smell of sugar with her.
Her legs and feet were bare. Instead of glancing at them, I took in the short denim dress layered over a white shirt with floaty sleeves that would have made anyone else look like a pirate. She wore a silver ring on every finger and each nail was painted a different colour.
I assumed the disorder was purposeful.
“Teddy, come get your shoes on. We’re going to be late for camp.”
Teddy. I tucked the information into a mental drawer I’d labelled Isla Lang, and slammed it shut.
“See you around, Ali,” Teddy said, sounding sixty, not seven. Isla brushed a hand over her head as she passed, a worried little pucker between her brows as she watched her daughter disappear into the house.
Not my business.
“Croissant?” Isla came closer, extending the tray. The sight of the perfectly crisp, golden pastry made the spinach smoothie I’d choked down half an hour ago sour in my stomach. “They’re a new recipe I’m testing at Brown’s; I’d love a second opinion.”
I knew a peace offering when I saw one. I waved her off with a clipped “No.” I had a raging sweet tooth. One I was trying to curb.
“Oh. Yeah, no worries.” Her fingers tightened on the tray, frown deepening between her brows as an awkward silence settled.
Shit.
Realising I had to say something, remove myself from the situation as quickly as possible, I said, “I have something of yours. Came in the post this morning.” Clearing my throat, I went back to the cottage, retrieving the cardboard box that had actually been sitting by my front door for three days now.
At first, I’d avoided returning it because then I’d have to talk to her. Then I’d planned to leave it on her doorstep, which I’d quickly nixed because I wouldn’t get to talk to her. Wouldn’t get to see her cheeks turn pink when she opened it.
Living in my head was a real trip right now.
Amidst all the indecision, I’d just abandoned the box on my kitchen table where I could stare at it.
I stepped out my front door, holding it out, making no move to step closer. Added, just to be a dick, “I’m not your postman, y’know.”
She walked across the grass completely barefoot. My attention dropped to her multi-coloured toenails as she took the package. “Sorry, I asked Cliff to stop delivering my stuff to your place. I’m starting to think he does it on pur— It’s open!”
“It came to my house. I assumed it was mine.”
“Oh, really?” A bulldozer wouldn’t have been able to drag my attention away as she peeked inside, then quickly flattened the box across her chest. “You ordered something in a pink box from a place called ‘Oh, Honey’?” The words on her lips were enough to make me shudder.
“Maybe.” I raised an eyebrow and, finally, her cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink.
“Did you look inside?”
“No.” And because I couldn’t resist taunting her, just a little, I stepped close enough to smell the sugar on her skin, and said, “Have a pleasurable day, Isla.” Then like a coward, I bailed faster than a med student asked to draw ABGs.
“Oh my god, you did!” She hurled the words at my back as I climbed into my car. “It’s a crime to open someone else’s mail, Alistair Macabe. You could face prison time.” But I’d already turned on the engine.