Chapter 6 #2
Donna shakes her head. ‘Yes, I did, but he won’t be holding a grudge because of that, don’t worry.
Rory comes from a big family – he’s the youngest of eight children – so he’s used to fighting it out for what he wants.
They’ve all buggered off to live in other places – at least one of them lives in Australia and I’m sure some of the others are abroad too.
His mum and dad are in Edinburgh, helping his sister who’s just had a baby.
He’s the last man standing here to take care of the family business. ’
‘Lucky him, having a business handed to him on a plate,’ I sniff. ‘While I’m killing myself to try to fix mine up. You don’t happen to know a good accountant, do you? I’ve been trying to work things out on my own, but I need help.’
‘Oh, you need Eilidh. She does all my accounting.’
‘Brilliant. My parents both work in finance and they keep passive aggressively offering to help. The last thing I want is to have Mum peering at my figures while Dad shakes his head, wondering where they went wrong with me.’
‘I’ll give you her number. And mine,’ Donna promises, peering across the road towards the bookshop. ‘Are you nearly finished with the renovations? It’s really taking shape now.’
‘Yes, I’ll be having a launch night as soon as it’s ready. Will you come?’
‘Try and stop me,’ Donna smiles, as she starts blasting my freshly cut hair with the hairdryer. ‘Maybe that’ll be the night to officially launch the purple mohawk?’
*
I feel every one of my twenty-nine years, and more, a few hours later.
I step out to place myself on top of the green bin to call Eilidh, the local accountant Donna recommended, when I discover I’m not alone.
Two teens, a boy and a girl, are locked in a steamy make-out session in the small courtyard beside the bins. Yes, the bins. Gross. The things we do for young love.
I clock them as their hands lace around each other (the boy has one hand on the girl’s bum, as the girl places hers on his waist).
Their heads move back and forth quickly, like birds pecking against a tree, without coming up for breath.
I find myself completely frozen to the spot, unsure of my next move.
Should I call over and insist my courtyard isn’t a suitable snogging location and they should find somewhere else?
Throw a bucket of water over them both? Leave them to it?
Deciding on the latter, I creep backwards.
‘Jesus!’ Rory shouts, as I bump into him on the way.
I spin around as the bag he was holding falls to the ground, the contents spilling everywhere.
‘Sorry!’ I apologize in a whisper, bending down to pick up the rubbish. Unfortunately, he does the same, and our heads collide.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Rory mutters, rubbing his head. ‘We shouldn’t be allowed near each other. It always ends in injury.’
He isn’t wrong. Some people, like this teen couple, are drawn to each other like magnets. Rory and I seem to have the opposite problem. He rubs his head, close to the spot where I hit him.
‘Another whack to the nugget,’ he mutters.
‘You’ve got quite the sharp skull yourself.’
The couple peer at us with startled expressions. Their baby faces are clouded with concern; they think they’re in huge trouble. The young girl’s make-up is over exaggerated and completely unnecessary for her perfect, clear skin, and her lipstick is smudged all around her mouth.
Rory exhales and the pair practically tremble at the sound. ‘Jen. Evan.’
‘Please don’t say anything, Mr MacGregor,’ Jen pleads. ‘We promise we won’t come here again. We thought The Old Tea Shop was still empty.’
‘Mr MacGregor,’ I mutter to him under my breath. ‘Makes you sound like an OAP.’
Rory ignores me, but I feel him stiffen at my side. ‘Don’t worry, you two, your secret’s safe with me. But Miss Campbell here, who’s just taken over The Old Tea Shop, is a bit of a blabbermouth.’
‘Oi,’ I say. ‘That’s Ms Campbell to you. And don’t worry, my lips are sealed. I was young and in love once too. I won’t say a word.’
Jen and Evan stare back, their wide eyes blinking, as though they aren’t sure whether to believe us or not.
‘Off you go,’ Rory urges, flapping them away with his hand. ‘Go exert yourselves in someone else’s garden.’
They scamper out of the courtyard, along the back lane, with mutters of ‘Thanks, Mr MacGregor. Thanks, Ms Campbell.’
‘“I was young and in love once too”,’ Rory repeats with a chuckle. ‘Call me an OAP. What are you, a hundred years old?’
‘Don’t you know I run a bookshop in the middle of nowhere? I’m in my geriatric era, Mr MacGregor. How old are they anyway?’
He shrugs. ‘Thirteen, fourteen maybe. Jen works on a Saturday helping Donna in the salon and Evan’s parents own the fish and chip shop on the main street.’
I lean against the brick wall in the courtyard with a nostalgic smile. ‘First love. Do you remember being that age? Snogging in bike sheds for hours?’
Rory’s face clouds over. ‘Some of us were late bloomers.’
‘Ah, I see. No one wanted to kiss teenage Rory?’ I tease. ‘Did you walk around telling all the girls how bad their business plans were and lecture them on shopping locally too?’
From the look on Rory’s face, I realize I’ve hit a nerve. I’ve never seen his face flush like this. He avoids looking in my direction, searching for some distraction in the empty courtyard.
I look him up and down. I may not get on with him, but I have eyes.
He’s about my age. He is every inch the picture-perfect guy, from his tanned skin – how do you even get a tan in the north of Scotland?
– to those gorgeous green eyes. If he was in London, rather than Ullapool, he’d likely have a model on his arm.
I doubt there are many models our age in Ullapool, but there are certainly plenty of girls out there who would kill for a bit of Rory action.
Maybe he was a late bloomer, as he said.
But if he had gone through an ugly phase as a teenager, he’d clearly grown well out of it now, and he obviously knew it.
It would be hard to miss. He couldn’t think he was Mr Popularity just because of his excellent customer service.
Donna is prepared to defend him to the death, Margaret worships the ground he walks on.
Even Pete sings his praises. So, what exactly is his problem?
I must have stirred up bad memories of being dumped at a school disco, or something equally traumatic.
Despite what Donna and Elle believed, I hadn’t exactly had an easy time of it at school either.
Aside from my Ullapool summers, I found it difficult to make friends.
Until I met Macy, I was a bit of a loner.
And while Macy was my best friend, she always had plenty of other options.
She played sports and her parents took her to endless clubs and activities, while I buried my nose in books and waited for my Scottish summers to roll around.
And when we got older, she easily made friends with her colleagues and people she met in passing, too, while I spent what little free time I had with Seb.
Until she decided to see what it was I liked so much about Seb.
‘I didn’t lecture you,’ Rory protests, bringing me back to the here and now. ‘I was just pointing out that, as a new shop owner looking for support—’
‘Yes, I know, I get it,’ I cut him off. ‘And just so you’re aware, I am shopping locally.
I do it all the time. I ordered a pizza from the new takeaway place, I buy coffee every morning from Fiona’s down the road, I’m researching local accountants that I can use and I’ve just had my hair done at Donna’s.
Put that in your shop local pipe and smoke it. ’
‘Just not the DIY store next door.’
‘Sorry, did you mean to say “Oh, yes, your hair, I was just thinking how lovely it looks”?’
He blinks, without taking the bait. ‘No, I didn’t mean to say that at all.’
‘I bought nails from you on the first day,’ I point out. ‘Then I asked you to paint the mural for me and you said no. There was no discussion about it, either. I want to shop locally; I want to pay you for the mural, but you’re the one that’s blocking me.’
He shrugs, placing his rubbish in the bin. ‘I’m not an artist.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Stop fishing for compliments! You’re good and you know it. I will keep asking until I break you.’
‘Like you’ve been trying to do the whole time you’ve been here?’ He gestures at his ankle.
‘Mishaps,’ I say, with a wave of the hand. ‘Anyway, stop avoiding the subject. Will you paint the mural for me?’
‘Nope.’
I exhale, walking back towards my shop. If he is hoping that I’ll beg for his help, he’ll be waiting for a very long time.
What would Granny have called someone stubborn? Thrawn.
I call it being an arsehole.