‘How are you?’ Iona planted a flat white in front of Cam and took a deep breath. She looked harassed, red-faced, her auburn hair escaping its scrunchie. The café was heaving – as it inevitably was in summer since John O’Groats had become one of the ‘must-dos’ on Scotland’s north coast tourist route. Fortunately, Iona kept a wee space at the rear for locals, with cosy seats and a permanent reserved sign on the communal wooden table.
‘I’m OK.’
‘You look wet.’
‘Ha ha. I’ve been out running.’
Iona sniffed the air. ‘Thought I could smell something.’
‘Thanks. I did change my top in the loo before I sat down.’
‘Should have changed out here. Given the tourists a thrill. I could have charged.’
‘I think they’d have paid me to leave.’
Iona gave him that look, the one that had cemented their friendship at primary school, that saidI can see right through you. ‘I won’t flatter you further. You know how hot you are.’
Cam felt his cheeks flush, and his run had nothing to do with it. ‘Um, are you very busy?’
‘Not at all.’ She sat down on the bench next to him, wafting her hand towards the boisterous crowd queuing out the door. ‘You can see I have nothing to do and no customers.’
Cam refused to bottle it. ‘I could do with a friendly ear. Not now, obviously.’
‘I can take a break after the lunchtime rush. Wanna meet by the signpost – if the weather improves? Or the pub, if not?’
‘Signpost. Two thirty?’
After Cam had finished his coffee, showered and changed, he walked over to the famous signpost, reminding him, as if he wasn’t painfully aware, that Jenna was 874 miles away, although she might as well be in New York – 3,230 miles away – for all it mattered.
Overlooking the rocky beach, he watched people hold their baseball caps in their hands to battle the blustery wind despite the emerging sun, grinning madly as they took photos at the signpost or sat outside the picturesque cafés.
Iona appeared with a paper bag, her crinkly ponytail flying to the side.
‘Brought you some lunch.’
‘Not a haggis panini, I hope?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s only for the punters. It’s chicken, tomato and pesto. Protein and veggies. As you like it.’
‘Thanks.’
Iona also produced two cans of Irn-Bru, and they walked to the harbour, where fishing boats sheltered and a ferry bobbed up and down as it made its way over to the Orkney Islands, eight miles across the Pentland Firth.
Iona dived right in. ‘So what’s this about?’
Cam took a deep breath. ‘A woman.’
‘A woman? You are kidding me?’
‘Is it that surprising?’
Blinking slowly, Iona turned to give him her full attention. ‘Yes. Considering everyone thought you’d taken a vow of lifelong celibacy after Rachel.’
Cam shrugged. ‘I haven’t. I mean, I didn’t mean to. It – has been difficult.’
Iona patted his arm. ‘I know. Well, I don’t, because I haven’t lost the love of my life, thank goodness, but I can see what you’ve been going through. But you can’t grieve forever. It’s been three years.’
He flinched. Three years. How had the time slipped away so fast, like water-down-a-waterfall fast, and yet sometimes so heavy it had passed by without him even noticing. He felt a pang of guilt. Was he really ready? But when he thought of Jenna, he knew it was time to be honest. He’d never stop loving Rachel, but it was time to move on.
