It’s that last one that’s causing the problem, I realise, as I bite my lip and try not to cry as Bruce sings his heart out. I don’t think this is casual for Rory, no matter how much he was trying to play it down earlier. I still know him, it seems. I still know that he has feelings for me – and even if I didn’t, finding that pencil portrait of the younger me in his room might have tipped meoff. That, and the way he said he’d see me ‘at home’. I know he probably didn’t mean anything by it, but this isn’t my home, and I can’t allow myself to think it is.
Last night, before the naked part, I’d told him I couldn’t promise him anything. But then we slept together, and it was amazing, and this morning we accidentally did it all over again. That changes things, no matter how much I protest. What does he want from me? What does he expect?
I can’t go back to being his Juliet, I just can’t. She was too sweet, too vulnerable. She was broken by the power of this love, and no matter how logically I tell myself it wasn’t his fault, I am still afraid. I have Beth to consider, and my work, and my real life. The one that doesn’t involve a beautiful bookshop and a pub full of eccentric locals and a man from a mountain kingdom who rocks my world, blows my mind, makes me scream in sheer pleasure.
I flee from the pub. It’s all too much. I feel the tears coming, and dart away, across the quiet cobbled street, away from the singing and the old men with their moving stories, away from Moira and Kate and all of them. This is not my life. I only have it on loan.
Right on cue, my phone beeps, and I see an email land from the office. I don’t open it. I might well sling the phone into the sea, or resign. I walk down to the beach, taking deep breaths to calm myself. I sit on one of the giant red boulders, and stare out at the ever-changing water. It’s a calm evening, and that helps. The swell rolls gently in to land, white-topped waves curling onto the golden sand. Birds are calling, and two dogs are chasing each other around on the shoreline. All is as it should be, I tell myself. There is nothing to feel anxious about, nothing to feel sad about.
Beth messaged earlier and has arrived safely, the day went well, the grant presentation has been updated and submitted,and even if I left right now, I’ve managed to make a difference to this place – both individually in the case of Bruce, Davy and Robert, and hopefully longer-term for the future of the gallery. I might not have done it all, but I’ve done all that I can.
I’ve achieved something I’m proud of and which I’ve enjoyed immensely, and as for Rory… well. We’ve lived without each other for all this time, and I’m sure we’ll continue to live without each other perfectly happily in the future. He will go back to his Catrina and his friends with benefits, and I will go back to, well, goodness knows what. Definitely not my shades of grey though, I decide – I will make changes, positive ones. Once I’ve uncurled from my foetal position and stopped crying that is.
I swipe at my eyes, so annoyed with myself. I’ve picked up crying disease since I’ve been in Bonnie Bay. As well as laughing disease and feeling relaxed disease, not to mention growing a backbone disease. It’s been good for me. So why am I still crying?
‘Why are you crying?’ comes a voice from behind me, uncannily. I whirl around, and see that it’s Moira. She’s tottering towards me, and I jump up and hold her arm, help her over to my big boulder chair. She plonks herself down, stares out at the water, and sighs. ‘It’s beautiful enough to make me cry too, mind… but I’m guessing that’s not the reason, hen?’
‘Maybe,’ I reply, smiling as she holds my fingers in her gnarled hand and squeezes reassuringly. ‘It’s probably part of it. Missing Beth perhaps. The men and their stories too. The music. Seeing you all together in the pub… a bit of sensory overload, I think, Moira.’
‘Aye. You have the soul of an artist, Jane. Sensitive, even when you pretend you’re only any good for filling out forms. There’s more to it, I think. It’s Rory, isn’t it?’
My eyes go wide, and she laughs out loud. More of a cackle, truthfully. ‘It’s not hard to spot if you’ve eyes to see, child. Callme crazy, but is he the one… is he the boy you planned to run away with all those years ago, to Bonnie Bay?’
How on earth has she figured that out? We’ve been so careful, and haven’t told another living soul. Then my mind goes back to that first night at his, when we were talking about teenagers never being as clever as they think they are. To Moira, Rory and I are probably still teenagers, and definitely not that clever. Should I deny it? No, I think. I can’t lie to this woman’s face.
‘How could you tell?’ I ask. ‘And does everybody know?’
‘No, don’t worry about that! I’m just an especially perceptive old biddy, you see. The way you two look at each other… and the way you try so hard not to look at each other. Plain as day that there was something going on, it just took me a minute to put the pieces together. Must have been an awful shock to you, eh? Him turning up on the doorstep like that? I swear I didnae know, petal!’
I believe her. I shrug, shake my head. ‘It really was, for both of us! We’ve talked. Found out some things. Water under the bridge, I suppose. We’ve both moved on.’
‘Have you though? I’m not so sure he has. I always wondered what that fella was running away from, and I think I know now. And the only problem with living at the edge of the world like this,’ she says, pointing at the sea, ‘is that there’s always a risk you might fall off. There was a sadness in him, my lovely Irish charmer, and I think you’ve chased it away, Jane. So thank you for that, and for everything you’ve done here. For the grant which we’re now sure to get. For the project we’ve started. It means more to me than you’ll ever know.’
Shit. Moira’s got tears on her wrinkled cheeks now. Crying disease must be contagious. I slip my arm around her shoulder and give her a cuddle.
‘Oh Moira, please don’t cry! I feel terrible that I’ve infected you! Let’s talk about something more hopeful… like the portraits. Those men we met today were amazing. I was thinking, once you’ve exhibited them, you should share them – maybe local museums, or the university in Aberdeen?’
She wipes away her tears, then wipes away the remainder of mine, and looks deep into my eyes. It’s quite hypnotic.
‘You see, Jane? Straight away there, you’ve come up with another whole concept. But that’s looking ahead way too far. I hope we get the portraits done, and that’s a grand idea – but for now, for me? I can’t look so far into the future. For now, I just want to see this through. Get the grant money. Involve people more. Show the world my Angus’s photos. That’s enough for me – because who knows what’s around the corner, eh? What life might chuck at you next? When you get to my age, it doesn’t pay to plan too long term.’
‘Rubbish! You’re fit as a fiddle. And I’ll help as much as I can, even when I’m gone. I’ll help you find the perfect artist.’
She shakes her head, and makes a scoffing noise. ‘Do you not think that maybe she’s sitting right here, Jane? I saw those drawings you were trying to hide earlier. The way you captured those auld numpties so perfectly… and that was in minutes, with a jotter on your knee. Imagine what you could do if you set your heart on it.’
I wave the compliment away. I enjoyed drawing them, and that is enough. Perhaps it’s one of the things I can look at doing more when Beth leaves for uni, but for now, I won’t be going professional.
‘Thank you, but you can do better than me,’ I reply.
She looks disappointed, and responds: ‘You think that way too much for my liking, darling. Maybe you’re just exactly right, just exactly what’s needed. For this place, for Rory, most importantly for yourself and your wee girl. Believe me, life is tooshort to waste – you should be grabbing it with both hands, not sitting out here looking all peely wally.’
‘All what now?’
‘Pasty and pale and sad. That’s not living the rainbow, is it? Remember who you are, Jane – you’re the one who followed that crazy card of mine all the way here. You’re the one who took that leap of faith. Don’t turn your back on that brave version of yourself now, will ye?’
Brave… I’ve never thought of myself as brave. Efficient, hard-working, dedicated. All of those things, yes – but not brave. I’ve lived a lot of my adult life in fear, I think. The aftermath of Rory. Marrying a man-child who cheated. Raising a daughter alone, losing my parents. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt safe, and I suspect I’ve lived my life in a way designed to at least fake it. So, am I brave? No, I am not. But maybe I can be?
‘What about you though, Moira, and that man Harry who asked you out? He sounded nice. Maybe you should be brave as well!’
