Page 95 of Scotlander

She tipped her head up to the sky and though the catches in her voice had sounded like she was crying, it was impossible to tell because the rain was so heavy. When she looked back at him again, he knew on a cellular level that her mind was made up. That there was no point in fighting. This was a battle he’d lost before he’d even begun to fight and the wounds it inflicted felt fatal.

‘Goodbye, Finlay Jamieson. For what it’s worth, you’re a great fake husband. I hope whoever wins you in the end deserves the real deal.’ Then she turned and ran away.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

‘You know, Willa, I’ve been having a wee think.’ Orla yanked the Land Rover off the main motorway towards Glasgow airport, finally – mercifully – breaking the weighted silence hovering between them. Willa braced herself. Whatever Orla was going to say, she deserved it. Skulking out before dawn, not saying goodbye to anyone apart from Gabe, but even that goodbye had been in a hastily written note. She’d behaved poorly. Was behaving poorly. So if Orla was going to give her what for . . . she was ready for it.

After a super-awkward throat clearing Orla said, ‘You’ll have to forgive me. I’m not really good at this sort of thing – feelings and suchlike, but . . .’

Oh god. Here it comes.

‘I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done.’

Willa’s heart caved in on itself. Fluffy folds of buttercream icing when she’d been expecting daggers.

‘The far-um . . .’ Orla’s voice cracked. ‘Balcraigie,’ she tried again, stopped, swept her hand over her mouth, then began patting her chest as if trying to physically tamp down a swell of rising emotion. ‘You saved our home, Willa. Our family. There’s no thanking someone properly for that, short of handing over the keys, but that would sort of defeat the purpose, what with you heading back to Los Angeles, and us Scots are a frugal folk—’ She chanced a sly grin, which, when their eyes met, became a shared, friendly smile. In the warmth that followed, Orla continued, ‘We consider you family now.’

Willa’s heart reverberated like a kettle drum in the midst of an orchestral climax.

‘So, you’re welcome here. Whenever you want.’ Orla gave Willa a pointed look that made it clear she hadn’t been blind to Things. ‘You alone understood what I was trying to do with the immersive experience.’

‘Oh, I—’ Willa spluttered.

‘No. No,’ Orla reprimanded. ‘You managed to do what my husband never has. To peek into my brain, take the muddle of ideas and lift them to a level I never could have imagined. For that alone I will be eternally grateful. I mean . . .’ The Land Rover veered into another lane as Orla looked over, her grin arcing into a gleeful banana smile. ‘. . . the Annie Lennox picked tatties at Balcraigie! It doesn’t get much better than that, does it? Actually—’ she interrupted herself and continued more soberly, ‘it does. You gave me my brother. Finn’s always been . . . complicated. Just out of reach. Whatever you said or did flicked a switch in him. He’s present with me now. Really engaged.’ She swept away a tear. ‘Deary me. Sorry, sorry. Overtired, probably. But honestly, Willa, I cannae thank you enough.’

A pumpkin-sized lump of emotion jammed in Willa’s throat – the pressure so intense her nervous system began to short circuit. And then a civil war broke out between the two halves of her brain.

Right Brain: Willa? Did Finn really meant to exclude you from ‘the family’ thing?

Left Brain: He so did. Why else would he have sent you off to find them without having swept you into a deep and meaningful embrace, pulling back to tenderly tuck a stray tendril of hair behind your ear before mouthing, I love you, ma wee Yankee doodle lassie.

Right Brain: Errr . . . because he is a male mortal not handcrafted for television. And also? You’re the one running away. He loves you. You love him. But you’re a scaredy cat because if it goes wrong, it’ll hurt every bit as much as much as losing Val does, and you don’t think you can handle the heartache. So you’ve chosen cowardice over a happily ever after. Nice one.

Left Brain: Shut up! That wasn’t it at all!

Right brain: No, you shut up!

Left Brain: You’re not the boss of me! Anyway, I’m not running away, I’m returning. I’m not panicked. I’m adulting. Working girls who’ve devoted a decade of their life to climbing to the top do that. Follow through. Accept promotions. Become card-carrying members of the cult of celebrity. Sensible people, like moi, acknowledge simple truths even if they’re ugly: loving Valentina with every fibre of my being didn’t stop the cancer and loving Finn doesn’t alter the fact that my life is in LA and his is here. Being together is impossible. The dream stops now.

Right Brain: What? I’m not saying anything. It’s a good point.

Orla tippity-tapped her fingers along the top of the steering wheel. ‘It’s an amazing thing.’

‘What?’

‘Making someone’s dreams come true. I mean, did you see everyone’s faces? It was dead brilliant. And those Highland strippers! Ha. I’ve never seen the like. I’ll be getting those laddies back, you can count on that.’

Willa’s barely taped together heart cracked open, her body flooding with all the feelings she had only just stuffed back into her let’s proceed sensibly cupboard. She managed a vague, ‘Mmm,’ in response.

Orla drove in happy reflection, then suddenly hit her forehead with the heel of her hand. Streaks of red crept up her neck as she shot Willa an embarrassed smile. ‘Sorry. I must sound a right numpty. You see events like that every day in your real life, don’t you? Properly, I mean. Big stars, huge movie studios. What we did at Balcraigie was . . .’

Perfection.

‘. . . amateur hour.’ She sucked her teeth. ‘Saying that, it surprised me how much I loved having folk about. The guests, I mean. You learnt ever so much from them. Do you think it might be worth doing other immersive experiences? Like . . . a ladies-only Queen of Scots thing – minus the beheading, of course. And the prison term. Maybe a Norman castle construction team would be better? Ach.’ She scrubbed the notions away with her hand. ‘I’m not creative like you are. I’m sure we’ll muddle through. And, anyway, thanks to you we’ve not got to panic any more, so that’s enough of me blethering on like an idiot.’ She patted the steering wheel as if the matter was finished. ‘Here you are. International departures. Off you pop to find a trolley. I’ll fetch your bag, and here’s a wee packet of that millionaire’s shortbread you like.’

Willa accepted the small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, trying to find the right words to say how incredible her experience had been. Not only as a Jacobean farm labourer, but as part of something so challenging, so nourishing it had made her come alive again in a way she’d thought entirely impossible after Valentina had died.

‘Shortbread,’ she managed. ‘So good.’