Page 5 of One for the Road
Despite what I’d told Callum, my mind was made up.
I might have ruined things back in Glasgow, but that didn’t make Kinleith my home either.
I didn’t fit here anymore.
I’d get my shit together, sell the surgery Dad had left me, then I’d get out of here.
March
Isla
Please say this isn’t it.
I’d never believed in bad luck before. Never believed in the tooth fairy or wishes on birthday cakes. I’d tried once, at fifteen years old, when I’d watched my parents scream at each other over my fully lit birthday cake and realised the number of times they’d split up and gotten back together tallied higher than the number of candles.
I’d made a single wish.May that kind of love never find me.Flicking off Daisy’s – my beloved VW Beetle – barely cooled engine, I realised fifteen-year-old Isla had been short-changed. And all by a man whose best chat-up line had been,You sort of look like Margot Robbie in the right light.
Daisy sputtered to a stop outside the cottage that looked better suited to a children’s cautionary tale, the witch within waiting to eat people alive. I unlocked my phone, pausing on the open social media app I’d been torturing myself with all week. My still-puffy eyes taking in the picture of Cameron, my ex, and Annabelle, the high school ex-girlfriend he’d vehemently sworn I didn’t need to worryabout when we moved to his hometown, Kinleith, just over a year ago.
We split up for a reason, Lala. We outgrew each other. I actually think you guys would be great friends.
I guess that made me the idiot, because I’d accepted those words as truth. Allowing Annabelle to welcome me into her circle of friends. I’d joined their knitting group and the Kinleith Village Committee. Gone on coffee dates and to hot yoga, even a girls’ weekend to Inverness.
And yet there they were, exchanging saliva at the top of Ben Nevis, nowhere near as sweaty as two liars deserved to be after a four-hour hike. The words “True love always finds its way home” sat beneath two hundred likes.
Two hundred.
I’d made the mistake of scrolling through the comments yesterday, then cried in the shower.
The perfect couple. . .So happy for you. . .Always knew you guys were made for each other.
A little heads-up might have been nice.
Trying to suck down the tears for the sake of our seven-year-old daughter, Teddy, short for Theodora, I navigated to the email the barely-legal-drinking-age letting agent had sent over this morning.
Despite my best efforts, the text blurred together on the phone screen. I should have known the rent price was too good to be true.
The advert stated words like “quaint”, “traditional features”, “sea view”. There was apossibilitythe sea view would be revealed with tomorrow’s sunrise, but as for the rest . . .
Through the smattering rain, I squinted at the warped little cottage. The garden was an overgrown mess of brittle stalks and thistles, a wonderful distraction from the dirtywindowpanes and yellowing lace curtains. One shutter hung crookedly, jerking violently in the wind.
This was the single place in the village I could afford on my meagre savings, most of which was the small inheritance I’d received from Granny Pat. She’d also bequeathed me the ancient car I now drove.
“It looks cosy,” I finally said aloud, feeling damn proud when my voice didn’t wobble.
I couldn’t go to my parents even if I wanted to. Thanks to my mum’s latest ten-minute voice note, I knew that they were currently on-again and getting ready to fritter away their retirement savings on a round-the-world cruise.
I’d have to do this alone.
I needed a job – well, first I needed a CV. The odd bit of money I made from baking birthday cakes for the mums at school wouldn’t cut this.
What was the going rate for feet pictures these days? When Cameron and I lived in Edinburgh, a man on the bus told me I had career prospects as a foot model. Of course, he’d asked if he could try on my shoe ten seconds later. Not the most reliable recommendation, perhaps, but that had to be a sign.
With the price of my new rental agreement, even my alluring feet might not be enough. The tourist industry in Skye was booming. Great for local business, but the island was becoming so overrun with short-term holiday rentals, house prices were skyrocketing.
“It looks haunted.” Teddy looked up, eyes so blue and sad behind her thick-framed glasses. Hands squeezing the life out of the stuffed bunny in her lap. Before this week, she hadn’t so much as glanced at the toy in years. Then I’d rehashed almost word for word the most frequently told story of my own childhood –While Daddy and I won’t be living togetheranymore, we both still love you very much– and she’d barely let Bluebell bunny out of her sight ever since.
“It’s not haunted,” I said, nudging her with my elbow, trying my best to mask my uncertainty. This place could definitely be haunted. “We’re going to have so much fun. Just you and me, it’ll be like we’re on a girls’ holiday. We can sing Fleetwood Mac at the top of our lungs and eat cookie dough for dinner whenever we want.”
