Chapter 21
A week and a bit had passed since Skye moved into Hamish’s place. No, not a ‘place’. Paolo’s own flat was a ‘place’, as was any other normal-sized dwelling. Glenalmond was a bloody great castle, ancient and imposing, lacking nothing but a cast of characters from a fairytale to fill it.
Paolo could tell why Skye had moved in. If he lived there himself, he’d spend any spare moment he wasn’t up in the library reading, pressing his face against the cool stone, wondering if the building would whisper him secrets. Or lying in bed for hours. He knew from Skye that she was now sleeping in a four-poster, complete with heavy drapes, thick, woven in deep reds, a leather wingback aged to perfection, and a nod to the family’s heritage in the form of a blanket in the family tartan.
Paolo would move into Glenalmond in a flash, even if there was nothing between him and Hamish. They could likely co-exist there without ever having to run into each other. Paolo’s entire flat was about the same size as the Glenalmond library where, last year, he had first felt that spark.
He went over that moment in the library again, picking at it, over-analysing it until it was nothing more than shreds of unreliably recalled thoughts. Was that why he’d read the signals all wrong? The (mildly absurd) possibility that occurred to him today was that instead of fancying Hamish, perhaps he just fancied the library. The sheer quantity of leather-bound volumes was a turn on.
He rolled his eyes at himself. He was tying himself in knots. It was all he had been able to do since seeing Hamish in Beauly. He hadn’t told Holly or Chloe about it, too devastated to withstand their pity.
With a last spritz of disinfectant, he wiped down the table in the consulting room once more for luck.
‘Are you ready for the next patient?’ Holly asked from the doorway. ‘They’re out the front waiting.’
‘Guinea pig with a probable broken leg? Absolutely.’
As Holly went to get them, he chucked the wipes away, washed his hands and put on some gloves.
Holly reappeared with Ronnie MacLeod and her daughter Lou, who must have been about seven or eight. Lou looked worried, as Ronnie gently placed a large cardboard box on the table. Paolo leaned back against the cupboards, as Holly opened the box and took the guinea pig out. It emitted a high-pitched squeaking as she did, but calmed down once she had it firmly in her arms.
‘Remind me of the name?’ said Holly.
‘Pickle,’ said Ronnie. ‘We had him out for a cuddle and he was wriggling to be put down. Lou says he practically jumped out of her arms into the hutch, and landed badly. He’s not putting any weight on it, and hopping around.’
There was a whimper from Lou at this.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Paolo gently. ‘It happens. Guinea pigs can be very squirmy sometimes, but you have to hold on tightly, even if they’re desperate to be let go.’
‘Can you X-ray it?’ asked Lou.
Paolo tilted his head towards Holly, who nodded. ‘That’ll be the first thing, if you’re happy for me to. We can then also rule out its being something else, like infection,’ said Holly. ‘We’ll need to put Pickle under general anaesthetic, so if it’s OK, could you pop back to the waiting room for me, Lou? Chloe has some biscuits there, if you want one. Mrs MacLeod, wait here a second, please.’
After Lou had left, Holly explained to Ronnie the risks of the anaesthetic. There was no need, Paolo knew, to cause Lou to fret any more — she was clearly already upset. Ronnie, who Paolo knew taught up at the primary school, agreed to the procedure, and Paolo went to get a mask to administer the miniscule amount of gas needed to put the guinea pig under.
The X-ray showed a small fracture. As Holly examined it on the picture on the computer screen, Paolo picked the fuzzy guinea pig up from the table, wrapped him in a towel, and held him until he woke up. He gradually opened one eye, and looked around slowly. Paolo gave him a gentle stroke.
‘There, there,’ he whispered. ‘What an ordeal for you, you poor wee beastie.’
Holly went to get Ronnie and Lou, and outlined the break. ‘We could pin it back into place,’ she said, detailing the way that would work. ‘But he’s a young guinea pig, and if you keep him isolated, so he can’t run around too much or climb anything, it stands a good chance of healing itself. I can prescribe some painkillers.’
Ronnie and Lou looked to Paolo. It often happened, people turning to him for reassurance. He nodded. ‘It would be a lot of surgery for one tiny guinea, plus it would be a few hundred pounds easy. Holly’s right. And you can pop back in a fortnight if it’s not getting better.’
Slowly, he handed the guinea pig back to Lou, who buried her face in Pickle’s fur, softly telling him that everything was going to be OK, before putting him back into the box with the utmost care.
Paolo waved them off, Holly accompanying them to reception, and got to cleaning up again.
* * *
At the end of the day, having seen three dogs, a budgie with a broken wing, a cat with a mangled tail, and a limp-looking gerbil, it was time to go home. It had been non-stop in the surgery that day, and he needed to go to bed early as he and Holly were off to a farm about thirty miles away the following morning. It was a long drive, and they’d agreed with the farmer they’d arrive at 8 a.m., which meant leaving by 7 a.m. to ensure they got there on time.
He pulled his summer jacket, a neat cornflower-blue linen one with oversized pockets, from the hooks in the side room. Chloe bustled in behind him. Hugh, their old boss, would always wait outside until there was space available, the portrait of old-fashioned manners. Chloe, the opposite — generous with hugs and happy to be in close proximity to anyone she’d known for more than an hour — squeezed beside him.
‘Plans for the evening?’ she asked.
‘None. It’s a Monday night, so I’m thinking Eastenders , some Scotch rarebit, book and bed. You?’
‘Nothing. Well, not nothing. I’m going to research cakes for Holly’s birthday. Greg’s asked me to make her one because he said he’s not a baker and her birthday’s next week.’
‘Oh crap. Of course it is.’ Paolo had completely forgotten, given his inability to think about anything other than Hamish (whose birthday, Paolo knew only too well, was in July).
‘And then for supper I’m making this pea houmous, which I’m serving with halloumi and falafels. I’m introducing Angus to vegetarian options.’
‘Can you bring in the leftovers for lunch tomorrow?’ came Holly’s voice.
Chloe mouthed, ‘Do you think she heard about the cake?’ Paolo shook his head.
‘Sure,’ Chloe said, brightly. ‘If Angus leaves any. Doing anything tonight, Hols?’
Paolo and Chloe popped out of the side room into the relative roominess of the reception area. Holly, her blonde hair piled high on her head, gave a shrug. ‘Greg and I might go for a run. The weather’s meant to hold out the next week and then rain. We need to make the most of the sunshine.’
‘The couple who runs together . . . runs together,’ said Paolo, no better line occurring to him. Oh God, even his powers of speech were diminishing. Was nothing in his life safe?
They moved outside. He and Holly waved Chloe off on her bike.
‘She’s a nutter,’ said Holly affectionately, watching her puff out of sight. ‘The road out to Auchintraid is uphill for at least a mile.’
‘Keeps her out of mischief,’ joked Paolo. ‘You can’t concentrate on anything else with all those potholes on the loose.’
‘You know, I’m just going to double check the kit in the bags for tomorrow,’ Holly said and she disappeared back inside the surgery. ‘See you in the morning.’
Paolo loitered and stared out at the bay. It was early evening, the sun still far from kissing the horizon. Holly’s birthday landed on the solstice, when the night lasted no more than six hours in Eastercraig and the stars only started appearing long after it was time to go to bed.
If only he had someone to enjoy these long evenings with, but being alone was the quintessential Paolo, it would seem. Chloe and Holly would both be going back to their houses, their men, their lives, which were working out in that time-honoured tradition where the next stop was certainly marriage.
When was it going to be his time? Hamish, it seemed, was completely out of the question. Funny how he had got it so wrong.
He had genuinely feared, given what Hamish had said about Skye, that there might have been some backstory there, that they were an item waiting to happen. But having seen Hamish with that guy in Beauly, it appeared that it had been his paranoia levels working overtime. Unless Hamish was secretly rampant. It seemed unlikely, but life had a habit of springing surprises on you.
Then, realizing that he had been standing in the same place outside the surgery for the last few minutes, he decided he ought to move. He was suffering from general inertia it would seem, besides being stuck on the pavement, he was stuck to the idea of Hamish.
Paolo needed to shake this off. He needed to shrug off the failures, ramp up the dating, go once more unto the breech. Stiffen his sinews and summon up the blood and all that, banish the memory of Rhuari forever, writing him and the rest of them off as a bad lot.
Would the Bard have winced at the re-assigning of his war cry to some guy’s urge to find a partner, five hundred years down the line? Paolo liked to think that Shakespeare had a sense of humour. He had written all those comedies after all.
‘You still here?’ asked Holly, re-emerging.
‘Admiring the view,’ said Paolo, neglecting to mention the rest.
Holly nodded. ‘Amazing, isn’t it. Well, I’ll see you in the morning. We’re off to Gorroway to see Lucia Kilbride’s herd tomorrow, remember?’
‘Don’t remind me,’ said Paolo.
He waved her off, contemplating Lucia Kilbride, who was a tricky customer at the best of times. She tended to be snappy, and he didn’t relish the thought of spending the morning in her company.
He felt his forehead creasing, and ran his fingers over the deep crevasse which had begun to form between his brows. He started to walk the short distance home. Fabien, the last guy he had dated seriously, was a tweakments convert. He hedged his bets on the long-term damage caused by fillers with the same swagger he used when analysing stock prices and choosing what to buy. Fabien liked to take risks. It was why Fabien was not only rich, but had been unable to register surprise for the last ten years. Perhaps Paolo’s constant ribbing about the latter had led to their breakup.
Maybe he needed Botox though. All the anxiety was changing the landscape of his face. He looked like the Grand Canyon. A wee injection of something to make him feel less like he was crumpling. Och, listen to yourself, Paolo, he chided himself. He’d been a bit of a grey cloud of late.
Paolo pulled his phone out, and scrolled through his text messages to his last exchange with Fabien. It had been Fabien’s annual Christmas message, sent to everyone in his phone, around five thousand people, probably. It showed Fabien, at the top of a mountain somewhere in Switzerland — where he lived and worked — reclining on a bench with his skis propped next to him, sipping a cocktail. The scenery shone with an almost unnatural purity, much like Fabien’s fillered cheeks. ‘Après me’ was the caption. Trust Fabien to pun. Their quick-fire banter had been one of the first things that had drawn them together. Paolo had half-heartedly sent a Christmas greeting in return.
Despite the shock of their breakup, Fabien still crossed his mind occasionally. Paolo had to admit, they’d had their share of good times. Not that he wanted to get back with him. Not at all.
Yes, Fabien was smooth — and he didn’t simply mean Fabien’s forehead or expensively moisturized skin — but he was also deadly. Paolo knew Fabien picked people up and dropped them because of the rate at which he posted photos of himself and new boyfriends. He reminded himself that when they had been going out, Fabien had insisted it remain a secret, because he hadn’t officially come out in Eastercraig, and wasn’t prepared to. Despite his misgivings, Paolo had gone along with this.
It had never oozed long-term potential, and Paolo wanted long term. He wanted passion that petered steadily into lasting friendship. To grow old with someone who, in thirty years’ time, he didn’t fantasize about feeding poisonous mushrooms to. Someone kind, and thoughtful, and . . . Basically, Hamish.
Reaching his front door, he shook his head, and heaved in a deep breath of the salty air which floated in on the light breeze.
Why was it so hard?
His phone beeped. Skye.
Me and Hamish are having drinks on the terrace at Glenalmond. Come and join us? Weather apparently due to turn.
It was pretty punchy for a Monday night, but he might pop his head round the door. It should at least shift him out of this funk.