“Sorry for being naked in my own house, Mum!” Struan retorts. “What areyoudoing here, more to the point? And, er... hello, Mrs Reid.”
Mrs Reid.
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water.Mum.
No. No, no, no, no, no.
I’m out of the bed before my brain catches up, scrambling for my clothes like the house is on fire. My sweater’s inside out. My jeans are a crumpled, tangled mess on the floor. I grab them, shove one foot in, hop on the other, nearly crash into the wardrobe, and catch myself on Struan’s chest of drawers.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,fuck.”
Downstairs the conversation continues with horrifying clarity.
“Pauline and I were chatting away at knitting club just now,” Helen explains, her tone cheerful despite the circumstances. “I was asking her about the new place she’s moved into, and she said it’s lovely but the kitchen’s a bit dated—she’d like to do it up at some point. So, naturally, I told her how brilliant you and your da are at jobs like that, and how gorgeous your own kitchen turned out. Then I said, actually, I’ve got a key to Struan’s place, why don’t we pop in so you can see it for yourself? I was sure you wouldn’t mind.”
“Aye, well, normally I wouldn’t have minded at all,” Struan says, “but as you can see?—”
“Yes, yes.” My mother’s voice. And she sounds—God help me—amused. “It’s not the best time. I’ll see the kitchen another day.” A pause. “Still, someone’s been eating their porridge, eh?”
I freeze, one arm halfway through my sweater.
Is my mother—is sheadmiringStruan while he stands down there starkers?
I’m going to die. Right here, in Struan Walker’s bedroom, tangled in my own clothes, I am going to die of mortification.
“You know what, Helen?” Mum continues brightly. “I’ve got a key for my daughter’s place next door. Why don’t we grab a cuppa through there?”
A flicker of relief cuts through the panic. They’re leaving. Thank God, they’re leaving.
“Good idea,” Helen agrees. “But hang on, Struan, yourhair! Oh, I love the new look!”
“Mum!” Struan’s voice pitches higher. “I’m standing here completely naked, cupping my bits. Maybe don’t look too closely, eh? You can admire my haircut another time.”
Despite everything—despite the absolute catastrophe unfolding below me—a grin tugs at my lips. I can picture it perfectly: Struan with his hands strategically placed and these two women carrying on a conversation with him like this is all perfectly ordinary.
Focus, Ainsley. This is not funny.
Well . . . maybe it’s a wee bit funny.
I pull my sweater the rest of the way on and start hunting for my bra.
“Actually, you know what,” Mum says, “maybe I should give Ainsley a quick call before barging into her place. Give me a moment...”
My blood turns to ice.
And then, from my back pocket, a quacking sound erupts. The ringtone Lily picked for me because she thought it was hilarious.
Quack quack quack quack quack?—
I yank the phone out and jab at the screen to quiet it.
Silence.
Then, Mum’s voice: “Ainsley? Are you . . . upstairs?”
I stand frozen, phone clutched in my hand, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Think. Think, think, think.
