Chapter 26
Cameron
The Modern-Day Haunted Couple
I’m kneeling on the floor of the Murray cottage kitchen, trying to convince a stubborn radiator to reveal its structural secrets, when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
I ignore it because Mr. Murray, seventy-three years old, is watching me with the expression of a man waiting for confirmation of his worst fears about his heating system.
“So?” he asks. “Can it be saved?”
I tap the radiator with the delicacy of a doctor examining a terminal patient.
“That depends on your definition of saved.”
“What does that mean in normal-people language?”
“It means the whole thing needs replacing.”
He lets out a deep sigh.
The kind that comes from somewhere near the soul and says I knew it.
My phone vibrates again.
Then a third time.
Someone is being incredibly persistent.
“But,” I add quickly as I get to my feet, “the cottage has other strengths. The view of the hills. The original timber frame. The south-facing garden. It’s the kind of property that tells a story.”
Mr. Murray looks at me like I’ve just suggested his dead radiator could be resurrected through the power of positive thinking alone.
“A story,” he repeats flatly.
“Yes. Imagine a young retired couple looking for a renovation project. Something they can restore and personalize. Those buyers don’t want turnkey. They want potential.”
“Potential,” he repeats skeptically.
“Exactly.”
“Cameron, son, let’s be honest. This cottage needs twenty thousand pounds’ worth of work at a minimum. The roof leaks. The heating’s dead. The bathroom looks like it’s been frozen in 1973. Who’s going to buy that?”
“Someone who sees what it could become instead of what it is right now.”
He stares at me for a few seconds, then laughs.
A dry laugh.
Not unkind.
“You’re good at telling stories, lad, I’ll give you that. But stories don’t pay the bills.”
My phone vibrates again.
This time I pull it out, offering my client an apologetic look.
Four notifications.
One email.
Three messages.
The email is from an address I don’t recognize:
contact@
Mackenzie & Reid.
The agency behind Visit Scotland campaigns.
The agency every real-estate marketer in Scotland dreams of working with.
The agency that turns locations into destinations.
“Everything all right?” Mr. Murray asks.
“Yes, sorry. Important email.”
“More important than my radiator?”
“Probably not,” I say, slipping the phone away.
My job is to sell his cottage.
Not daydream about opportunities falling from the sky.
I spend another twenty minutes discussing sales strategy, realistic pricing, and priority repairs.
By the time I leave, the Scottish sky has decided it’s time to live up to its reputation.
Rain pours down.
I climb into my car, close the door, and sit there for ten seconds watching water stream across the windshield.
Then I pull out my phone and open the email.
Dear Cameron,
We have been following your Fraser Manor content with great interest, as well as the compelling narrative you’ve built around the property.
The authenticity of your approach, combined with the unique storytelling element of the modern-day haunted couple, represents exactly the type of storytelling we are seeking for our new Authentic Scotland campaign.
I read the sentence three times.
The modern-day haunted couple.
They’re talking about us.
About Clementine and me.
We would like to meet with you to discuss a potential partnership, including:
- Premium video content production (￡50,000 budget)
- Multi-platform social media campaign (6 months)
- Feature in Scotland Living Magazine
- Potential documentary series development
Fifty thousand pounds.
Six months.
Scotland Living Magazine.
I read it again because my brain refuses to process the information properly.
This is the kind of opportunity I’ve dreamed about since I started in this business.
The kind of validation that says:
You were right. Real-estate storytelling works. You’re not just some guy filming houses with his phone.
My phone vibrates.
Clementine
Are you coming for dinner tonight? I’m testing a new recipe. Hamish is my kitchen assistant (translation: he’s trying to steal my vegetables every time I turn my back).
I stare at the message.
And something twists in my stomach.
Because Mackenzie & Reid doesn’t want to work with me.
They want to work with the Fraser Manor couple.
They want the story.
The narrative.
The authenticity.
They want what Clementine and I became without really meaning to.
Or maybe exactly meaning to.
At this point, I’m not even sure anymore.
I lock my phone and start the car.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting inside the Grumpy Sheep.
Because my brain is overheating and I need to think.
And when that happens, I have two options:
Either I run through the hills in the rain like the hero of a dramatic movie.
Or I go to the pub.
I am not the hero of a dramatic movie.
And I’m not reckless enough to run through a downpour.
Ewan is behind the bar polishing glasses with the concentration of a surgeon performing open-heart surgery.
He looks up when I walk in, takes one look at my face, and slides a beer toward me before I even ask.
“Bad day?” he asks.
“I’m not sure yet.”
He raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
That’s what I like about Ewan.
He knows when I genuinely need space.
I take a sip of beer.
Then another.
Then I set the bottle down and pull out my phone.
“I got an email.”
“Okay.”
I look at him.
And suddenly I don’t have the courage to tell him everything.
He stops polishing the glass.
“Is it that bad?”
“It’s... huge. In a good way.”
“Then why do you look like that?”
I rotate the bottle between my hands.
“Because nothing is ever simple, apparently.”
Silence settles between us.
I take another drink.
The beer tastes bitter.
My phone vibrates again.
Clementine
Hamish says if you’re not here by seven, he’s eating your portion. He seems very serious about it.
A photo follows.
I smile despite myself.
When I glance up again, Ewan is watching me.
“Clementine’s expecting me for dinner.”
“Then why are you still here? Go!”
I finish my beer.
Leave cash on the bar.
And stand.
The drive to the manor takes only a few minutes.
It feels like three hours.
My brain keeps cycling through every possible way this conversation could go wrong.
I pull up in front of the manor.
The kitchen lights are on.
Through the window, I can see Clementine moving around, probably making something complicated and delicious involving vegetables.
I stay in the car for thirty seconds.
A minute.
Two minutes.
Come on, Cameron.
You’re not a coward.
Go in there and tell her the truth.
I get out.
Climb the front steps.
Open the door.
Hamish is lying in the hall like an Egyptian sphinx that happens to be a sheep.
He lifts his head when I walk in, studies me for three seconds, then lowers his nose back onto his paws.
Even the sheep knows I’m screwed.
“Cameron?” Clementine calls from the kitchen. “You’re early!”
“I thought I could help,” I say as I walk in.
She turns and smiles.
She’s wearing an apron dusted with flour.
Her hair is tied up in a chaotic knot.
She’s beautiful.
And I’m about to ruin everything.
“Help?” she repeats. “You? In a kitchen?”
“Fine. I can stand around and make unnecessary comments if you prefer.”
She laughs.
It always does something to my chest.
“That sounds more realistic. Did you bring wine?”
Damn it.
The wine.
“I forgot.”
“Cameron McGregor forgot the wine? Are you feeling okay?”
She sets down her knife and really looks at me.
“What’s wrong?”
There it is.
The moment where I decide whether I’m the kind of man who tells the truth when it’s difficult.
Or the kind of man who tells stories to avoid problems.
I take a deep breath.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
Her smile slowly fades.
“That sounds serious.”
“It is.”
I pull out my phone.
Open the email.
And hand it to her.
“I got this today. They saw my social media content.”
She raises an eyebrow.
So I clarify.
“The content I created and posted...”
“Without telling me.”
I nod silently.
She takes the phone and begins reading.
I watch her.
I see the exact moment she reaches the phrase the modern-day haunted couple.
Her eyes stop moving.
She rereads the sentence.
Then she continues.
I already know the rest by heart.
Budget.
Campaign.
Magazine.
Documentary series.
She finishes reading and places the phone carefully on the counter.
Almost too carefully.
The silence stretches.
“The Fraser Manor couple,” she says quietly.
“Yes.”
“Fifty thousand pounds.”
“Yes.”
“For our story.”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
“And you’re telling me because...?”
“Because I wanted you to know. Because I’m going to turn it down. Because I never want you to think for a second that this was my plan from the beginning.”
She doesn’t answer.
She keeps staring at the phone like it’s a bomb.
“Clementine...”
“When did this happen?” she asks calmly.
“This morning. While I was at the Murrays’.”
“And what exactly have you decided?”
“To refuse it. Obviously.”
“Are you sure?”
There’s something in her voice.
Something cold.
Something distant.
“Yes,” I say. “I don’t want to turn our life into a marketing campaign.”
She finally looks up.
“But it already is, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Our life. It’s already a marketing campaign. The videos. The posts. The stories you tell around the village. The modern-day haunted couple. All of it.”
“That wasn’t—”
“It wasn’t what, Cameron? Premeditated? Strategic?”
“At the beginning, yes! But now—”
“Now you’ve just received proof that your strategy worked. Along with fifty thousand pounds.”
“That’s not fair!”
“No?”
She takes a deep breath.
Her hands are trembling slightly.
She places them flat against the counter to steady them.
“I told you I loved you. That I was staying in Scotland. That I was choosing this instead of my career in Paris.”
“I know.”
“And today you’re telling me that all this time, you turned us into a marketing product. A campaign. Content.”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t you understand?”
Her voice rises for the first time.
“I trusted you. What was happening between us, what we were building together—I didn’t know you were making it public.
Did you ever stop to think that maybe I didn’t want my life put on display?
I don’t know what’s real anymore, Cameron.
I don’t know whether you love me or whether you love the story we represent.
I don’t know whether our relationship is something you’re living or something you’re narrating. ”
Her words hit like punches.
“I love you,” I say. “I really do.”
“Maybe. Probably. But do you know the difference? Because I don’t anymore.”
She removes her apron.
Sets it on the counter.
“I need time. I need to think.”
“Clementine...”
“I think you should leave.”
The word leave echoes through the kitchen like a final sentence.
“Leave?”
“Yes. Please.”
I search for something to say.
Anything.
But every word I know, every story I know how to tell, is useless now.
“Okay,” I say finally. “But Clementine... I’m turning down the contract. I don’t care about Mackenzie & Reid. I don’t care about fifty thousand pounds. I just want you.”
She keeps her eyes fixed on the counter.
“I know. That’s the worst part. I believe you. But it doesn’t change the fact that from the very beginning, maybe I was just... future content.”
“You were never just content.”
“How can you be sure? How can I be sure? And maybe you’re not even completely sure of your own feelings.”
I frown.
“You can’t know what’s inside me.”
A bitter smile touches her mouth.
“No. You’re right. But what I keep thinking is that if you were truly sure, you would’ve already turned down the contract. You wouldn’t be standing here telling me about it, hoping that maybe I’d tell you to accept.”
I have no answer.
Because somewhere deep down, she’s right.
How can anyone be certain of anything when they spend their entire life telling stories?
I leave the kitchen.
Hamish is still lying in the hall.
He watches me pass with what looks disturbingly like disappointment.
I open the front door.
It’s still raining.
I turn back one last time.
“I love you, Clementine. That’s the only story that matters.”
She doesn’t answer.
I close the door behind me.
And it’s only while walking toward my car that I realize something terrible.
I did exactly the right thing.
I told the truth.
And I still lost everything.
Because sometimes even the right decisions come too late.
Because sometimes the story you tell becomes impossible to separate from the life you’re living.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t know how to rewrite the ending.