Chapter 4
Now that Skye was safely ensconced at Holly’s cottage, and he was wearing a fresh pair of shoes, Paolo was back in his favourite seat in reception. The retro one with the wooden arms. It was even more comfortable since being re-upholstered last year in a remnant of floral fabric. It fitted nicely with the Dutch orange paint he, Holly and Chloe had picked out as part of a decorating project to bring the formerly shabby surgery into the twenty-first century.
Work-wise, the afternoon had been uneventful. Joe MacAllen, the harbourmaster, had arrived punctually with one of his cats, and after that the rest of the list ran smoothly. There had been nothing out of the ordinary, no raisin-eating dogs or cats hell bent on losing one of their nine lives, thank heavens. The day’s sucker punch had been Skye. She had lurked at the back of Paolo’s mind all day. He was unable to shift the desolate look on her face from his thoughts.
The team at the surgery were well versed when it came to fixing physical issues in animals. Emotional ones in humans? Not so much.
‘Well,’ said Chloe, from behind the computer. ‘Today has been mega weird.’
‘Now it’s over,’ said Holly, from the chair opposite, ‘I can admit to you both I was nervous about being busy this week, so the drama was a decent distraction. Does that make me a bad person?’
‘Nah. And it’s very kind of you, letting her sleep in your cottage,’ said Paolo.
‘She puked all over your plimsolls,’ said Holly. ‘You’d done your bit.’
‘I have three pairs . . .’ Paolo grimaced. ‘I once had a dog throw up on some, only for an incontinent cat to wee on my spares. There’s mileage to be had in spare spares. I ought to get a fourth pair. What do you reckon happened to her?’
‘I don’t think it’s kind to speculate,’ Chloe announced. ‘She was very upset, after all.’’
Chloe was too empathetic for her own good sometimes , thought Paolo. Perhaps she would feel differently if it had been her shoes that were covered in vomit.
‘A little light speculation never hurt anyone,’ Paolo countered. ‘Do you think she’s been fired? She could have failed a drug test at work. Hugh always suggested, albeit affectionately, she was on the wild side. Perhaps she’s fallen on hard times. Or she’s knocked up. Hence the boak . . . Morning sickness.’
‘Tear yourself away from the theorizing, Paolo.’ Holly stepped in before his imagination took any further twists and turns. ‘Look — what can we do to help her?’
‘For a start, I’d suggest it’s her decision,’ Paolo said. ‘She’s a grown-up. You’re talking about her like she’s a wee bairn abandoned on our doorstep.’
Holly nodded. ‘That’s because Hugh generally talks about her like she’s still in her teens.’
‘I get where you’re coming from, Paolo, but Hugh would never forgive us if we turned away his beloved niece in her hour of need.’ Chloe made a good point. Hugh would have their head on spikes if they didn’t help. Paolo knew he doted on his niece, even though she was probably in her late twenties. Whatever was on Hugh’s mind, his face always lit up when he spoke about Skye. Chloe tapped the phone absently. ‘I rang Mhairi at the pub, and the B&B. Both fully booked. Actually, I know our project manager has taken one of the rooms in the latter for most of this month so he can come and go. I’d have her up at the farm, but with the builders it’s chaos and I’m still not getting on with Fiona.’
Chloe let out a heavy sigh as she mentioned her boyfriend’s mother, and Holly reached an arm around her shoulders. ‘Still no better?’
Chloe lived up at Auchintraid Farm, with her boyfriend Angus, and his mother, Fiona. An extensive building project had begun on the farm, and from what she said, it was causing more arguments than Chloe, who avoided confrontation like the plague, would like.
‘It’s like she’s had a personality transplant. A crap one. We normally get on so well. But as the project isn’t going according to plan . . . ’ Chloe shook her head quickly and Paolo took that as a cue to change the subject.
‘Back to Skye,’ he said.
‘I’m with you, Paolo,’ said Holly, following his lead. ‘Our waifs and strays policy doesn’t exactly extend to people . . . But Chloe’s right. She’s Hugh’s niece. I could have her stay, but then Greg is back from a work trip tomorrow, which he says has been hideous. He can hardly kick back on the sofa if someone’s kipping on it.’
Paolo threw his hands up. ‘It’s all right. I’ve got a spare bedroom. She can stay with me.’
‘I wasn’t volunteering you,’ protested Holly.
‘You gave me a look,’ said Paolo.
‘Which look?’
‘A pleading one.’
‘Me? I looked pleading—?’
‘Anyway,’ Paolo interrupted. ‘I’ll do it.’ He crossed his arms, and looked to the sky. ‘Don’t all rush to thank me. She’s a woman on the edge. I’ll be there in her time of need.’
‘Awww, Paolo.’ Chloe grinned. ‘Pretending to be all grouchy. Really you love being a knight in shining armour.’
‘It’ll play havoc with my dating life,’ he said.
‘Och . . . When did you last meet a guy who wasn’t a complete dead end? You’ve not taken anyone home in, like, forever. Or been for dinner or a drink with anyone, not that I can think of. And things with Hamish seem to have ground to a halt. You’re very much single,’ Chloe concluded.
‘Please, don’t hold back.’
Holly clicked her tongue. ‘We’re getting off topic. Let’s close up and go let her know she can stay with you for a couple of days. Thanks, Paolo.’
Paolo went through to check on the animals out the back, feeling like someone had picked up on the one thing which made him depressed, written it on a poster, photocopied it, and pasted it on every flat surface in town.
Very much single .
With three words, Chloe had pinpointed the root of all his woes.
The previous year hadn’t been as bad. Both Chloe and Holly had been single too. There’d been safety in numbers. Paolo hadn’t felt as if not having a boyfriend was the end of the world. This year, with Chloe now with Angus, and Holly going out with Greg, he was the last man standing. The trip to Glasgow hadn’t helped either. That even Alessandra, his youngest and kookiest sister, had found someone, made him wonder where he was going wrong.
He hadn’t been in a serious relationship since his late twenties — and he missed sharing his life with someone. Was that too much to ask?
But finding that someone was proving impossible. As Chloe had pointed out, any potential relationship with Hamish seemed no longer on the cards and so Paolo was forced to admit it was probably time to move on. Recently he’d decided to dip his toe back in the water and been on a few dates. But the dating scene had been like the North Sea in winter. Cold, wet and utterly unappealing.
The door swung open to reveal Chloe.
‘Are you all right back here? Thought I’d come and check on you. I’m not sure Holly gave you much of a say in the matter. I’m about to put the kettle on if you fancy a final cuppa.’
‘Och, I’m fine, you know? Mulling over “dead end” men and being “very much single”, and the fact I’ve agreed to have a complete stranger to stay.’
Chloe’s shoulders dropped. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. It was meant to be funny.’
‘Funny things make you laugh. Not die inside.’
Chloe looked distraught and threw her arms around him. ‘Och, Paolo. I’m so sorry. Listen, you’re fantastic. You’re handsome and clever and kind and . . .’
‘Yeah, all right. Enough. I’m fine.’
‘But you’re not. You look pretty gloomy.’
‘You were right, though. Every man I’ve dated in the last few months has been . . . meh.’
‘Don’t say “meh”, Paolo. You’re more sophisticated than that.’
Paolo allowed himself to smile at the compliment. ‘So, every guy I’ve dated has been acceptable, but it’s like when you’ve wanted a poached egg and it’s hard-boiled instead. Not exactly awful, but just not what you want.’
Chloe grinned. ‘Eccentric analogies! That’s more like it.’
‘When what you really wanted was something to dip your soldiers into.’
‘Jeez, Paolo . . .’ Chloe laughed, cuffing him on the arm.
Paolo snickered. ‘Couldn’t help myself, there.’
‘So, if you’re finished with the innuendo . . . cup of tea?’
He nodded. ‘Please and thank you. You’re a peach, MacKenzie-Ling.’
‘What are friends for? Apart from occasionally delivering brutal analyses of your love life?’
Paolo gave a genuine laugh as Chloe disappeared back down the corridor, but it petered out quickly.
Sometimes the feeling of loneliness sat at the back of his mind, so quiet he barely noticed it. Other times, it loomed over everything else. He and Hamish had been so close to becoming something that Paolo had thought Hamish might be his. That a romantic relationship with Hamish had become nothing was unbearably disappointing.
In his spare time, Paolo was a bookworm extraordinaire, and he loved a good romance. He knew his heroes inside out, their broad shoulders, their strong jaws, their deep voices, their other, myriad swoon-worthy qualities. Hamish Glennis — round-faced and ruddy cheeked, with a mop of unruly brown hair, of medium height and with a pretty normal-sounding voice — met none of the criteria. He never wore finely cut suits, or T-shirts that clung to the contours of his chest. Instead, he spent a lot of time outdoors, and wore scruffy forest-green outdoor gear. Sometimes he sported waders. He often had mud on his face. He ticked none of the traditional boxes, none of the clichéd asks Paolo had once put on his shopping list for a future partner. Yet Paolo knew there was something that hovered unspoken in the air between them.
But even though they had spent time together almost every week since the start of the year, nothing had happened. He must have misread Hamish, misread that electricity. Perhaps Hamish hadn’t felt it after all, despite the fact Paolo had been sure they both had.
Could you feel bereft of something you never had? Of course you could. It was the basic tenet of unrequited love.
Paolo could go on all the random dates he wanted, and none of the guys would be as right as he thought Hamish had been.
He leaned inside the cage and picked out a rabbit. Sir Hoppity had been sleeping off an anaesthetic and he gave him a quick stroke. Hoppity blinked lazily, eyeing him with suspicion.
‘What do you think, Hops? Do I have a chance with Hamish? Or am I doomed to only ever eat hard-boiled eggs? Oh, you deign not to answer that? Thought not.’