Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
MAISIE
Bagpipes wail over the warm buzz of conversation and laughter, occasionally drowned out by roars of cheering and enthusiastic clapping. Today is our annual Highland Games, which means a usually quiet field outside town has been transformed into a sea of sunhats and tartan-clad chaos. Just about everyone from Bannock is here, alongside visitors from neighbouring villages and a number of folk from further afield too. It’s nice to think that I’ve had a hand—albeit a small one—in attracting visitors to come.
Throughout the day people have stopped by the Pheasant’s beer tent to tell me they’re here because of my videos. I’m hardly claiming to be the next big influencer, but it’s happened more times than I have fingers, so we’re talking double digit numbers.
Not that I can take all the credit. Sure, I did a wee video hyping up the Games, but let’s be honest, with weather like this—blue skies and sunshine that feels almost Mediterranean—it wasn’t exactly a tough sell. Still, three strangers have asked me for selfies so far (three!), and one woman told me that my hair looks exactly like it does in my videos. The attention has been flattering, but also slightly weird. There’s something about hearing comments face to face that hits differently than reading them on an app.
Da and I have rigged up a stall in front of our tent, and from it we’re churning out drinks like nobody’s business. Plastic cups foam over with ales, lagers, and the odd cider as we pass them over to thirsty customers. Some folk duck into the tent for a quick break from the sun, but most wander off with their drinks, either heading back to spectate or else flopping onto the grass to bask in the kind of sunshine that feels almost too good to be true.
Business really has been booming—so much so that I had to ditch my earlier plan of making cocktails because they were slowing everything down too much. It’s all about keeping customers happy and queues moving faster. And that’s fine! We adapted—that’s what a good business does.
From where we’re stationed, our view of the events isn’t exactly stellar. I can just about glimpse the tug-of-war if I stand on tiptoes and crane my neck—although all I really see is sweaty legs straining like their lives depend on it. Later, though, Da and I have an extra staff member swinging by to help us out. When she arrives, I’ll sneak off for a proper wander and film a bit of footage for tonight’s promised video. A surprising number of my followers who couldn’t be here made me swear I’d give them a wee glimpse of what they’re missing. And who am I to deny them?
With the sun shining and the money rolling in, it’s almost a perfect day. There’s just one problem, and that comes in the form of the competing beer tent just a stone’s throw away, literally opposite me and Da. Outside it is Jamie, operating at a stall like ours, and he’s doing brisk business too. But he isn’t just serving drinks. Oh no, he’s got theatrics going on over there. The “exclusive collaboration” with the Glen Garve Distillery he keeps banging on about? Please. And of course, he would put on a kilt for today, wouldn’t he? And he had to go and look bloody sexy in it too, especially with that white polo shirt clinging to his chest like it’s been tailored just for him. Ugh.
His presence wouldn’t bother me so much if he wasn’t making it his life’s mission to poach every customer who so much as glances in his direction. Right now Morag from the bakery is hovering between the two tents, clearly torn, like she’s facing an impossible dilemma. My queue has died down for the moment—just enough to wipe my brow or have a sip of water—but instead of enjoying the rare reprieve, I decide to strike before Jamie can.
“Morag!” I call cheerfully. “What can I get you?”
Jamie doesn’t miss a beat. “Over here, Morag! I’ve got some incredible whiskies today, exclusively available at this tent! Don’t miss your chance—they’re flying out! Come on over!”
Morag throws her arms up dramatically. “I just want a drink! This is supposed to be a fun community event, not World War Three.”
I laugh—until she goes over to Jamie’s stall. Damn it!
Not that it really matters, or so I keep telling myself. Da and I are doing well: business is steady and money is rolling in. But it still smarts every time someone heads for Mr Beer Garden instead of us. Especially since, let’s be honest, Morag didn’t go over there for a whisky but for a close-up view of Jamie in a kilt. And who can blame her? Those calves could probably crush a watermelon. Not that I’ve been imagining things like that. Obviously.
Nope, I’ve absolutely not let my mind wander into fantasy land when it comes to Jamie and that bloody kilt. I’ve barely even mulled over the question of his underwear situation—or, hopefully, his lack-of-underwear situation. Which is ridiculous because I’ve already seen what’s under there. It’s not like it’s a mystery to me. But... that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t mind refreshing my memory.
Have I debated staging some sort of “accident” that might require me to crawl around nearby him? Look, I’m only human. But no, I have not spent the past five minutes calculating the exact speed and trajectory required to fling an empty cup over there so I’d have an excuse to retrieve it. That would be ridiculous. And pathetic.
Would it work, though?
“Earth to Maisie!” Cat’s voice breaks through my thoughts like a bucket of ice-cold water. She strolls over, grinning, with Iona and Elspeth in tow.
Cat is back in Bannock, not just for the summer holidays but for good. She landed a job at the high school.
I hug her first and then Iona, then Elspeth too. All three of them look gorgeous in sundresses, making me wish I’d worn something breezier than my denim shorts and button-up blouse.
Elspeth goes over to natter away with Da, so I pour Cat and Iona a white wine each. I don’t bother asking if they want one—I’ve never known either of them to say no.
Cat gratefully accepts the wine and places her sunglasses on her forehead. “So, this is a bit awkward but... I couldn’t help noticing you eyeing up my brother like he’s your next meal.” Her eyes sparkle mischievously.
“I wasn’t eyeing him up!” I splutter. “I was just trying to... stay on top of the competition.”
“Oh, right,” Iona says with a teasing smile. “Staying on top of Jamie—that sounds completely innocent.”
Good God! If this is what we’re going to be talking about, I don’t want Da overhearing, so I glance his way and say, “While it’s a bit quieter, why don’t you head into the tent for five minutes and have a seat? You and Elspeth can catch up. I’ll chat to the girls out here while handling any orders.”
To my surprise, for once he doesn’t put up a fight but instead nods, pours a couple of glasses of wine for himself and Elspeth, and disappears into the tent with her. Wow, he must be tired. He willingly took a break without muttering some sarcastic comment about not being ready for a care home yet. That’s not like him at all.
“Where were we?” Cat says once it’s just the three of us. “Oh aye, you were?—”
“Don’t say on top of your brother!” I interrupt before she can. “There’s nothing going on between us.”
Iona raises an eyebrow. “Right, but that’s not exactly true, is it? Remind us, how many times is it you’ve had sex now? Was it four times? Five?”
“Twice,” I say dryly. “You know it was twice. And it won’t be happening again—I can guarantee that.”
Note to self: no more oversharing on the Scottish Sirens group chat.
“Hmm,” Cat says. “I hate to quote Shakespeare at you, but the lady doth protest too much, methinks . Anyway, I know he’s my brother, so I can hardly evaluate the situation objectively, but... Jamie? Really? Isn’t he, like, the most annoying person in all of Bannock? Iona is with Lewis, and I can kind of see that. I can also see why Emily might find Ally appealing. But Jamie? Really?” Cat glances at Iona. “Am I missing something?”
“Honestly?” Iona says. “I’m with you. Aidan and I pretty much grew up in the Bannock Hotel—it was like a second home for us—so Jamie is like a wee brother to me.” Iona pauses then adds, “An incredibly annoying wee brother.”
I raise my hands in surrender. “I’m with you two, all right? It was a mistake—one I won’t be repeating.”
“Except you already did,” Cat points out. “Seeing as you’ve already done the deed with him twice. Plus, nowadays Jamie is almost as obsessed with the gym as Lewis is. Could it be that he’s seeking out a six pack and bulging biceps to impress a certain barmaid?”
“Oh look, here come some customers. Drat! Oh well, bye bye, you two!” I say this jokingly, but actually, just then a couple from Newcastle do come over, and they want to chat to me about my videos, so it ends up being a natural time to say goodbye to Cat and Iona
After the Geordie couple leave, the stall goes back to being nonstop busy for a while, and I’m run off my feet for the next ten minutes or so, trying to take all the orders by myself, until Da emerges from the tent. And I don’t know what’s got into him, or what Elspeth has been saying to him, but suddenly he wants to talk to me about Jamie too.
As we pour drinks, take money, and hand out change, Da says in a low voice that Morag’s World War Three comment wasn’t far off the mark. Da reckons the situation between me and Jamie has gone on long enough and that the two of us just have to jolly well learn to get along—because it’s a small town and that’s what people do.
I’m willing to half listen and let his words wash over me. Until, that is, he accuses me of being stubborn—the very epitome of the pot calling the kettle black! Then he really takes the biscuit by saying I need to show a bit of maturity .
That’s when I snap. Maybe the relentless heat of the sun has fried my patience today, or maybe it’s simply that the sheer, jaw-dropping unfairness of what he’s saying pushes me to breaking point.
Whatever the reason, I hiss, “Has it occurred to you, Da, that maybe Jamie and I are fighting because I’m stressed—and that maybe you have something to do with that?”
I never talk like this with Da, but now that I’ve started, the words keep tumbling out. I keep my voice low but there’s a sharp edge to it, every word cutting through the air like a blade. “You won’t admit it, but you can’t do everything anymore. And since you refuse to hire someone else to help us out, I’m left to pick up all the slack. Longer hours, more stress, uncertainty about the future...
“So please, Da, don’t talk to me about showing a bit of maturity—or about being stubborn. Maybe take a look in the mirror first.”
There’s a fleeting moment when Da’s face is an open book—surprise, a flicker of hurt, and the shadow of irritation all rippling through his expression. But then, just like that, he pulls himself together again, his features settling into that familiar, unyielding mask.
And then comes the silent treatment. Because that’s how my da deals with conflict—or at least, conflict with me. It’s different if it’s a young man in the pub who’s had too much to drink and is making a fool of himself. Oh, Da doesn’t hold back then—I’ve seen him really let rip. But with me? No, he never argues back or shouts. He just shuts down entirely.
The tense silence goes on for quite a number of minutes, not that you’d have any idea if you came over to buy a drink from us. Oh no. Da and I both still happily chat away to customers as we pour them their pints. It’s all very professional. We just don’t talk to each other.
Eventually I can’t take it anymore and I cave. “Okay! You were right. This is supposed to be a fun community day, and... well... maybe this situation between Jamie and me isn’t exactly in the spirit of things.”
No response from Da.
“So,” I say reluctantly, “I’ll go over there and try to bury the hatchet.”
And maybe then Da and I can get past this awful silence.
I head across the field towards Jamie’s stall, genuinely intent on reconciliation. But as I draw nearer, I overhear him chatting with some tourists about the Bannock Hotel’s beer garden and how bloody perfect it is on sunny days like this. The best place in Bannock to go for a drink, apparently.
Well, all thoughts of reconciliation immediately vanish from my mind. So much for burying the hatchet—unless we’re talking about into Jamie’s skull, of course.
He’s grinning like an idiot—looking far too pleased with himself as usual—and that stupid kilt sways enticingly in the light breeze as he gestures animatedly during his sales pitch. The tourists lap up his every word, nodding along eagerly as if they’ve just discovered Scotland’s best-kept secret.
By the time they walk away clutching their whiskies and chatting excitedly about visiting Jamie’s precious beer garden later, I am ready for war.
“Maisie,” he says smoothly, “here to admire my kilt?”
“Fat bloody chance!” I snap.
Even though, yes, I’ve been shooting admiring glances at it all day.
“Oh! I’m sensing a bit of tension from you, Maisie.” He tilts his head, pretending to ponder this, then he snaps his fingers like he’s cracked the case. “Ah! I know what you’re after, but I can’t help you out today, I’m afraid. I’m swamped. Sadly, I’m too damn busy for one of those arguments that ends with us tangled up together and doing all sorts of naughty things to each other.”
“Jamie!” I gasp, heat rushing to my cheeks.
“ But ,” he goes on, “I’d love to catch up with you later. Maybe at some of the events? Yours truly will be competing in a few.”
“Oh joy,” I say, the words dripping with sarcasm.
He either doesn’t hear me or pretends not to because he presses on with far too much enthusiasm for someone who knows exactly how mad he drives me. “I know you liked to hang out with LochNLoad online because of his rippling muscles and how hot he looked swinging a sword about. Maybe I’ll look just as good throwing a hammer or tossing a caber, eh?”
The man is insufferable. Absolutely bloody insufferable.
“I...” No other words come because I honestly don’t even know where to begin.
Will I be hurrying to watch him compete in his events like some tragic, hormonal teenager off to her first boy band concert?
Of course I will. But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
A few customers show up, saving Jamie from the clever, biting retort that I’m sure would have come to me any moment.
“Excuse me,” Jamie says, flashing me that charming grin of his before turning his attention to them.
I spin on my heel and storm back to the Pheasant’s stall. There I don’t meet Da’s eye but I do yank my phone from my pocket. I’ve never done a livestream before—normally I carefully edit and check each video before uploading it. Desperate times call for desperate measures, though. I tap to go live.
“Hi, everyone!” I wave to my phone’s camera. “I know some of you were desperate to see what the Highland Games is all about, so I thought I’d do my first ever livestream. I’ll show you around the field in a moment, but first I do have an important message for any of you who may be visiting in person today. Please come see me and stop by for a drink! The tent to come to is this one.” I angle the camera to get me, Da, and our sign in the shot. Then, switching to the rear camera, I add, “Under no circumstances go to that tent. No matter how good that man looks in a kilt!”