Chapter 10
This hangover is like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
As soon as I wake up from a sleep that feels like I actually died, albeit temporarily, it kicks in.
This is my punishment for the ice comment and for winding Rory and Finlay up about whisky drinking.
The Scottish gods have teamed up and struck me down with the hangover from hell.
I pull the covers back over my head, cursing Rory, the smug whisky dealer, for the sheer volume I consumed the night before. I hadn’t even felt that drunk, although I can recall standing up in the middle of the bar attempting the Gay Gordons with him.
Did I initiate that? Oh, God. I shouldn’t be allowed out.
Rory. My skin prickles across my neck as I think back to the moment he pulled me to my feet in the pub last night.
Had he whispered ceilidh instructions in my ear, or was I embellishing now?
It’s all a little hazy. Dizzying. I now know that he’d hoped to buy my shop to use as his own art space, which makes me feel pretty bad.
But he finally agreed to paint the mural, following a dramatic rant from me outside.
Christ. Would he even remember agreeing to it?
I should have whipped up a contract on the spot and urged him to sign it there and then so he couldn’t back out on me.
Urgh. The headache is getting progressively worse.
I have so much to do today. I can’t just lie around feeling sorry for myself. But as I fling back the covers, my body recoils, and forces me to climb back into bed. I have to take some paracetamol. If I can ever move again.
I look at my phone. A record of my drunken interactions.
Last night, I’d demanded that Eilidh text me to let me know she’d arrived home safely, which she had.
I’d replied with an SOS emoji sign by accident.
She’d called immediately to check what was wrong.
I’d apologized for giving her a heart attack and hung up.
And then I remember.
I check my messages with a shaky hand, my stomach churning. This is not happening. But the cold, hard evidence is there in black and white: a message to Seb, with a taunting blue double-tick to indicate that it has been successfully delivered and read.
Two words.
Why Macy?
I had done so well in the weeks since their betrayal.
I never drunk dialled either of them or asked for an explanation or even an apology (though surely they owed me that?
!). I went quietly about my business, making plans to exit London, and then duly left the keys in his flat.
I didn’t trash the place or cut up the blue and black designer suits he left behind (although I was sorely tempted).
I maintained a dignified silence, which, apparently, could only be broken by whisky.
Damn the whisky. Damn all the bloody whisky.
A loud buzzing noise from downstairs makes my head feel like someone is drilling a hole right through to the core of my brain.
I groan. This is not the time. If Rory is out with his bloody drill again…
Another loud buzzing noise infiltrates the apartment.
I can’t get up yet. Please. I am in recovery.
Then I remember the delivery that’s due this morning.
Pete asked one of his postman pals to help him with the heavy antique book cabinet that I’d fallen in love with online.
It is destined to be in my bookshop. The only problem was that it had to be shipped from a furniture store in the Cotswolds.
Pete assured me they would be able to handle it, but now it’s here, I have to let them in.
Get up, be a grown-up and get moving. Forget about the text. I sigh.
As I put on my slippers, a thought taunts me at the back of my throbbing head. Seb hasn’t even replied. I’d secretly imagined that if I ever reached out to him, he’d take the floor and offer me some long-winded apology. But he hasn’t. He’s said nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Why had I texted him? One night out in Ullapool and my whole brain drains itself of common sense.
I’d managed to forget everything I’d built to protect myself.
The six hundred miles between me and all that hurt.
I blame Rory. Bloody Rory. He is infuriating, blowing hot and cold with me.
Mainly cold, but then last night he held me far too close during that stupid dance.
That was the problem. I hadn’t been touched by any guy since Seb. It scrambled my head.
Damn Rory. Damn Seb and the stupid text.
The shrill noise rings out and I realize it must be the doorbell.
I take the stairs down as quickly as my wobbly, hungover legs can carry me and fling the door open, not caring if Pete sees me in my polka-dot pyjamas with my hair sticking up and a line of last night’s mascara smudged along my cheek.
I squint in the sudden brightness, narrowing my eyes as Pete comes into focus.
But he isn’t alone. I groan at the sight of his grinning accomplice.
‘Pete! You got Rory to help you?’ I ask, hiding behind the door as much as I can. ‘I thought you said you’d asked a postie pal.’
‘Rude,’ Rory grins, putting his arm around Pete. ‘I am a postie pal. I’m everyone’s pal.’
Everyone except me.
I arch my eyebrow at Rory, sure that he can read my thoughts. His grins widens. ‘How’s the head?’
I shoot him a look, determined not to reveal that it might take a week to shift this pounding in my brain, and shuffle back in my slippers to give them space to enter. ‘Perfectly fine, thanks.’
‘Good,’ he says.
‘I needed Rory’s brute strength,’ Pete says. ‘Strongest lad in the village, or so was proven at the last village fete. Do you have any idea how heavy that thing is?’
Rory smirks at the compliment, while I contemplate throwing up.
‘So where is it?’ I ask, peering over their shoulders.
‘In the van,’ Pete explains. He seems out of breath at even the thought of lifting it, which doesn’t bode well for my new piece of furniture. ‘We just wanted to check you were in. Can’t leave it outside.’
I move behind the counter and pretend to look as busy and professional as possible in my tired pyjamas and slippers.
As much as I want to run upstairs, change my clothes, wash my face and brush my hair, I don’t want Rory to know that I feel self-conscious in front of him.
So, instead, I leaf through my book inventory, pretending to be terribly busy, important, and not in the least bit hungover and regretful of my recent life choices.
Rory’s face strains with concentration as he positions himself at the bottom of the tipped antique cabinet, while Pete puts all his energy into the top end.
‘Where’s it to go?’ Rory calls.
‘Right there,’ I point. ‘Beside that blank wall where your mural’s going. Unless you’d forgotten?’
‘Of course not,’ Rory replies.
They let out some muffled huffs and puffs as they set it down. The sight of the beautiful cabinet, looking just right in the spot where I’d pictured it, suddenly feels like a warm hug, like everything is going to be okay.
‘Oh, I am in love,’ I exclaim, clutching my hands together. ‘Thank you for bringing it in. I can’t wait to get started on it.’
‘Started?’ Pete frowns.
‘Yes, I’m going to upcycle it,’ I explain, running my hand along the edge of the dark brown wood. ‘Bright canary yellow, I think.’
‘You have great vision, Ava lass,’ Pete smiles, shaking his head. ‘Doesn’t she, Rory?’
Rory gazes around the shop. ‘I have to admit, it’s looking alright in here.’
‘Just alright?’ Pete elbows him in the chest. ‘This girl’s been working like a dog. Every time I come in, she’s sanding, painting or building something.’
‘Or hanging out around the bins trying to learn how to do it all,’ I say. ‘But it’s getting there. I’m glad you think it’s “alright”. The green tiles will be coming off in no time at this rate.’
‘Okay, it looks good,’ Rory concedes with a shrug. ‘But I’m still holding off on the tiles.’
‘It’ll be better with the mural. That’s the finishing touch.’
‘You don’t need to remind me of it every three seconds. I said I’d do it, and I will. Tomorrow.’
‘Oh aye, Rory’s a man of his word, don’t worry about that,’ Pete nods. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to head off, these packages won’t deliver themselves. Donna said to tell you she’ll pop over on her lunch break to see you, Ava. Just giving you the heads up in case… Well, you know.’
Pete gives a mock whack to his knees on his way out of the door, and I groan inwardly. We’d managed to have a whole interaction without him mentioning the kneecapping incident – or so I thought.
*
I’m lying in a very strange position on the ground taking videos of my new cabinet for a DIY transformation TikTok when Donna’s voice fills the space.
‘Ava, why are you lying on the floor like a murder victim?’
‘I’m filming.’
‘Oh, shit, sorry,’ she replies, before gasping and whispering, ‘Oh shit, quieter sorry.’
‘It’s fine, I’ll play music over it anyway,’ I say, as I scramble to my feet. ‘May I introduce you to my new cabinet? Isn’t she a beauty?’
Donna runs her fingers along the gilded edges. ‘Ah, yes, she’s gorgeous. God bless her, and all who sail in her. I take it you’ll be painting her?’
‘Bright yellow.’
‘Course you are,’ she says. ‘You are to interiors what I am to hair: always desperate to get a makeover on the go. Speaking of which, we could get you booked in for your own transformation before the bookshop opening. Have you decided on a date?’
‘Next Saturday.’
‘And is Rory going to paint your mural on time? Or was that a drunken promise?’
‘Yes, he’s starting it tomorrow. Very reluctantly, but he’s doing it.
I think I had a bit too much on the old whisky front…
Suppose I got a bit swept up in the moment – not by Rory!
’ I say, feeling the need to explain myself, although Donna doesn’t seem concerned.
‘It was everyone else’s company. What about you and Finlay, though? What’s the deal between you two?’
‘No idea what you mean.’ She shrugs, although her cheeks flush again. ‘How did you manage to get Eilidh on a night out, anyway? I didn’t want to say while she was sitting there, but she’s not been seen inside a bar in the village for about a decade!’
I note Donna’s fly attempt to change the subject from Finlay and make a mental note to revisit it at a later date.
‘I asked her when I went to speak to her about financial planning.’
‘Did you meet her husband?’
I shake my head, vowing to keep Eilidh’s secret. I know the last thing she needs right now is to be the centre of the village’s gossip mill.
‘He’s a tosser,’ Donna whispers, even though there is no one around. ‘Total waste of space.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Just passing on an opinion, based on fact,’ she says, tapping the side of her nose to indicate she has a secret.
I wonder if the whole village knows about Mark’s indiscretions.
‘He’s always been up his own arse, thinking he was too good for this place.
When he first moved here, he made such a big deal of the fact that he sacrificed everything to come to live in Ullapool because that’s what Eilidh wanted.
And then she stopped coming to all the usual events she used to love: the fete, the bake sales, the ceilidhs, everything.
We’ve barely seen her since she married him even though she’s just up the road.
No one would be sorry to see the back of him. ’
I look over Donna’s shoulder to see Eilidh at the shop’s front door.
‘Eilidh!’ I exclaim. ‘Come in!’
Donna almost jumps out of her skin.
‘Oh, Ava, hi, sorry to interrupt,’ Eilidh says. ‘And hi, Donna! How are you?’
Donna shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other, wondering if she’s been caught in the middle of her gossip session. ‘I’m great, thanks. You?’
‘I was just popping by to thank Ava for this book,’ Eilidh smiles, handing the paperback to me. ‘I couldn’t put it down. When I got back from the pub, I had to stay up all night and finish it. It sounds silly, but it feels so good to finish a book again! It’s like I’m me again, you know?’
I’m so pleased to hear it that I don’t even question how Eilidh managed to keep her eyes open, never mind read a book, after our whisky-fuelled session. Scottish people must be born with some sort of magical whisky-repelling powers. My head gives another timely thump, like it’s agreeing with me.
‘Oh my God, Eilidh, I know exactly what you mean!’ Donna says. ‘I’ve started a book that Ava gave me, too, and I’m loving it. It feels so good to be reading again.’
‘We should start a book club,’ I suggest. ‘We could get together, drink some wine and chat about our latest reads?’
‘Not whisky?’ Eilidh asks, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
‘Definitely not,’ I shudder. ‘I’ve banned myself.’
Donna laughs. ‘I’m keen. I’d love a girly night of words and wine.’
‘Yes, definitely! Although, I mean, I love the books. Don’t get me wrong, Ava,’ Eilidh says, ‘but it would just be nice to have somewhere to go and talk. That’s what last night taught me.’
I nod along as Eilidh and Donna discuss the bookshop opening and how excited they are to have a new place to go, somewhere to read, but also somewhere to feel closer to other people in the village.
It’s exactly what I’d secretly hoped but was too scared to voice.
And finally, it’s all starting to come together.