As soon as she walked out, I got on my phone to see if I could book an Uber. After a battle with the internet signal, I learned that I couldn’t – but I could try and contact a local taxi firm. Nobody answered at that, which doesn’t surprise me.
I see a couple of messages from Shannon though, and end up calling her. We chat over the crackling line, and she fills me in on her adventures, the new people she’s met, the lectures she’s attended. She sounds excited, bubbling over with it, and I try and sound the same.
I tell her about the cottage, and Moira, and the bookshop. I find myself talking about it the way Kate did, describing her cosy vision of the place, the way she brought it to life with her words. I also exclude some key information, like the fact I’m considering leaving on the same day I arrived. I give her the edited version instead, and when I mention Kate, the woman I met on the train, she immediately perks up.
‘What’s she like?’ she asks quickly. ‘Is she hot?’
‘No. She’s in her eighties with a face like your uncle Mickey’s pit bull.’
‘That’s not true is it?’
No, I think. It’s really not. She’s… beautiful, I admit to myself. Tall, masses of dark hair, pretty eyes. Those lips. That smile. But she’s also too much. She makes me feel protective, and I don’t trust my ability to protect anybody right now. I’m too wrapped up in myself.
‘She’s okay,’ I reply. ‘She’s out at some kind of local event.’
‘Really? And why aren’t you there with her? I thought you had friends up there? Or did you go all the way to Scotland to sit on your own and drink Guinness?’
I narrow my eyes, looking from my drink to the phone, wondering if I’m on camera without knowing it. Nah. I guess she just knows me a bit too well. I reassure her that I’m fine, that I’ll be meeting up with my pals tomorrow, that I’m having a great time. That’s what this is all about, right – reassuring Shannon?
By the time we hang up, I feel like a bit of an asshole. This is starting to be a habit of mine. I’m lying to my daughter, and I think it’s just possible that I acted like a jerk to Kate as well.
I replay the day’s conversations in my mind, and see what happened more clearly than when it was happening. I talked too much, which is not something that I usually get accused of. I spoke about Sandy to total strangers. I almost cried in front of them. And then I let myself get sucked into a heart-to-heart with Kate about my motives for coming here. I feel like one giant exposed nerve right now, all my hurts hanging out in public. Emotionally naked.
Her sadness was too real as well, as she talked so matter-of-factly about what was basically an abusive marriage. A man doesn’t have to hit a woman to damage her, and she is definitely damaged.
It was all too much, and I needed to shut down. To be alone. But instead of acting like a grown-up and just saying that, or even going off for a walk or whatever, I lashed out. Spoke to Kate like she was a kid. Probably made her feel like a fool, and made myself look like an overbearing control freak.
This is all too complicated, and I don’t want to deal with it. I decide I’m leaving, Uber or not. I can walk along to the pub, and find someone I can pay to give me a ride back to town. Like she said, Kate will be fine without me, and she’s not my responsibility. I’ll come up with something to tell Shannon – a spontaneous trip to Edinburgh, my fictional friends being called away to a fictional emergency, something will work. I’ll find a way to let her carry on feeling so light, one way or another – but I can’t stay here. There are too many sharp-eyed women seeing through my mask.
I finish my Guinness, and check the fire. There’s an old-fashioned iron guard to put around it, and once I’m sure I’m not going to burn the place down I leave. I take a final look around, soaking in the cute room, the signs all around of a life well lived. Yeah. I’ve been here five minutes and already smashed a plate. This is not the place for me.
I leave, and the sound of the sea hits me straight away. Another man, one who wasn’t me, might be hearing a call in that sound – an urge to stay. A plea to give it a chance.Nah, I think, ignoring it. I need out.
I walk up past the community centre by the boatsheds, which is lit up and welcoming. Sea shanties, being sung in a group. The kind of thing you’d call quaint if not for the odd bum note that makes it all feel more real.
Past to the Kestrel, which is empty apart from a few tables of couples and several dogs. I prepare myself for attack if that spaniel is in here, but there’s no sign. Xander is probably down at the centre, singing about the ocean while he looks dreamy.
I look around, seeing that some of the people are clearly tourists. There are rucksacks, and guide books on tables, and one couple has a set of binoculars. Probably birders, I think, with a pang of regret. Two much older guys sitting at the bar are having an intense conversation in a language I don’t really recognise – the odd word comes out in English, but the rest is strange. Maybe it’s just a heavy accent.
‘Hey,’ I say, giving the woman tending bar a nod. She smiles and automatically goes to pour me a Guinness. It seems rude to stop her. One more for the road.
‘How are ye getting on?’ she asks, placing it in front of me as I perch on a stool. ‘I hear you’re at Moira’s. Grand wee place, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. A grand wee place. Look, is there any way I can get out of here tonight?’
She looks momentarily offended, and folds her arms across her chest. ‘No, you cannae. Peter the Taxi is off duty for the night, and everyone else will be down at the centre, having a few drinks. Suppose you’re stuck with us.’
She huffs at me slightly, and goes off to clean some glasses. Brody Quinn, international spreader of joy. I sip my drink, trying to figure out the logistics here. I don’t want to spend even a single night in that cottage. It feels too wholesome, too pure… too tempting, I realise, an image of Kate’s smile drifting into my mind like an intruder. Crazy, but it feels like if I spend even one night here, I might never escape. It’ll be one of those grim kids’ fairy tales, and I’ll be trapped forever. Jesus. I really am losing my mind.
I finish up, and the barmaid nods tersely at me as I leave. I stand outside for a few moments, listening to the waves, a cool breeze sneaking inside my jacket. I get out my phone, google some more cab firms. I find one in Finnsburgh that claims to offer a twenty-four-hour service. It’ll cost a load, but by thisstage I don’t care. At least I’ll be alone, back in a city, listening to proper night sounds: arguing couples, fist fights in back alleys, car horns. The real stuff.
Back along I go, stuck in some kind of Groundhog Day. The painted houses. The boatsheds. The community centre. I pause outside, and notice there’s been an abrupt change of style. The sea shanties are gone, and someone is banging out that old Bonnie Tyler song, ‘Holding Out for a Hero’, and not doing a bad job of it.
I look through the window, and my eyes pop when I see Kate, mike in hand, hair flying as she sings. She’s kicked off her shoes, and her dress is whirling around her as she moves. She looks like she’s having a whole lot of fun – too much fun.
I quickly scan the appreciative crowd gathered around her, who are cheering and fist bumping as she hits the chorus. She’s obviously drunk, and I’m looking for predators. All I see are amused faces, but sometimes the monsters hide in plain sight. She’s a woman alone in a strange town, and she’s had way too much booze.
She finishes up, and the crowd jump to their feet, clapping and roaring. She gives a little bow and almost falls over. That Xander guy leaps up, and helps her to steady, his hands on her shoulders.
