Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MAISIE
I drag the 1950s photograph of Bannock’s Main Street into my PowerPoint slide. The image is pure vintage perfection: Morris Minors lined up neatly by the pavement, several women in headscarves chatting away to each other. It joins the other images I’ve found of Main Street from times gone by, each one a wee time capsule of a different era.
Satisfied, I lean back in my chair, cracking my knuckles. My desk is chaos—two empty mugs, a forlorn biscuit packet, and an abandoned can of Gaelic Fire. Evidence of a morning (and most of an afternoon) spent hunched over my laptop, working hard.
Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I put this much effort into a pub quiz. Some weeks I don’t even bother with a presentation.
The plans for the beer garden have been public for about a month now, and tomorrow the council will deliver their decision.
Even with all the work I’ve put in these past weeks, there are still plenty who like the idea of pints in the sun, so tonight’s quiz isn’t just a jaunt through Bannock’s history—it’s my chance to highlight how vital the Pheasant is to the community.
I kept my promise to Jamie—no more signatures until his plans were made public. That’s not to say I didn’t plant seeds of doubt whenever possible. As I chatted with patrons in the pub, I’d casually bring up the topic, weaving persuasive arguments in between pulling pints. But once his grand vision for a beer garden was revealed, I came out swinging, petition in one hand, freshly printed anti-beer garden posters in the other—many of which are now proudly displayed around town, brightening up shop windows and peeking out from behind lace curtains in houses.
Jamie, of course, is livid, which only makes it more satisfying. This past month we’ve bumped into each other a number of times, and those encounters have been... charged. A simmering tension has hung between us, electric and sharp. I can practically see Jamie’s jaw clench every time he spots another one of my protect bannock flyers or say no to the beer garden posters, or when he catches me extolling the virtues of community preservation to another local.
Good. He deserves it after leaving me stranded in that rainstorm. I’m not easing up until his ridiculous beer garden idea is dead and buried. Once life is back to normal, then—and only then—I’ll come clean to Jamie about the small matter of me being SassieLassie.
My gaze lands on one of the mugs cluttering my desk, the one with the faded Highland Legacy logo. How I’ll tell him, I’ve no clue. Maybe I’ll just rip the plaster off: Hey, Jamie, remember when I took the piss out of you saying you were probably talking to some pervy guy from Glasgow? Well, surprise! I’m Big Davie!
Not exactly a conversation guaranteed to end with a high five—but let’s face it, we’re more duellists at dawn than best mates anyway.
Pushing aside the tiny flicker of guilt twisting in my stomach, I grab the mug and absently swipe at a stubborn tea stain with my hoodie sleeve.
I haven’t actually played Highland Legacy since I took Lochie beyond the waterfall. Word around town is that Jamie’s traded his laptop for kettlebells anyway, so I doubt he’s had much time for gaming either.
The creaking of my bedroom door pulls me from my thoughts. Da.
“You still working away on that?” He comes closer and squints at the screen.
“Aye,” I say. “Hosting something community-focused will hopefully stir up a bit of loyalty, you know?”
“Hmm . . .”
“What is it?” I prod.
He tilts his head, meeting my gaze with a softened expression. “Look, Maisie, your passion is impressive—really—but even if this beer garden goes ahead, we’ll be okay. A beer garden is seasonal, remember. Something for the summer only.”
“Yes,” I say, trying to keep my frustration in check. “But the summer is when the tourists come and when we make most of our money. Even if it only affects us then, that’s still a big deal.”
“I doubt we’ll take much of a hit,” Da says with a casual shrug. As he heads for the door, he throws back over his shoulder, “Folk will still come here for what they always have—the food and the company.”
The moment the door clicks shut behind me, I let out a long breath. Da just doesn’t seem to appreciate the impact this could have on us.
I fiddle with the HDMI cable, muttering a quiet prayer to the tech gods as I jab it into place. The Pheasant is buzzing. It’s not quite at fire-code-breaking capacity yet, but it’s close—exactly as I’d hoped. If this turnout doesn’t remind everyone what this pub means to Bannock, then nothing will.
At last my laptop screen flickers onto the flatscreen TV above the Pheasant’s bar—a promising start—and a few patrons glance over before turning back to their pints or conversations. The quiz isn’t due to start for another ten minutes or so. I’m just getting myself organised.
“Maisie, dear!” A familiar voice carries across the room.
I crane my neck and spot Elspeth weaving her way through the crowd, her broad smile lighting up the room, her daughter, Iona, close behind her.
“Ladies!” I greet them warmly and pull each into a quick hug.
“What a wonderful theme for tonight’s quiz,” Elspeth says, her eyes sweeping across the room with approval. “Bannock’s history! Utterly brilliant. I’m excited about this one.” She gives my arm an affectionate squeeze. “Anyway, I’ll leave you two girls to have a quick chat. Iona, I’ll go get us a couple of wines and have a quick blether with Maisie’s father while I’m at it. See you in a few minutes!”
After she leaves, Iona takes in my outfit—a red tartan mini dress that I’m wearing over a white T-shirt—and says, “Maisie, you look amazing .”
“You don’t think the fishnets are a bit much?” I ask. When I checked in the mirror earlier, I thought they looked good with the chunky black boots I’m wearing, but it’s always good to get a second opinion.
“They’re great,” Iona assures me.
Clearing my throat, I tuck an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “By the way, I’m sorry I’ve been so scarce lately. Life has just been a bit... hectic.”
Iona gives a small smile and nods, but then a silence falls between us, which isn’t like us at all. Eventually Iona says, “Are we... okay, Maisie?”
I blink. “Aye, of course.”
Her shoulders relax slightly, but she still looks uncertain. “It’s just... I really don’t want this whole beer garden thing to get in the way of our friendship.”
I get what she’s trying to say. Her life is tied to the Bannock Hotel and the McIntyre family, which does put her in a somewhat awkward position.
“And it won’t,” I say firmly, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze. “Scottish Sirens stick together.”
Iona grins. “Well, this particular siren is parched. I’d better leave you to finish setting up, and I’ll go see Maw about that wine. Good luck, quizmaster!” She winks playfully then leaves me to it.
A few minutes later, I grab the mic and step out from behind the bar. “All right, everyone, it’s time to begin. Tonight’s special edition is all about Bannock: its history, its charm, and why we’re all so proud to call this place home.”
A ripple of cheers and applause sweeps through the packed pub. The sound fills me with pride—and just a tiny bit of relief.
“Let’s get started with round one: Famous Faces of Bannock Past.” I tap a laptop key, and the first slide appears on the TV above me: an old grainy photo of a young topless muscular man in boxing gloves and shorts, his hands raised, poised to strike.
“Question one: which Bannock-born athlete went on to have a successful boxing career in the US?”
The room bursts into activity: hushed discussions ripple through each table; pens scratch against paper. I can’t help but grin at the energy in the room. This is exactly what the Pheasant is all about. Tradition and community.
Jamie better not ruin that.
I’m just announcing the scores for the first round when Jamie himself walks into the pub. The infuriating bastard props himself against the bar, all easy arrogance, and shoots me a smirk that screams trouble.
To make matters worse, he looks good . Annoyingly so, like he’s made a genuine effort for once. His hair—usually ruffled from running his hands through it while gaming—is actually styled. Even his stubble looks deliberate tonight rather than lazy. His black shirt is smart—sharp, even—and fits him very well. The sleeves are rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms, and it’s tucked neatly into chinos. More specifically, into those chinos—the penis-petting ones.
“Er...” My voice comes out strained through the mic, and I hastily clear my throat. Get back on track, Maisie. Don’t let him distract you. “There’s everything still to play for, but right now in first place we have... the Boob Lovers!”
A moment of stunned silence falls over the pub. And then, like a dam breaking, laughter bursts out—booming, gleeful, unstoppable. I glance down at the score cards. Oh shit. My cheeks flame instantly.
“I mean, the Book Lovers!” I blurt into the mic. “The BOOK Lovers!”
The laughter only grows louder, and I swear someone at the back wheezes. Brilliant. Just brilliant.
My eyes, against my better judgement, find Jamie’s. His trademark smirk has spread into a full-blown grin that practically screams, I am never letting you live that down.
Damn him. This only happened because I got flustered when he walked in. What is he even doing here anyway? Surely he knows how inappropriate it is that he turned up? He must have come purely to throw me off my game. That’s the only reason I can think of.
“Right,” I say into the microphone. “That was quite the... well, titillating mistake, wasn’t it? Let’s swiftly move on before I make an even bigger boob of myself.”
More laughter, and just like that, I’ve regained control of the situation. You don’t get through as many pub quizzes as I have without learning how to control a crowd.
“So, once again, well done to the Book Lovers—some of whom, no doubt, are also rather fond of boobs—for taking an early lead. Before the next round, I have a short bonus question for you, which is about...” I reach for my laptop while simultaneously gesturing grandly to the TV. “The Pheasant! Everyone’s favourite place to relax and have a wee drink with friends.” I shoot Jamie a smug smile. “Pencils at the ready, please! Your bonus question is: when was the Pheasant established? This one is multiple choice, and your options are: 1775, 1825, 1875, or 1915.”
Heads huddle together and whispers fly back and forth. And then Jamie—who isn’t even on a team—joins in. He confidently asserts to a table near him, “It’s 1825. Says so on the foundation stone outside. Although these days that’s hidden by that ugly say no to the beer garden poster, of course.”
His voice is loud enough that several other tables hear him too. Which spoils the whole format of the quiz. He’s trying to get under my skin, and it’s working.
“Some eejit over here has spoiled that question with his foghorn voice,” I say into the mic. “If anyone didn’t hear, the answer was 1825. At least no one will be finishing the quiz with zero points, eh? Anyway, if you’ll excuse me for just one minute, I’m going to have a word with the eejit in question—outside.”
Glaring at Jamie, I point to the door. With a cocky grin, he follows me out onto Main Street. It’s still light out, and the air is cool but pleasant. It’s a perfect May evening, but for me it might as well be raining fire.
“So,” Jamie says, casually leaning against the wall of the pub, “is this really about my loud voice? Or were you just wanting to gossip about the dreamy looks Elspeth and your da were giving each other? Because I thought Iona would be your go-to choice for that conversation, but if you’d rather chat with me about it, all right, let’s do it.”
I roll my eyes. “Ugh, what are you even talking about? Actually, don’t answer that question—I’ve no interest in your teasing tonight. The one thing I do want to know is: what are you doing here?”
He stretches his arms overhead as though he hasn’t a care in the world then lets them fall loosely to his sides. “What do you think? Having fun at a community quiz. Isn’t that obvious? It’s a really nice idea, by the way.”
I scowl at him. “I know you’re only here to put me off my game.”
“Really? Oh dear. What gives you that impression?” That infuriating smirk plays on his lips, teasing and confident, as if he knows exactly how much he’s needling me.
“How come you’re looking so smug anyway?” I cross my arms. “Shouldn’t you be nervous? I’ve done everything I can to push back against your proposal. I think it’s very unlikely the beer garden will be signed off tomorrow.”
“Oh, do you now?”
“Aye.”
“Well, that’s interesting.” He pushes off from the wall and takes a step closer to me. “Because I don’t think that’s the way things are going to go. In fact, I’d bet good money they’ll go the opposite way.”
Not to be undone, I take a step towards him. “Your confidence astounds me. What makes you so bloody sure of yourself?”
We’re close now—close enough that I catch a whiff of his enticing woodsy scent. His eyes drop briefly to my lips then sweep down over my outfit, lingering on my fishnets. When they meet my gaze again, there’s definite heat there.
And that makes me furious . How dare he look at me like that? Although... okay, maybe a tiny part of me is pleased that my outfit is doing its job. But only the teeny tiniest bit.
He tilts his head to the side. “Did it occur to you that maybe, just maybe, I was informed of the decision a day early, before it’s made public?”
My heart stops. “What? No . . .”
Bollocks.
He doesn’t say it, but I’m sure he’s thinking it: checkmate . He just landed the winning move in a game I didn’t even realise I was losing.
“Anyway,” Jamie says, “it’s clear you don’t want me here so I’ll be on my way. I should probably get an early night anyway. It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow, what with setting things in motion to get my beer garden up and running.”
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. With a wink, he turns and strolls away, leaving my mind spinning.
It’s possible he’s just winding me up. But while I’d like to believe that, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s telling the truth, that the beer garden really has been signed off. Which means all my hard work and campaigning over the last month has been for nothing.
Damn it! I suck in a deep breath, then another, trying to steady myself and stifle the rising tide of panic. Then, even though right now I feel like I’m made of glass and could shatter at any moment, I head back into the pub.
Holding my head high and forcing a smile, I grab the microphone. “Sorry about the short delay.”
But despite my attempt to project confidence, my voice wavers. Did they pick up on it? No clue. In any case, the show must go on, as they say.
“Right, where were we?” I tap my keyboard to bring up the next slide, willing my hands to stay steady. “Ah yes, local folklore and legends.”