I’m not bad to look at. I’ve got long brown hair, and blue eyes and a smattering of freckles over my nose that more than one man has softly stroked. I’ve had my fair share of flirtations. But they rarely stay. Not once they get to know me.About as interesting as a teaspoon, one date called me, while another didn’t even bother with an excuse, but simply walked out and left a tenner on the bar when I went to the toilet on our second date.
My bright clothes confuse people – they make me look interesting, when I’m anything but. The furthest I like to wander from my comfort zone is a new flavour of bath bomb. Sophie and I have that in common: we’re both stay-in-our-lane people. Only her lane is high-achieving perfectionist, and mine is middle-of-the-road under-achiever.
So no, I can’t tell my beige-slack wearing, Cambridge graduate, lawyer sister who is about to marry a man so posh hehas his own wax seal –and actually uses it to send letters– that I have, once again, failed to live up to expectations. Even if her fiancé is a self-involved, entitled prick who doesn’t come close to deserving her.
“Looks like my pasta’s here!” I lie, voice bright. “I’ll call you soon, okay? Love you so much!”
“Ro…”
I hang up.
Chapter Six
Rowan
I wake neither bright-eyed nor bushy-tailed, but instead feeling like a troll who has been dragged backwards out of her cozy bridge nest and forced to sleep on a road paved with nails. It’s still early when I pull myself out of my tent, my bones individually creaking as I munch on a Hobnob in the vain hopes that the sugar will wake me up.
To say I’ve slept poorly is the understatement of the century. I spent half the night trying to shut off the highlights reel of failure my brain insisted on playing, and the other half unable to find a comfortable spot on the ground.
I’m sleep-deprived, grouchy, and in dire need of a coffee.
But the nearest coffee shop won’t open for at least two hours and while Erica did lend me a stove, I didn’t remember to buy a lighter and I have no idea how to work it.
I can feel the mental clouds gathering. Grey and oppressive, despite the lavender morning. I need to brush my teeth. I need to get changed. I need to pack down my tent.
You need to go home.This is too much for you. You can’t do this. You can’t do anything. Go home and you’ll feel better. Get back in the burrow and everything will be alright.
Except it won’t. Because I don’t have a home to go back to. And the safe pair of arms I thought would hold me has thrown me straight back into the traffic.
It’s time to bring out the big guns.
I scrabble through my clothes for what I need: my armour. On the bottom half: lime-green shorts and pink running socks with a watermelon pattern. On the top: pink sports bra under even pinker vest with a skull holding a wheel of cheese on it that reads:To brie or not to brie.
When in doubt, the answer is always a pun.
“I like your vest.”
The daughter from last night hovers nearby, holding two mugs, one filled with tea, the other with a dark liquid that looks like a lot like coffee. Her hair’s done in two plaits that sweep forward over her collarbones and hang almost to her belly button, and she’s wearing an all-saffron ensemble that compliments her brown skin.
“Thanks! I designed it myself.” The smile comes more naturally than I expected. “I like your cap.”
Her hat is monogrammed like mine. Only, where I’ve gone for a fruity theme, hers reads, in cursive letters:Take it Bach. She spins in a circle to let me admire it, revealing a small violin on the back.
“I chose it myself.” She regards me seriously. “Mum sent me over to ask if you wanted a coffee.” She holds out the coffee cup, and it takes everything I have not to snatch it out of her hand, drain it, and sweep her into a bear-strength hug. I refrain for obvious reasons including that the coffee is steaming hot and I don’t want her mother to call the police.
“I would love a coffee.” I wait for her to hand it to me, patting myself on the back for my restraint. “That is incredibly kind of you. Please tell your mum that she is my new hero and I will worship the ground she walks on forever more. Thank you…”
“Priya. And my mum is Lila.” She holds out her now free hand solemnly, and I shake it with equal seriousness. She’s perhaps ten, and carrying the last of her childhood clearly in her face.
“Lovely to meet you, Priya. I’m Rowan.” I blow across the top of the coffee. “Are you and your mum hiking the West Highland Way too?”
Ah, Rowan. Queen of the obvious questions. But Priya doesn’t scoff or roll her eyes. Instead, her grin lights her face. “Yes! We go walking every summer. Usually, Dad comes too, and then it’s all three of us, but he had to work this year.” A cloud crosses over her expression. She clears it with a shake. “But that’s okay, because this way Mum and I get even more time together. We’re going to Inverarnan today. How about you?”
“That’s the plan.” I frown. “Although I heard that this is the hardest part – there’s loads of roots or something?”
She shrugs. “Mum hasn’t mentioned anything like that. But if we get stuck, the angry-nice man might help us again.” A small, embarrassed smile touches her lips. “He’s handsome.”
“The angry-nice man?” I have a suspicion that I know who this is, but I don’t want to give Angus any credit. Not after he snubbed me last night.
