Chapter Seven
Angus
Five, four, three, two, one. I lift my head from the water with a gasp.
“FUCK!”
The sound echoes across the loch, breaking the stillness of dawn.
No matter the season – be it the depths of the winter or the height of summer – the loch is always fucking cold.
And no matter how many times I drag my arse in, I never get used to how ice-bollockingly freezing it is, or over the feeling of euphoria that arrives once I’m done.
But right now, my fingers are tingling and I can’t feel my toes and each breath is a struggle to keep steady, even, calm.
I focus on that. The hardship. Kick my legs and swim out further, ignoring my body’s protests. I need this.
It makes me feel alive.
At last, when my breathing has normalised and I’m used to the ache in my bones, I’m ready to get out. I swim to shore and retrieve the lightweight towel on top of my pack. Every inch of my skin tingles, a warm flush across my body.
It feels good.
Rowan’s eyes flash into my mind, that hint of sadness in them.
I shake my head. But there it is: her closed expression, the clench of her jaw. She left her beer half-drunk. A girl who knows her way around an IPA.
I should have been kinder. But the question came out of nowhere, and before I knew it, I was walking away. Should have said something though, shouldn’t I?
But women with eyes like Rowan are dangerous. That smile, the way her full lips part to show the glint of her teeth. The little gap between them. The dimple at the corner of her mouth. Eyes and smiles like that make you feel things.
And I’m done with feeling things.
Feeling things leads to wanting things, and wanting things leads to needing things. And there is no room in my life for that.
To distract myself, I grab my phone with the hand that isn’t clutching my towel and type a message to Stuart.
He’s the brains – and money – behind the farm’s transformation.
It hasn’t been easy. Only tough work and tougher decisions, like selling half of the paddock space, and finally admitting that I can’t work the land on my own – and that I’m not willing to ask my brothers to give up their own lives to help.
And the worst part. The herd. They were Da’s pride and joy, the one thing he clung to when he lost all hope. It’s been almost as hard to lose them as it was to lose him.
But to have any chance of surviving, they had to go.
Angus: How’s the farm?
Stuart replies immediately, three dots appearing almost as soon as I finish typing.
Stuart: Two days. I’m impressed. Mason said you wouldn’t last two hours.
Angus: Mason can go fuck himself.
Stuart: I’ll pass that on.
Angus: …
Stuart: Don’t worry, your baby is safe with me. We’re dressing her as we speak and doesn’t she look bloody gorgeous.
A picture of the main barn pops up in our chat. There she is. Sun-dazzled beams, exposed brick wall, the floor I re-laid on my hands and knees, polished until it shone. Every time, it takes my breath away. I zoom in. And again, frowning. That’s…
Stuart picks up on the first ring.
“It’s your neighbourhood fairy godmother speaking. How can I help you?”
“Why the fuck is the barn purple?”
“Should it not be?” he asks, feigning innocence.
I growl. “You and I both know that the bride asked for magenta, not lilac.” I want to run headfirst into a tree. Two years ago, I was a respectable farmer, a man of the land. Today, I’m worrying about fucking swatches.
How low I’ve sunk.
Stuart sighs. “Angus. Am I not right now going out of my way to save your bacon, dropping my life and my responsibilities to help you?”
“Yes.”
“And of the two of us, am I not the one who is more likely to know what colour the bride wants, given that I am not only here, but also have a Masters in Graphic Design from Central St Martin’s, unlike you, the straight neanderthal with a Bachelors in Animal Husbandry who has barely left his farm in four years, and who I for some ungodly reason keep referring to as my best friend? ”
I don’t have a chance to reply. His voice lashes me down the phone. I’m sure if we were in the same room, we’d be chest to chest while he poked me in the breastbone with his index finger the way he likes to do when he’s feeling feisty.
“And” – I can feel it coming, the piece de resistance, and I roll my eyes, which I know he can feel even from this many miles away – “most importantly, am I not more likely to know what colour the bride wants given that I am the fucking wedding planner?”
“She changed her mind then,” I say into the silence that follows.
Stuart takes a deep breath. “She changed her mind. And, as we all know, what the bride wants, the bride gets. So. Any more criticism of my work, or can we go back to you being eternally grateful?”
“You get a cut of the wedding, same as we do.”
“I’m going to hang up on you.”
I resist the urge to keep winding him up. “How are Mason and Ross getting on? Have they burned anything to the ground yet?”
I wish I was exaggerating, but I’m forever scarred by the Christmas my twin brothers somehow got their hands on our Da’s gun, emptied the gunpowder from the cartridges and burned an entire bale of hay, as well as both their eyebrows, narrowly avoiding setting any of the actual farm on fire in the process.
Needless to say, Christmas was cancelled that year.
“They’re about as useful as sheep trying to knit, but you can’t fault their enthusiasm.” I can hear Stuart’s shrug down the phone. “How goes the walk? When are you back again?”
“Weather’s been good,” I tell him, looking at the sky, which has a few scudding clouds, but is mostly clear. “Bit of rain yesterday, but clear today. Should be back with you Friday morning.”
Stuart hmms under his breath. “And how are you doing?”
I stretch out my legs and take a deep breath, filling my lungs. “Alright, y’know. Knee’s not playing up too much. Not as fit as I was, but this body’s seen worse days.”
“Angus. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m here for you.
I wish this bloody wedding was on any other bloody weekend, but I hope this week gives you what you need.
” He pauses. “And if you ever do crawl out of your man cave and decide it’s time to develop a modicum of emotional availability, you know where I am. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I hang up. There were so many offers at first: a shoulder, a cup of tea, a hankie, in case you need a bit of a cry. Do you want to talk? Can I do anything? Maybe you should see a therapist?
Over time, they dried up. My ex-girlfriend Violet, who was always asking me to open up, finally left, the way she was always going to. The way people do.
Mason and Ross aren’t the sort to talk feelings. That isn’t our way. So now it’s just Stuart. Kind, loyal Stuart, who’s been my best friend my whole goddamn life.
But even he doesn’t understand. It isn’t that I don’t want to talk about it, or that I don’t need to talk about it.
There is simply nothing to talk about.
What happened, happened. End of story.
Time to move on. Make a plan. Sell the parts of the farm that aren’t working.
Revitalise the parts that are. More work, more graft.
Tear it down and build it up. Da’s pride and joy, until it wasn’t.
Until it became the thing he hated. But that doesn’t matter.
The feelings don’t matter. The farm is the lynchpin of our lives, the land the living, breathing foundation of them.
Home of my ancestors, home to every good memory I have.
I’ll do the walk and be back in time for the wedding.
The farm will survive. I’ll make sure of that.
No matter what it takes.
I come back to myself. The day is getting on. Water drips off me, so I towel myself down. The soft cloth feels good about my cock, and I think about the curve of Rowan’s arse as she walked along in front of me yesterday. The wet puddle that rendered those tight shorts see-through. Her tiny thong.
I groan.
I let myself imagine for a moment, what I’d do to her if I had her. Dig my hands into the soft skin of her hips. Press her against a tree and spread her legs with my own. Dip my fingers down the front of those skimpy shorts and pull her excuse for panties aside. Nip at her neck.
The towel drops from my distracted grasp.
There’s a sound behind me. I spin around, realising that I’m not alone.
Fucking Rowan is fucking watching me from the bushes. Her pale face flaming. Her pretty mouth open.
And I’m stark bollocking naked on the banks of the loch.
Well, fuck.