Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The cottage still resembled a bombsite. Kieran had unpacked the essentials, but he feared a trip to the dreaded Swedish store might be on the cards.
His meagre jacket and coat collection dangled from a cheap and not-so-cheerful clothes rack, while T-shirts and shirts remained higgledy-piggledy in a box. As for underwear…
The irony of Kieran being clueless on the fashion front didn’t escape him. His brainchild – an app provisionally called ClosetAura – aimed to help men and women organise their wardrobes. Purge them of unused and unloved items, help them streamline their outfits and curb impulse buying.
‘Steve Jobs did OK,’ Kieran mused. ‘Black turtleneck, jeans, trainers. Sorted.’ Except Jobs had helmed a global empire.
Kieran’s fledgling business depended on customers caring about their appearances and making smart choices.
Kieran looked at his uniform of whatever passed muster on the cleanliness front and laughed.
‘No one in Cranley gives a rat’s arse what you look like. They’ll think you’re some eccentric tech person who needs to be left alone. Which suits me right now—’
Ding-dong.
Oh, joy. The doorbell. As welcome as a verruca.
He considered pretending he wasn’t home. Except the person now hammering loudly and shouting his name made that impossible.
‘I know you’re in there, so open up!’
Janette. Of course.
Kieran forced himself to the door. Good manners and a Scottish upbringing overrode the very real desire to hide in a cupboard.
‘Hi, Janette.’
‘Hi yoursel’, laddie. You’re looking a bit peely-wally. Isn’t he, Alison?’
‘Hi, Alison.’ Kieran blinked at the woman beside Janette.
She was elegance personified in wide-legged cream trousers with matching cardigan – cashmere, he thought – and a chocolate-brown silk top.
Janette, in contrast, wore a floaty kaftan covered in tropical birds.
On anyone else it would look ridiculous. On her? Weirdly magnificent.
‘Thanks for the supplies,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I should have dropped by, but I’ve been busy getting the place in order.’ He tried to keep the door ajar, in case they saw the stacks of boxes in the hallway.
Janette harrumphed. ‘Your mum said you’re a bit of a Harry Hermit. And that you live on toast, beans and enough caffeine to give you the skitters. So we’re taking you to A Bit of Crumpet for the finest pastries and coffee Cranley has to offer. Oh, and this is my partner, Alison.’
Kieran’s brain did a tiny double take at partner, then settled. Life was complicated, relationships even more so. He wasn’t about to make assumptions.
‘Nice to meet you,’ he said to Alison. She gave him a warm smile in return.
He grabbed his keys, resigned to his fate. At least pastries were preferable to another microwave meal.
They walked into the village, Janette delivering the local gossip with the enthusiasm of a veteran commentator.
‘Ken and Mags who ran The Jekyll and Hyde have taken a wee sabbatical. Mags, bless her, has dementia, and it got too much for Ken. Their son Ed and his girlfriend Angela are running the show now, and a little bird tells me they’ve hired someone new for the food.’
‘Her name’s Beth,’ Alison said quietly.
Janette stopped mid-stride. ‘And how do you know that? Have you been keeping secrets from me?’
Kieran’s mind struggled to keep up with the deluge of names. His brain felt like a badly indexed database. But one person he had met sprang to mind.
‘I think I bumped into Jinnie,’ he said.
Janette halted, her arm shooting out like a traffic warden. ‘You think? You either did or you didn’t. How, pray tell, did that happen?’
They’d reached the café. Through the window he saw customers chatting, laughing, consuming obscene amounts of pastry. His stomach grumbled. Escape was futile.
‘How did you meet Jinnie?’ Janette demanded again, blocking the entrance like a human barricade.
Kieran resisted the urge to sigh. ‘It wasn’t a meeting. She walked past while I was taking rubbish out. We exchanged about three sentences. Hardly a summit.’
‘Janette, honestly,’ Alison said, nudging her. ‘Leave him alone.’
Inside, the warmth and the smell of buttered pastry hit him like a nostalgic punch to the gut. It reminded him of a café he used to visit with Lisa—
Stop.
Do not go there.
‘Hey, ladies. Good to see you.’ The woman behind the counter beamed at them – Jo, if he remembered correctly. Her display of baked goods was nothing short of seductive.
‘Hi, Jo.’ Janette cackled. ‘We’ve brought fresh meat, but no’ tae fill one of your legendary Scotch pies.’
Kieran lifted a hand. ‘Hi. I’m Kieran. Moved into the cottage next to Brae.’
Jo’s smile widened.
‘Jo’s husband is a famous actor,’ Janette announced, pointing at an iced bun. ‘Star of that dark show Chasing Shadows – not my cup of tea – and that other one … what’s it called again, Jo?’
‘Dad To Me,’ Jo said proudly. ‘He’s away filming the next series.’
They placed their orders. Kieran chose a Gruyère and leek quiche and a decaf latte, because regular coffee might nuke his nervous system at this point.
He settled at a corner table. Janette scanned the room as if conducting surveillance.
‘Shame Wilma’s not here,’ she said. ‘Not technically a local, but she’s Jinnie’s gran and an absolute hoot. Late eighties and shacked up with a younger man.’
‘Not that much younger,’ Alison said drily. ‘Before Kieran thinks she’s robbing the cradle.’
Kieran sampled his quiche. Good. Too good, in fact. If he wasn’t careful, he’d get used to this level of civilisation.
The bell jingled.
‘Speak of the devil. Here’s Wilma hersel’, and Jinnie.’
Kieran looked up.
Jinnie beamed. ‘We meet again!’ Beside her stood a tiny woman with sharp blue eyes and a mischievous smile. ‘Kieran, this is my gran, Wilma.’
Wilma inspected him as if she was reading his soul. ‘There’s an aura of sadness about you, laddie. Dark purple, with a hint of magenta.’
Kieran blinked. Twice.
Jinnie groaned. ‘Gran, please. Not the colour stuff again. I preferred you with the tea leaves.’
A full-body shudder rippled through him. He had no time for crystals, colours, or psychic grannies. But aura of sadness hit too near the mark.
‘Ignore her,’ Jinnie said brightly. ‘She’s going through a phase.’
‘Less of the phase.’ Wilma sniffed. ‘There are things in this world that defy explanation. Right, Jo?’
Jo, who was wiping down a table, launched into a spectacular coughing fit.
Jinnie buried her face in her hands. Alison continued eating her almond slice without comment.
Kieran decided he’d had enough village initiation for one day. ‘Well, this has been … lovely, but I’ve work to do.’
He stood, headed for the till, slapped down enough cash to cover the lot and made for the door faster than was polite.
‘See you soon, Kieran!’ Janette hollered.
‘Let me know if you need your aura analysed!’ Wilma called after him.
When hell freezes over, Kieran thought.
Outside, the fresh June air hit his face. He took a deep breath and stared down the quiet street. Time to head home.
The cottage lights were off. Prom would be asleep somewhere inconvenient.
Kieran lingered by his gate, hands shoved into his pockets, telling himself that he needed to make more of an effort. To try and fit in, even if it pained him to do so.
Across the road, a couple of neighbours were chatting beside a parked car, laughter bubbling easily between them. They noticed him and smiled.
Right. This is it.
‘Hi,’ Kieran said, moving closer. ‘Evening.’
‘Evening,’ one of them replied, friendly and open.
‘I’m Kieran. Just moved into the cottage there.’ He nodded vaguely behind him, instantly annoyed at how defensive that sounded.
‘Oh yes,’ the woman said. ‘Janette mentioned you. From Edinburgh, aren’t you?’
Again with that.
‘Guilty,’ Kieran said. ‘Trying village life.’
They smiled and nodded. Pleasant. Waiting.
He searched for something to add. ‘Nice place,’ he offered, gesturing at the street as if they might have missed it.
‘It is,’ the man agreed. ‘Quiet.’
‘Very,’ Kieran said, too quickly.
A pause settled. Not awkward for them. For him, it stretched.
‘Well,’ the woman said kindly, ‘good luck getting settled.’
‘Thanks. Yes. Lots of boxes.’
They returned to their conversation.
Kieran stood there for a beat longer, waiting for … something. An invitation. A follow-up question. Proof he hadn’t already overstayed his welcome.
Nothing came.
He nodded, retreated through his gate and let himself into the cottage, closing the door softly behind him.
Prom opened one eye.
‘I tried,’ Kieran told the cat.
Prom yawned, turned his back and went back to sleep.
What exactly have you got yourself into?