May
Spring has returned to Loch Dorn. It’s cold and wet. But the promise of warm weather is in the air.
I pull back the curtains and stare out across the estate. The view from Bill’s old room is the same as James’s view was.
Eggs, says the message on my phone.
I yawn and stretch and make my way downstairs into the kitchen. The cottage is all mine, for now at least. Heather is staying with Irene, and James has moved permanently to his place by the sea.
I pull on my new waxed-canvas jacket, and the hiking boots that I reclaimed from my old wardrobe. I have never owned a pair of shoes that sit so perfectly around my feet. I pull a beanie down over my head, and go out to the little jeep parked by the back entrance, swinging the keys as I walk.
As I slide the key into the driver’s door, I spot Anis heaving an ice-box full of salmon out of a white van.
‘You need a hand?’
‘Fuck off,’ she replies. But she’s smiling.
‘Yes, Chef,’ I reply as she pushes the door open with her bum and disappears back into the kitchen.Her kitchen.
Then I remember.Eggs.
I follow her into the kitchen and go to the chiller, grabbing a tray of eggs, then head back out. I glance into the restaurant, to see Roxy fussing over a full breakfast room and the new-season staff being put through their paces. With the entrance of the kitchen now blocked by another delivery van, I walk back through the reception area. The library looks much more stylish, with its heavy oak shelving and the books restored to upright and readable. I love that they’ve replacedsome of the more deliberately mismatched furniture with antique leather. The ‘help yourself’ games cabinet has also proved a hit with the guests.
Once I’m out of the estate, I drive down the lane to the now properly cleared and sealed road that leads to James’s house. I pull up next to one of the hotel’s SUVs and make my way to the door of his cottage. When I come through the door, Irene and Heather are already there.
‘Birdy,’ Heather says, clasping her hands together, ‘look at this!’
She thrusts an iPad under my nose, open atThe Guardian’s food section.
‘It’s by theGuardiantravel writer who visited last week,’ she says. Heather knew him well from her days in London and convinced him to come by and review.
‘It’s a fabulous review,’ says Irene.
‘Awesome,’ I say, grinning as I walk over to hand the eggs to James. He puts them on the countertop and places a kiss on my forehead, turning quickly back to the bacon frying on the stove top.
‘Happy birthday,’ I say.
‘It feels very happy,’ he says, threading his fingers through mine and leaning forward to kiss me first on the cheek and then on my lips, then he moves down my neck and I push him back.
‘Not now. They’re just there,’ I whisper.
‘I’m so glad you’re here, Birdy,’ he whispers back.
‘Thank you,’ I say, feeling the same old prickle of shame in my cheeks. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No moreSorryswe said, remember?’
‘Sorry,’ I say, laughing this time.
‘What are you doing with my brother?’ Heather shouts and we both giggle, red-cheeked.
And then we are all sitting at James’s walnut table and bench seats, eating breakfast in the completed cottage – modern, simple, stunning. Oak and stone form the bones of the house, with Scottish tweed and tartan soft furnishings used sparingly to finish the look. It’s unmistakably Scottish. It’s comfortable and authentic and humble. And it’s 100 per cent James.
The huge window looks out onto the bay, with the morning sun sparkling on the water like a million tiny diamonds. A gull hovers in the air, riding the wind before plunging into the water for fish.
Heather and Irene are talking at a hundred miles an hour. There is work to be done on the annexe, and there is the Wine Society night to consider again.
‘Well, Birdy should do it,’ Heather says, nodding towards me.
