I tuck my hair behind my ear, a nervous habit, and try to sound casual. “Sure. Why not?”
Fee and I chat a little longer—about life on Skye, the hotel, Peru—before I finally retreat to my room.
It’s compact but charming, with the same spectacular view as the lounge. Only this angle includes more of the staff cottages… and one larger one set slightly apart from the others.
My eyes land on something on the windowsill.
Binoculars.
Must have been left behind by the previous occupant, for birdwatching or something.
I pick them up, heavier than expected, proper professional ones, and peer through.
Everything sharpens into crystal clarity. I can see individual feathers on a seagull perched on the cliff edge.
I swing the binoculars toward the other cottages. Through one window, someone’s left a pizza box precariously on a radiator. In another, laundry hangs everywhere—bras draped over lampshades, socks dangling from door handles.
I scan the cottages, half curious, half distracted, and okay, yes, I’m wondering which one is Patrick’s.
I’ve already devolved into the creepy neighbor who spies on people.
I lower the binoculars quickly, ashamed of myself.
I’ve been on Skye less than six hours, and already two people have inadvertently made me feel like the least interesting human alive.
First, Patrick with his “I fly helicopters for fun” energy. Then Fee with her casual “I wild swim every morning and shag hot farmers” vibe. Meanwhile, I’m the woman who cried in my coat and asked if dating wascompany approved.
Fuck this.
I need a fresh start. Because if I don’t start choosing my own life, someone else is going to keep doing it for me.
Two hours later, Fee’s talked me into splitting a bottle of wine. I’m laughing so hard I’m crying as she tells me about her latest dating disaster.
“He invited me over for a traditional Scottish dinner. Turns out his idea of ‘traditional cooking’ was opening a tin of Irn-Bru and serving me a plate of chips with gravy. When I asked about the traditional part, he says—” She deepens her voice—“‘Well, I’m Scottish, and this is what I eat.’”
I wheeze into my glass. “Please tell me you didn’t go back.”
“Fuck no. If that’s his A-game imagine him after six months. He’d probably microwave a Tesco ready meal and call it our anniversary dinner. ‘Happy six months, love, I’ve heated you up some shepherd’s pie. The plastic film’s only slightly melted into the mince.’”
I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this. It’s nice to be living with someone my own age for once.
“What about you?” Fee asks, curling up against the armrest. “When was your last date?”
The laughter dies in my throat. Do I make up some disastrous Tinder hookup to sound normal?
“Um… three years ago,” I admit sheepishly.
“Bloody hell. Three years?”
I shrug. “My ex was a bit of an asshole. It put me off.”
Bit of an asshole.Like saying theTitanichad a small leak.
Fee’s expression softens. “Oh, love. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” I say quickly, taking another gulp of wine. “It’ll just bring the mood down. I want good vibes only tonight.” I force a smile. “I need a new list of priorities. I feel like I haven’t been… living properly lately.”
Fee’s eyes light up. “A list? Oh, I bloody love lists.” She jumps up, swaying slightly. “Wait, there’s a chalkboard in the kitchen. Let’s make your list properly.”
