Of course, at first, I’d been devastated. There was this ever-present need to feel all the warmth and cosiness of my life prior to their breakup. Baking gingerbread with Dad on Christmas Eve whilst Mum watched from the dining table, sipping on eggnog as festive tunes rattled on in the background. Opening presents on my birthday, watched dotingly by my two favourite people in the whole world. The summer barbeques with Mum’s exquisite array of salads and Dad’s charred black burgers we’d have to scrape before we could eat. It was all gone, and nothing I tried with them individually could ever match what we had had.
And besides, they’d explained none of it had ever been real anyway.
For some reason, even now, we all play this fun game where we don’t talk about any of it. I think it was,andis, better that way. I still juggle Christmases between them, and so far, it runs relatively smoothly. Bringing up those discussions would more than likely cause a rift. There’s a lot of life admin to consider with separated parents, but the worst part, with Mum single, is how her emotional baggage falls on me.
That’s why I decided to ignore her call earlier on. I can’t be talking her down off a ledge over a bad date whilst I’m at work.
I sigh inwardly. That’s not fair.
She’s a highly empathic woman; something I try to smother in myself. And I think she has this ability to spark deep and traumatising fear into any man she meets. She’s a crier. And she’s been known to do this on first dates.
This may have happened to me one time. But in my defence, there was a puppy.
*
As we come in to land, I promise myself I will call Mum as soon as I’m in the privacy of my own room.I really hope I have my own room. The air in Inverness is cooler than it is in London. There’s a fresh nippiness about it. It’s as if they’re in early spring and not the start of summer. I’m glad I chose tights this morning, knitted black ones that go perfectly with my little red ankle boots, red cardigan and black skater dress with a high-cut neckline.
I’ve always enjoyed mixing it up with colours. Dressing blandly draws attention to my otherwise plain self. There’s nothing particularly exciting about me underneath my clothes and makeup. I’m average in many ways: height, waist circumference and ordinary green eyes. They’re not even bluey-green or hazel. Just green. I wouldn’t call myself pretty and yet I wouldn’t call myself unappealing either. I’m right there in plain Jane world. So, I add some colour, to make myself memorable.
I wrap my cardigan tighter around my shoulders as an icy breeze whips off the sea and across the taxi pick-up area. There’s a saltiness in the air. The stench of seaside lingers here. Rather than the lovely aroma of beaches and ice cream, there’s the waft of rotting seaweed and dampness.
On the planning email Michael sent last night, he advised that he had arranged a car at Inverness to collect us, which now turns out to just be me. What am I supposed to do with that little information? The details of where and when this car would be here are missing from his instructions.
I glance around for a sign of some sort. Something, or anything, that will make me feel just a little less flustered and frantic.
Surely my colleagues must be here by now? Did they take another flight?
I pause with a huff.This is ridiculous. I open my phone and try for Fiona again. It’s 7 a.m. now so she must be awake. But, again, no answer.
Gah. I so do not want to have to call James for clarification. He probably knows all the details. What if Michael has cancelled, and now, I’m the only prat who flew to Scotland? He’ll be so smug. I give the small airport one last scan to check for their familiar faces but, alas, they’re still nowhere to be found.
I dial for Gloatman, a defeated feeling weighing heavy on my shoulders. His phone doesn’t even ring. Straight to voicemail. Well, damn.
I decide to walk a little further towards the taxi rank. To my surprise, I spot a driver holding a sign for The Starr Agency. I let out a small gasp of happiness that at least something seems to be going to plan, but then, once I reach him, I realise I know nothing about this strange person I’m about to get into a car with.
“Felicity Rainer?” he asks, his bushy eyebrows rising.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I confirm. “Just quickly though: do you know where we’re going? Are we waiting for anyone else to join us? Do you have proof Michael booked you?”
The man looks at me curiously, but to my relief, he doesn’t seem offended by my questioning. “Sorry, lass, I was booked by the company. I don’t have any proof other than that. You can call ’em though, if you like? Sally in the office might know more. All I know is I am picking you up and taking you to Davey Castle. It’s about a forty-minute drive from here.”
I contemplate calling this Sally, but then again, his black SUV does have branding on it and all the relevant registration plates so he must be legitimate. And in addition to that he seems friendly and kind. He’s only an inch taller than me. I think about who would win in a physical confrontation. He’s quite old. I reckon I could take him.
Fine. Since I’m out of options, I let him load my small suitcase into the back of his taxi. He then speeds out onto a faster single carriageway towards this mysterious castle destination.
I check the time. It’s only just gone 7 a.m. My stomach is rumbling, and I have this sudden urge to lie down for a moment. Must be the stress of the morning getting to me. Something tells me, however, that Michael won’t have sleeping in mind.
The scenery is vast and bare here. It’s both rocky and green, with lakes and long stretches of sea clawing its way through the landscape. We follow a road along an estuary that dips and burrows its way beside the sea, through grey hills and past small, sparsely populated villages, until the landscape becomes thicker with sharp, thorny bushes that seem to have grown harsh in the bitter weather and trees that grow tall but thin.
The car takes a right turn onto a driveway, surrounded by a magnificently green golf course with manicured lawns. Well, that’s how it appears anyway. I know nothing about golf, of course. I’m sure it’s the sort of dull activity you’d find Gloatman doing to network with his clients.
I roll my head from side to side to loosen my neck. I really hope whatever this retreat turns out to be, James doesn’t make it. He’d just be trying to find a way to win Michael over to his idea. At least if he doesn’t show, I can act as if that argument never happened. I can prove to Michael I am a calm, creative, gentle employee who favours image over money. I see the bigger picture. The longevity of the business.
The car follows the drive until it arches around in front of a grand castle. The front is all grey and menacing with its turrets and gargoyles, but the windows glow a light orange in a friendly, welcoming way. There’s the faint smell of brewing coffee and cooked breakfast that makes my mouth water.
Just looking at this place has the stress melting away from my body.
I take a deep breath of the fresh Scottish air once I’m out, holding my bag with a smile. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. Maybe thisiswhat I need. Maybe this week will help me get rid of the anxiety that lingers inside of me, never wanting to shift.
