‘Bloody hell, that’s good,’ he gasped, coming back up for air and offering me the bottle again. Against my better judgement, I took it. ‘You can really taste the orange and the ginger notes in there.’
‘Totally,’ I lied.
It tasted like embalming fluid and nightmares. Two sips in and I was already entertaining visions of myself embracing the toilet bowl within the next twenty minutes. Caroline might be a whisky girl but Laura was not. Fail number one. While Callum capped the bottle and stashed it back in his bag, I rested my hands against the window, watching the outskirts of London pass by. Cramped streets full of tall buildings gave way to terraced houses with small gardens gave way to bigger homes and green spaces and, finally, fields and fields and fields. Five quiet minutes in and my mind was starting to fog, senses softened by the two unnecessarily large chugs of a drink I never touched, and when the train shifted unexpectedly, I stumbled forward, straight into Callum’s arms.
‘Hello,’ I said, resting my hands on his waist and leaning my head back to look up at him. He was so tall, so solid. He took up so much space without even a whisper of apology and I wondered what it must be like, to move through the world feeling that way.
‘Hello yourself.’
He placed his palms on my shoulders, a safe, neutralbody part. ‘Perhaps we jumped the gun with the whisky. Have you eaten yet?’
‘I had a Pret Christmas sandwich for lunch.’ I lowered my voice so no one else would hear me. ‘And I’ve got another one in my backpack.’
‘Two mouthfuls of whisky and she’s pished,’ he said with a grin. ‘Don’t worry, that can stay our little secret but we ought to get some proper scran in you. Dining car?’
‘Dining car.’ I opened the door to the cabin and waved him through, ignoring his chuckles. ‘And I’m not pissed, I’m pleasantly tipsy.’
‘Famous last words,’ he groaned as I followed him down the corridor. ‘Famous last words.’
Chapter Six
‘I’m officially declaring the neeps and tatties a success,’ I declared, shovelling a giant forkful of vegetables into my mouth. ‘Remind me what it is again?’
‘It’s supposed to be mashed potatoes and mashed swede.’ Callum’s face was a picture of disgust. ‘Whatever that is on your plate is neither neeps nor tatties.’
Taking another bite, I chewed thoughtfully.
‘Tastes like potatoes and swede to me.’
‘It looks unwell,’ he said with sniff. ‘Have they even used any butter? Has it so much as seen a salt shaker? Wait until we get home, I’ll show you how it’s done.’
‘I’m assuming you don’t want to try my haggis then?’ I prodded the mound of brown stuff at the side of the plate. ‘And don’t bother telling me what’s in it until I’m done because I won’t eat it if you do.’
Sitting back against the teal booth, Callum poked at his own beige pasta dinner. He might have liked the look of mine but you couldn’t have paid me to taste his. Unwell veg beat soggy pasta every time.
‘At least the wine is passable,’ he said, unscrewing a second mini bottle of red and moving to top up my glass.
‘God no,’ I yelped, covering it with my hand before he could pour. ‘I’m a complete lightweight. You saw what two sips of your dad’s whisky did to me. One glass is more than enough.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he said as he filled his own up to the brim. ‘Aren’t you glad you didn’t go with formalwear for dinner now?’
‘Might’ve been a bit overdressed,’ I admitted with a furtive look around the carriage. Plush garlands of tinsel had been strung up along the walls and Mariah played softly through the speakers but, other than that, there was a distinct lack of sense of occasion in the club car. All the other passengers were resplendent in their comfiest clothing: sweatshirts, jogging bottoms, the odd Christmas jumper, and distressingly, more than one pair of pyjamas. People had no shame.
‘You can’t blame me for being excited, I don’t get many opportunities to dress up,’ I told him, digging back into my dinner.
‘Not many black tie occasions in neurosurgery?’
‘The white coat tends to clash with a ballgown,’ I confirmed. ‘I think the last time I got properly dressed up was Stella and Dave’s wedding.’
Callum leaned against the window, his washed-out mirror image staring back at him in the dark glass. It was pitch black outside. Wherever we were, an hour into our journey, there was barely a light to be seen.
‘Funny how I don’t remember seeing you there,’ I said before braving a forkful of haggis. Hmm, grainier than I’d expected.
‘Maybe you did and I didn’t make much of an impression.’
‘I don’t know about that. You’re an eighteen-foot-tall Scotsman with red hair.’
‘Six-four and it’s more auburn,’ he replied, looking back to me and waving a hand in front of his face. ‘I had a full beard back then, hair was shorter. Shiv didn’t like it long.’
