Chapter 7
Slapping on the factor thirty suncream before an early evening walk makes me realize that high summer in Ullapool has crept in while I’ve been working behind closed doors.
The mornings usually start off dry but overcast, and as the day progresses, the sun starts to break through the fluffy white clouds.
By the time evening lands, the whole village basks in sunshine along the shoreline where the ferries go out to the Outer Hebrides.
Children cycle along the streets, just as I did when I was younger.
I’d barely been able to ride when I first arrived here as a child, but Granny borrowed a bike for me.
I was a pro by the end of my first summer, whizzing around the grassy fields and streets near her house, and growing in confidence with every turn of the pedals.
I can still picture the faces of the other kids.
The endless stream of boys who’d jeer at us from their bikes.
I think of how few young people there are in the village now.
Those kids must have all grown up and left.
Just like Rory’s siblings. More than likely he and some of his brothers were part of that faceless gaggle of boys I was afraid of.
There was one boy, though, I remember more clearly: Mackie.
A self-proclaimed geek who vowed to travel the globe once he’d had his braces taken off and had laser eye surgery to correct his vision.
I’d loved chatting to Mackie, who was less intimidating than the rest of the lads.
He’d been so interesting, and interested.
In our shy childish way, we spoke of the places we wanted to go.
Me, I wanted to come here, to Ullapool. He wanted nothing more than to leave.
I told Macy about him when I returned home after the second summer, after we’d developed a secret handshake.
She teased me that I’d landed my first boyfriend, which instantly shut me up.
Mackie was not my boyfriend. My cheeks flushed at the accusation.
I had seen him the following year, and all those after until Granny passed away.
We’d slip back into light conversation about our studies and his travel plans.
He wanted to backpack as soon as he finished school, which I’d never even considered, though it sounded amazing.
I told him my plans to study marketing and move to London, like my parents wanted, before I made my millions and could see more of the world.
Looking back, I can admit that I had a bit of a crush on him, as nerdy and lanky as he was.
I looked forward to seeing him every year, but nothing ever came of it.
He was far too awkward for anything like that.
And then, I didn’t return. He’s probably long gone by now, off travelling the world like he always wanted.
As I walk along the pebbled beach, I scan the ground for a good skimmer.
It’s just like when I was a teenager. I can picture us lined up along the seafront, lukewarm cans of cider clasped in our hands.
We’d spend hours trying to get the stone to jump out two, three or even four times.
I do it now, too, alongside families who are soaking up some sun before eating their picnics.
I breathe in Ullapool’s magic before progressing with my exploration of the surrounding area, captivated by the beauty of the rugged landscape.
Just when I’m most at peace, a thought enters unbidden into my mind. I remember that the only person I’d been sad to leave for my Ullapool summers is the reason I am here now.
Macy.
It’s inevitable that I’m thinking about her today, when she’s celebrating her thirtieth birthday.
It’s such a milestone that I can’t quite believe I’m not at her side.
We’d talked at length about our thirtieth birthday plans.
I’d even put in some calls earlier in the year to start arranging a party for her.
We’d discussed a trip abroad in September, when the sun was likely to be kinder on my pale complexion.
Macy didn’t need to worry about that, with her gorgeous, bronzed skin, but she was willing to go when it suited me.
I can’t help but wonder who she’s celebrating with today. Is she having her party? Have her brothers come to visit? Will her mum and dad ask where I am? What’s she told them about me?
Once we became friends, Macy was the only pull away from Ullapool that I had. I couldn’t have given two hoots about leaving Mum and Dad, but I always missed Macy. I hate to admit it, but part of me still does, in spite of everything.
We spent every summer texting back and forth.
I’d call on this day each year to wish her happy birthday.
She was usually in Spain, Greece or somewhere equally beautiful with her family.
They’d all take turns saying hello to me on our calls, while playing volleyball on the beach or chilling by the pool.
Her older brothers would tease us about missing each other, that we were soulmates, but we never denied that.
We solemnly confessed we missed each other like mad and couldn’t wait to be reunited.
Oh God. Is Seb celebrating with her today instead of me?
Are they toasting her over some champagne?
Is he singing ‘Happy Birthday’ at the top of his lungs?
The thought makes me queasy. Grabbing my phone, I check their social media pages for any evidence of family celebrations, boozy brunches or, my stomach drops at the thought of it, a romantic getaway.
But Macy hasn’t posted anything since completing the marathon she spent months training for last year.
She beams at the camera, clutching her medal proudly with both hands.
I check Seb’s page, but he hasn’t been active since his work trip to Dubai two years ago.
He’d been so excited about flying business class for four days of back-to-back meetings and client dinners.
I’d secretly thought the whole thing sounded exhausting.
I glance down at the pair of sturdy boots on my feet that Granny would have been proud of.
My London look of tailored trousers, blazers and high heels are, thankfully, long gone.
I’d never felt truly comfortable in the formal workwear.
When I first moved to London, I lived in comfortable clothes, but my wardrobe evolved over the years.
Now, I’m back to casual wear and wouldn’t look out of place hopping on board with the fishermen at 5 a.m.
I did contemplate dressing up to visit the finance guru, Eilidh Stewart, to look as though I’ve got my shit in order, but I decided against it.
An unexpected letter from the tax man sent me into a flap earlier, so I plan to turn up at Eilidh’s listed address to see if I can catch her.
It seems she isn’t willing to answer her phone, no matter how many times I call.
I am determined to shop local, so even if the local accountant is a recluse, she is going to be my accountant.
At the bottom of the pier, a group of tourists huddles together at the Summer Isles boat-trip stand. It’s something I never got round to when I was younger, but always wanted to do. Once the bookshop opens, I vow to finally do the trip, as a mini celebration for myself.
I haven’t managed to bring myself to venture up to Granny’s old cottage just yet.
Although she’s constantly on my mind as I traipse through the streets, it’s like there’s a mysterious force repelling me from venturing in that direction.
I’ll need to own up to it and go eventually – in a village as small as Ullapool, you can’t avoid a whole section of it – but I can’t seem to do it just now.
I don’t want to see someone else standing at the window, washing dishes the way she used to, weeding the front garden on hands and knees or reading a book in the garden nook she created just for me.
I’m pretty sure the sight would break my heart, and it’s been through enough recently. I think I’ll just stay on my own path.
I cross the road towards Eilidh’s house on the edge of town.
Following my phone’s map I find myself on the outskirts of the village, surrounded by greenery.
In the distance, I spot Finlay, the village dog walker that Donna mentioned, ambling down the hill, surrounded by his army of pups.
He often comes to the courtyard at the back of our shops to chat with Rory, but I’m not going to hold that against him.
Everyone loves chatting with Rory, after all. Everyone except me.
Looking ahead, I climb up the hill and follow a long and winding path.
The views of Loch Broom and the village below are incredible.
I can even see my own little piece of Ullapool, my flat and future bookshop, and my heart swells with pride.
I’ve almost done it. I escaped, like I said I would.
I’ve started taking the walks that I promised myself.
The bookshop is almost ready to unveil and then I’ll be able to start my apartment makeover.
Take a boat trip. Keep on breathing. The future will be here soon.
I turn the corner to see the home of the elusive Eilidh Stewart.
Gasping at the sight of the elevated house on the hillside, I realize that Eilidh must be quite well off, as most finance types are.
I’d be a recluse, too, if I lived in a house like this.
The sprawling stone-built house is set over two levels and boasts a balcony the whole length of the upper floor.
Behind the house, I spot a long, flat grass area with a football goal at each end.
Lucky kids growing up in a house like this.
Walking up the long drive, I picture the superwoman who lives in this house, a pen in one hand, kids’ football boots in another, phone crooked between her neck and shoulder.