Chapter 1 #2
‘A few days,’ he says with a smile. ‘She’s sunning herself in Tenerife, the lucky so and so. But one thing’s for sure about our Donna, she’ll do you a great deal on your roots.’
He offers up a mini salute, like he’s doing me a huge favour, as I clutch the top of my completely natural auburn locks. I can almost hear Granny reminding me to be gentle with him. Men don’t know much about that sort of thing, she’d have said.
He gives me a cheery wave goodbye on his way out, so I keep my mouth shut.
I’ve hardly made the best first impression myself.
The women across the road all witnessed me attacking poor Pete the postman.
I note a tiny spring in Pete’s step as he makes his way to his daughter’s salon to deliver the juicy goss on me, the lass from London who’s armed with a bag of books and isn’t afraid to use it. Beware of any stray kneecaps.
As I climb up the creaking stairway at the back of the shop, my stomach fizzes with excitement.
Donna is here. I already have an actual friend in Ullapool, who is also my work neighbour.
This is the small-town living I’ve always craved.
Everyone knows everyone. Not like in London, where you rarely see the same server twice at the local coffee shop.
At work, you’d never admit to knowing someone’s name outside your own department, for fear of being tied into a conversation.
There were deals to be done and targets to hit.
My own targets had been enough to contend with.
At Seed Creative, I’d juggled weekly goals, monthly managerial overviews and continued professional development, while organizing partnership and mentoring opportunities for local college students.
Oh, and doing my day job: creating and executing social media campaigns, meeting existing clients and pitching for new ones.
All achieved while maintaining a wide, I-can-handle-it-all smile and pretending everything was okay.
When I’d taken on responsibility for a social media team in their early twenties over the last year, my eyes had been well and truly opened.
While many were just a few years younger than me, collectively they were my work antithesis.
This group clocked in and clocked out for their exact work hours, took a full hour for lunch, went for daily ‘mental health walks’ in Hyde Park, and prioritized family and friends, even when the work was piling up.
A part of me had been impressed. Meanwhile, every day I stuffed a Pret baguette into my gob, sometimes as late as 4 p.m., because I hadn’t quite got around to eating that day; only achieved 3,800 steps on my walk to and from the Tube and going to the office loo; and missed countless social occasions.
The longer I worked at Seed Creative, the fewer events I seemed to miss.
Until I realized that somewhere along the line, I’d been dropped from the invitation list.
In fact, when I decided to move here, I realized that, after my parents, I had no one to tell. My ‘friends’ had been whittled to Seb and Macy.
This move is going to change everything, though.
I’m determined to find that elusive work-life balance everyone talks about.
I’ve firmly left behind my London self, and all associated stress.
I’m going to be my own boss, set my own schedule and take breaks for nature walks, friends and fun in my new world.
After a shedload of hard work to get me where I need to be, of course.
Bookshops don’t grow on trees, after all.
The top of the staircase takes me straight into my lounge area.
Fully furnished, as promised. A small wooden coffee table and chocolate-brown sofa complete the space.
Basic but liveable. I follow the beige carpet through to the bedroom, which contains a small double bed, a desk and a wardrobe.
It needs a lick of paint and a lot of love, but for now, it is…
fine. Passable. The small galley kitchen is exactly as the online pictures showed: dated, with brown and cream wall tiles, but it has everything I need to cook.
I can barely swing a cat in the space, as Granny would have pointed out, but thankfully I don’t plan on doing that any time soon.
I hesitate at the door of the bathroom, peering tentatively inside.
It is the one room I instantly disliked when I saw the pictures.
Sure enough, the garish green, diamond-shaped tiles overwhelm the long, narrow room.
Not only is it an assault on the eyes, but everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. I’m tempted to rip the tiles straight off, but one step at a time.
Plus, I’ll need a serious YouTube DIY education before I can retile the place.
I close the door and decide to start with a really good deep clean instead. I’ll have it all spruced up in no time.
This place is all mine and, best of all, it is a blank canvas. I can’t wait to get started on it. The buzz of excitement settles back in my stomach, with just a hint of nerves.
The neighbours’ eyes follow me as soon as I step out onto the main street again. It’s bizarre, like I’m some kind of celebrity – or someone who’s just been released from jail – that they have to keep a very close eye on. Do they also think I’m mad for moving to Ullapool?
I shift from foot to foot, wishing I didn’t have an audience. Lifting the boot of my car again, I reach in to retrieve the planks of wood I took from my dad’s shed that I plan to turn into shelves. It’s lashing it down again and I need to get this stuff inside as quickly as possible.
‘Can I help you?’
I bang my head on the side of the boot and let out a loud curse that Granny would certainly not have been proud of. Clutching the plank of wood over my shoulder, I turn to see who is speaking to me, but the rain is making everything bleary from my viewpoint under my hood and…
‘Ah, Christ!’ the man groans, as the plank swings quicker than I can control, landing on the side of his forehead with an almighty crack.
For fuck’s sake.
I’ve managed to assault not one but two people in the first thirty minutes of my arrival.
But this guy doesn’t look like someone I’d expect to bump into, not in Ullapool, anyway.
A sweet, old man like Pete the postman, yes.
This guy, definitely not. He has thick, curly, dark brown hair and sharp, strong features.
Much taller than me (and Pete, although that wouldn’t be difficult), he has broad shoulders that tug at the seams of his navy jacket, which is lacking a hood.
He is apparently too manly for practicality.
I can almost hear Granny’s voice: Put your hood up, son, you’ll catch your death out here.
His bright green eyes throw me an inquisitive look as I pull my hood closer to my ears.
He rubs his forehead and checks his hand, presumably for bleeding.
Dramatic. I didn’t hit him that hard. This guy, with his stature, could probably lift the plank of wood and smash it over his knee in a swift wrestling move.
He arches an eyebrow. ‘Do you often whack people before you’ve said hello?’ He has a thick Scottish accent that dances through the rain. ‘I was trying to give you a hand.’
‘I wouldn’t have whacked you if you hadn’t crept up on me! Why does everyone seem to do that here?’ I exclaim. ‘No, I don’t need help. I’m fine. I just want to unpack my car without injuring anyone!’
And then he does the most annoying thing. He flashes me a wide grin, his teeth white and perfectly straight.
‘Mission not accomplished.’
Wait, is that a dimple in his left cheek? I fight my eyes not to roll. This guy is mocking me, with his chiselled jawline and dreamy eyes, standing in my way. I don’t have time for nonsense like alarmingly attractive Highland men. I have work to do.
‘You came too close!’ I protest, pushing past him to get to my shop.
‘To offer you help,’ he points out, his tone moving into frustrated territory.
He obviously loves helping a damsel in distress. Well, not this damsel. I have ninety-nine problems and his exceptionally well-fitting jeans are not about to be one of them.
‘I don’t need help!’
He mutters something under his breath as I carry the plank of wood into my new shop, closing the door behind me.
For God’s sake. A handsome stranger offers me some help – which I clearly need – and how do I respond?
Not with, ‘Oh, yes, that would be wonderful, thank you. Do you happen to know a good local joiner?’ Instead, I assault him with a plank of wood, tell him to get away from me and screech that I don’t need anything from anyone. Not exactly the best first impression.
I’m wired and shifty and I blame Seb. I used to be able to hold civilized conversations with men.
Now, the sight of any man my age apparently sends me into a spiral.
Especially that big burly Scotsman. The low, gruff accent paired with mischievous green eyes and dimples is too much.
My mouth can’t keep up with my brain and now I’m annoyed.
With any luck, I won’t have to see him again. It’s a small village, but it’s a tourist hotspot too. He could be a tourist. Some Glaswegian who’s capping off a week of Munrobagging by helping woefully unprepared small-business owners.
Hurrying back to the car to get the rest of the boxes from the back seat, I spot the sign of the shop next door.
The Toolbox, the DIY store. Now that’s something that could help me. I need my own tape measure. And a drill. And nails. In fact, I probably need pretty much everything The Toolbox has in stock if I’m going to turn my new space into the amazing bookshop I’ve envisaged.
I let out a determined sigh, straighten my shoulders and puff out my chest. I’ve really messed up my first impressions so far in Ullapool, but I’m determined to do better with the owner of the DIY store. They will be my next-door neighbour and go-to person, especially over the coming weeks.
Getting off on the right foot is crucial.