I fight the urge to reach up and smooth them out. I sigh. I’m not going to be that girl I hate. I’m not going to say I don’t want something that I actually maybe do. I should just be honest. “I don’t know, James. I don’t know what’s going on here. I kind of think…” I sigh, “… friends would be good, I guess.”Coward. I inwardly kick myself. Is that really what I want? “But friends don’t tend to do the things you did to me last night.”
James laughs. “Oh, come on. You’ve never had a friend who would get down and dirty with you?”
“Not since uni,” I say with a smirk.
“Alright, well, usually I’d take a girl out for a few drinks as a minimum before doing what we did last night. So, I suppose I owe you some drinks.”
I pull a face. “Hang on. I was the only one who got anything out of it, so maybe I oweyoudrinks.”
“Onyoursalary?”
“Oh, shut up. God, you’re annoying.” I shove past him as we both laugh, me in an embarrassed way, my cheeks probably glowing, James like he does when he’s enjoying a fight.
“And trust me, I got a lot out of it,” he says.
I try to stop myself from overthinking all this. It’s as if I’m mentally pinching myself. Reminding myself he isn’t future-proof. It doesn’t matter how much energy is forming between us now, we don’t work. We don’t get along away from this. And I know from my childhood how important it is to find someone who can make you happy. Yet I sort of want to explore this. I sort of want to accept the inevitable pain and sprint clumsily down this path anyway. What’s gotten into me?
“So, how do we handle it at work?” he asks, coming in step with me.
“I love how confident you are we’re going to make it back now.”
“Confidence is a skill.”
“Too much of it is a flaw.”
“Are you going to answer my question?” James presses.
I think about it for a moment. The truth is, I can’t have my team thinking I’m dating James Boatman, Head of Sales. That’s totally inappropriate. Sales are the dark side of Starr. The gutter. The kitchen trolls. What will my team think of me? I’ll lose all credibility.
“It has to be a secret,” I say. “If we date that is. We might get back and instantly hate each other again. If people don’t know about it, then they won’t suspect any misdeeds or falling outs either. And besides… I might be your boss soon if I get promoted. Then that’ll be breaking policy.”
James goes silent. When I peer across to see what his face is doing, he just looks away, rubbing his chin. I don’t know what that means or if he hates the thought of me being a director but I’m not going to let that stop me from putting myself forward for it. I get the urge to confront him. What? Why so quiet? But I also don’t want to ruin this thing that’s happening between us. So, for now, I leave it.
“Do you agree?” I ask. “About it being a secret?”
“Hmm… Oh yeah. Sure. Well, like you say. This is probably just the unsterilised water making us loopy. Back in London you’ll hate me again,” he says, smiling. “I’m sure of it.”
Chapter Eighteen
“There’s no way that’s a station,” James says, frowning at the scattered pile of white-clad buildings posing as a village. For once, at least, we find ourselves looking at a real sign. A wooden post is arrowed towards Dalwhinnie station. The landscape around here is sparse of anything but dull-green fields enclosed with sheep wire. We stroll down a treelined road of pines and spruces.
Ahead of us is a small white building with a bright blue door and a red tiled roof. Behind that is what appears to be a railway. There’s no fencing or gates, no screens showing departures. There are also no commuters running to catch their trains, their bags bouncing on their backs. There are… no trains. There are no coffee shops or food stalls for me to get my classic breakfast of beans and smashed avocado. It’s like something out of medieval times. Ok, notquitemedieval, they didn’t have trains. But this station can’t have been changed much at all since it was originally built back in, what, Victorian times?
I’ve seen two people in this town so far. One herding sheep with a feisty Border collie, the other driving a car. So, when we finally reach the platform, on the other side of the blue door, I’m surprised to find three people sat waiting on the single bench. To our left there’s a small shed-looking kiosk with a glass front. A man, who could not look more animated for what must be the most boring job in existence, sits in the booth, smiling.
“Morning,” I say, stepping up to the booth. “We want to get to Inverness airport.”
“It’s gone midday,” the man says with charm.
“Sorry?”
“You said good morning. It’s afternoon now. By five minutes.”
“Ok,” I say, blinking. “How much will two tickets be please?”
James is stood beside me, squinting into the sun, glancing down the tiny platform and beyond where there appears to be a train heading our way. It slithers through the valley like a snake with headlights.
The man taps on his noisy keyboard. “You’ll have to change at Pitlochry,” he says. “It’ll take you two hours to get there.”
