Chapter 9
Finlay swirls the last drop of amber liquid in his glass and downs it, before sitting back in his seat. ‘I’d best stop now, or the dogs will be walking me tomorrow.’
The whisky is flowing, the chat is good and a traditional Scottish band is playing at the opposite end of the bar.
I bounce my foot to the tunes, grateful that I can barely hear Rory at the other end of the table over the noise.
We’ve all been nursing our drinks for a couple of hours now, and there’s a pleasant, warm feeling throughout the pub.
‘This band plays at the local ceilidhs,’ Eilidh says. ‘You should come sometime, Ava.’
‘Wait, did the elusive Eilidh Stewart just ask me on a date?’ I joke. ‘Yes please, I’d love to come! I’ve never been to a ceilidh before, though, I don’t know any of the moves.’
The ceilidh band’s catchy melody pauses before the accordion rings out a final flourish. After a couple of seconds, a new energetic rhythm starts up. Finlay taps his foot while Eilidh nods along.
‘Stand up. I’ll teach you,’ Rory says suddenly, his green eyes boring into mine.
‘What, now?’ I ask, glancing around for someone to laugh and say he is joking.
Eilidh, Donna and Finlay don’t seem too concerned. They don’t know Rory the nightmare neighbour that I do. They’re used to Rory the nice guy. All they see is a well-meaning Scotsman offering to teach me a dance.
But I know better. Rory doesn’t like me.
He’s made that perfectly clear. I’m always tripping him up with ladders, putting my foot in it and pissing him off with pretty much everything that comes out of my mouth – when I don’t mean to and when I do.
And yet, this dance offer doesn’t seem to be a question.
Perhaps my lack of ceilidh dancing and whisky knowledge, despite my Scottish roots, is pushing him over the edge.
But his broad shoulders, in his deep-green T-shirt, rather than his usual black Toolbox work top, seem relaxed.
He is with his friends, out of work mode and drinking whisky.
There is a look in his eyes that I can’t quite put my finger on.
Amusement, maybe. Or perhaps this is his attempt to be friendly at last. I’m not sure.
‘Yes, now,’ he nods, his gaze intensifying by the second. ‘No time like the present.’
‘We’ll butt heads,’ I remind him subtly of our previous conversation.
We can’t be trusted in close proximity. He and the fading dent in his forehead know that all too well.
But the warning doesn’t stop him. He reaches down and pulls me to my feet in one swift movement. My mouth falls open as he whips his arm around my shoulder and takes my hand in his.
I am a head smaller than him and fit snugly under his arm.
I can smell the sweet musk of his aftershave, or perhaps it’s the whisky.
All I can think of is how weird it feels to be so close to someone, to feel another person’s body against mine.
I haven’t shared a close space like this with a guy, not since Seb. The thought makes me dizzy.
‘The Gay Gordons,’ he says, before propelling us forward, then, with a slight turn, flipping us in the opposite direction. In perfect step with the music, we dance.
My face flushes, even though no one is giving us a second look in the busy bar.
Rory lifts my hand above my head and begins twirling me around.
I catch the warm and smoked scent of whisky on his breath, or maybe it is mine, I’m not sure.
My fingers tingle at their edges at the feel of his hand taking charge of mine.
His strong arms lead me through the moves and, despite some clumsy footwork here and there, I manage to keep up.
He guides me through the dance with a practised strength, holding me close by the waist before flinging me into spins and twirls, and then pulling me back again.
We alternatively jump, shuffle and dance, finding what space we can in the crowded pub.
A few neighbouring punters hoot and clap along to the music.
I can feel the heat of his body on mine.
When I glance up at him, there’s a playfulness in his eye. He’s having fun.
His jaw is strong and set. He wants me to learn.
This is serious business, this Scottish dancing.
Not to be messed with. But I’m sure I see a small hint of a smile on his lips as I turn underneath his arm in an expert motion.
I’m conscious of my heart thumping in my chest. I don’t want him to know how he is making me feel.
How is he making me feel?
Uncertain. Breathless. Hot. God, it is hot.
The song comes to an abrupt end. Or it feels abrupt as he lets go of my hand, and I land back on my chair quicker than I anticipate, my heart beating wildly. I gaze up at him; his eyes meet mine as he takes a sip from his glass.
‘And that’s the Gay Gordons,’ he proclaims with a nonchalant shrug.
‘Well,’ I say, regaining my breath. ‘That was an experience.’
‘Ah, you’re not a ceilidh virgin any more, Ava,’ Donna grins. ‘No excuse not to come along now.’
I feel my cheeks burn even more. I want to turn the attention away from me, but I struggle to form a sentence.
‘Where did you learn to ceilidh dance?’ I ask.
‘School,’ they say, in unison.
‘You learn that dancing in school? Like, as part of the curriculum?’ I ask, my mouth falling open.
‘As part of our PE lessons,’ Finlay affirms.
‘We did sports too, obviously. It wasn’t like we did the Gay Gordons or Dashing White Sergeant instead of basketball or anything,’ Rory says.
‘Who is this Gordon? Is he the Sergeant too?’
The others laugh and explain that these are all dances. ‘And the boys had to ask the girls to the end of term ceilidh,’ Donna says, with a nostalgic smile. ‘It was a huge deal. Mating season for Scottish teenagers.’
‘Ah, the annual walk of shame back to your seat after asking someone to the ceilidh followed by the “Aw, cheers but no thanks”,’ Finlay says wistfully. ‘Those were the days.’
‘You didn’t have to ask in our final year,’ Donna reminds Finlay with a swift nudge from her elbow. ‘It was the girls’ turn to approach boys.’
Finlay smirks, glancing sideways at Donna, like they share a secret.
‘Yep, those annual moments of ritualized torture we look back on so fondly,’ Rory says. ‘The real nightmare before Christmas.’
‘Don’t give us that, Rory MacGregor.’ Eilidh rolls her eyes. ‘You refused to ask anyone. Ever. You were always waiting for that girl—’
‘Anyway,’ he cuts Eilidh off, looking flustered as he shakes his head into the last of his whisky. She frowns into her own whisky and shrugs, while Donna grins at Rory. ‘This has been a fun trip down memory lane, but I’ve really got to head off.’
It’s strange being in this group who have so much shared history between them.
Sometimes, you can see it in the looks they exchange, other times they say something that seems to have a deeper meaning.
As an outsider, I’m grateful to be in the mix, but often it’s confusing.
The conversation feels full of pitfalls.
The time will come when I might know an inside joke or two myself, if I’m lucky.
‘You need to be at work at 8.56 a.m. sharp tomorrow,’ I say to Rory, giving a small salute.
‘8.56 a.m.?’ he repeats.
As his eyes narrow, I wish I hadn’t reminded Rory of our daily interactions, rather than whatever that had been during the impromptu dance. I’d hoped to launch my own inside joke, but it falls flat as he shoots me his usual disdainful look.
‘That’s the time you arrive. On the dot. Every morning,’ I say. I can’t exactly stop now. ‘Never a minute later or earlier.’
‘How do you know it’s the same time every day?’
‘Well, I was taught to tell the time at school, while you were all dancing around in your kilts. And I am your next-door neighbour, remember.’
He nods, pulling his jacket on. ‘Well, some of us have a schedule to stick to. We can’t just swan around with a latte doing whatever we feel like.’
‘Swan around? I’ve been working my arse off to get my shop in shape for opening,’ I say. ‘All that’s left now is an empty space for the mural that you’ve been refusing to paint.’
‘Mural?’ Finlay repeats, glancing at us both over the table.
Rory rolls his eyes. ‘Ava wants me to paint a mural in the bookshop.’
‘Did you guys know he’s an artist?’ I ask with a flick of the wrist, as though I am painting in the air. I’ve clearly had too much whisky. ‘Trapped behind the front desk of a DIY store, which I said I’d look after for him, by the way, while he paints, which I also want to pay him for.’
‘I didn’t know you painted, Rory,’ Eilidh says.
‘I don’t,’ Rory replies, his expression now hard.
‘Ah, you should do it, mate,’ Finlay urges. ‘I reckon you’d enjoy it. Wasn’t that what you wanted that shop for? A space to work in and display local artists and some of your work?’
Rory stands up and shakes his head. He looks livid, as if Finlay has just outed him as the customer with a wire fetish.
So that’s what Rory planned to do with my bookshop.
He was going to take it over as his artist’s studio and shop, right next to his family’s store, until I swooped in and snapped it up.
No wonder Rory hates me.
I swallow and look away, hoping to avoid further conflict. It’s not like it’s my fault. I had a dream too. I just happened to get the last bid in to secure the shop, that’s all.
The barman nods goodbye before calling for last orders. We file out of the door into the dark of the night. It’s still pleasantly warm, so I shrug my jacket off and hold it close to my chest.
Across the road from the pub’s entrance, a couple are in the middle of a full-blown argument. A ‘stooshy’ as Granny would have said. Eilidh links arms with me as Rory fixes Piper’s lead.
‘Susie and Cormac McFall,’ Finlay whispers. ‘They’ve been back together for five minutes and already fighting again.’
‘You always know everyone’s business!’ Donna exclaims. ‘You’d think he worked in the hairdresser’s.’
‘They got back together? I thought Cormac was leaving Susie for her cousin?’ Eilidh whispers back.
‘Second cousin,’ Finlay nods, knowingly. ‘That didn’t last.’
‘Ullapool has a lot of drama, for a small place. And it feels like people really want to talk about it,’ I muse. ‘All I’ve heard so far is people splitting up and falling in love. Either that or they’re hooking up by the bins.’
‘Who’s hooking up by the bins?’ Donna asks.
‘Oops,’ I say, covering my mouth. ‘That was supposed to be a secret.’
Rory rolls his eyes at me. ‘A couple of frisky teens. No big news flash.’
‘They were outside the shop, just before I practically begged Rory to paint my mural and he refused.’
‘Ah, come on, you hardly begged,’ Rory says.
‘Is that what you want?’ I stop to look at him directly. ‘You want me to tell you that you’re the most amazing artist I’ve ever met and that I’d be lucky if you would grace the walls of my bookshop with the sheer genius that is your paintbrush? Do you want me to—’
Eilidh, Donna and Finlay exchange a glance as Rory raises an eyebrow at me.
‘Fine, I’ll do it,’ he mutters, as I continue my rant.
‘—announce on my social media page that I’ve hunted high and low for someone to paint my mural and even though there is a guy that could do it right next door, he refuses and I…’ I stop for a second, absorbing his quiet words. ‘Wait, did you just say you’d do it?’
He nods. ‘It won’t be at 8.56 a.m. tomorrow because I’ve got to see a man about a dog, but aye. I’ll do it. Come on, Piper. Night, everyone.’
Rory throws a wave in the air as he walks away.
‘See, Ava, he is lovely,’ Eilidh says with a smile.
‘I knew he’d say yes,’ Donna nods.
‘Great guy,’ Finlay adds.
Bloody Rory.
When it’s just me and him he’s belligerent, stubborn and downright unfriendly, but as soon as there’s an audience, he becomes so amenable.
Can no one else see why Rory MacGregor is driving me mad?
‘My taxi’s here! Ava, I know you’re just up the road, but Donna, do you want a lift home?’
‘Erm…’ Donna says, considering it. She sneaks a look at Finlay.
‘I’ll walk you home,’ Finlay offers, looking at the ground rather than at Donna. ‘Then I’ll head home.’
‘Great,’ Donna gives a businesslike nod. ‘Let’s do that.’
As I make my way home in a whisky-fuelled daze, I wonder what exactly is going on between the pair of them.