‘Very fun,’ I stammer, climbing out of the car, but before I get a chance to shut the door, he speaks again.
‘Heather,’ he says, looking at the handbrake and then up at me briefly, before looking away again. He’s nervous, I think. ‘Could we, on a day off or something, maybe go back to Skye for lunch or something? There’s this seafood place on the far side of the island …’
A date?I think that’s what he means. I feel weak at the knees. Like properly in the way people say you do, and giddy, and like I’ve lost all control of my bodily functions.
He’s unsure, and is looking everywhere but at me and then past me, then back at his handbrake and then back to me. I don’t mean to take my time to answer, and I don’t mean to sound weird about it, but I’m in a bit of shock.
‘Lunch?’
If it was Tim, I would have said something like ‘What – are you too cheap for dinner?’ or ‘Do I have to be seen in public with you?’ But I’m not sure James would find it funny, and also the question issogenuine that I feel like I need to reply in kind.
‘Or something else.’ He starts to look uncomfortable. ‘I could take you fly-fishing? Or drive to Inverness. We could get a group, and all go out. I’m just thinking you’re new to the area, and I know everywhere like the back of my hand. I mean, if you loved Skye, we could see more of it …’
His voice trails off and I wonder if that’s the longest sentence he’s ever said in his life. God, I like him. But I can’t go on a date with James. Even if he is genuinely interested in me, he thinks I’m Heather. It’s a disaster.A disaster.
Then it hits me: James has been living on the west coast of Scotland, and working in this remote hotel, for most of his adult life. He’s not uncultured by any means, but he’s also not been out and done much living. His interest in me is logical – I’m the only available woman this season. I mean, he really has no choice.
Yet as my mind wanders through those comfortable rooms called self-loathing and fear, I know that isn’t true. He likes me. No one like James has ever liked me. If, by some miracle, they’re still swimming around London single at thirty, they’re looking for women who are as together as they are. I have zero to offer. No career. No money. No big family home in Sussex.
‘If you went to London you’d get eaten alive,’ I say under my breath.
‘What?’ he says, and now he looks fully stressed-out. I need to answer.
‘Fishing sounds fun,’ I say, pulling myself back into the reality before me. I like James. A lot. And he thinks that I’m Heather; and I’m lying to him and everyone here, and courting this flirtation really is a recipe for disaster. But fishing is casual. No sitting across from each other at a table, staring into each other’s eyes.
‘Oh. Okay,’ he says, and then he looks up at me. ‘Fishing it is. I’ll be happy to take you.’
‘Monday then?’ I say.
‘Monday,’ he replies. ‘See you in the kitchen for the team briefing.’
‘See you in the kitchen.’
As he drives off, I feel like I’m gliding, and I fumble with the front-door keys just as it opens, and Bill is standing there, trying to keephimself upright on the door frame. He’s drunk. I can smell the whisky coming off him so strongly it makes me want to gag. He looks like he’s been crying, his eyes are so red and puffy. His fly is undone, and the tail of his white shirt is poking out through the zipper.
‘We have to get you inside,’ I say quickly, looking round to see if anyone has seen him, but the coast is mercifully clear.
‘I have to go to work,’ he says.
‘You can’t go to work.’
‘I have to,’ Bill says, as I try to push him down the hallway. I can barely budge him; he has that limp-limbed heaviness that makes him impossible to move.
‘Come on,’ I say quickly. ‘Get up the fucking stairs.’
He stumbles forward and falls flat onto the floor, hitting the side of his head on the plaster skirting.
‘Bill! Get the hell up,’ I say, as he clambers onto his hands and knees. The picture is so stunningly similar to another that my heart starts to race. Dad on all fours in the kitchen, and Mum’s high-pitched awkward laughter while she’s ushering me out of the room, as if there’s something terrible I might see, while at the same time insisting there is ‘nothing to see here’.
I grab Bill’s arm to help steady him as he pulls himself to his feet. His head is already going a dark purple where he bumped it.
‘I have to go to work – it’s opening week, next week, and the reviewer, Jason or Justin, is coming …’ he tries to reason, but he’s cross-eyed and can’t really even focus on my face.
‘You don’t have to go. I can pour a fucking cocktail. I’ll tell Irene you’re sick.’
‘I’m on my last warning,’ he slurs, as he pulls himself up the stairs and round the bannister towards his room.
We take a couple of steps and I push open the first door.
