Page 33 of Highland Getaway
I can do this.
I will be cool. I will be calm. I will be the very picture of a successful influencer, who doesn’t need the approval of Bex Foster, or anyone else.
And I will start right now.
I continue on down the aisle, somehow managing to keep my balance until the bus suddenly makes a sharp turn at the end of the hotel driveway, forcing me to reach out and grab the nearest headrest with both hands to stop myself falling flat on my face.
‘What the hell?’ splutters the headrest, coming to life at the exact moment I realise it isn’t actually a headrest at all. No, it’s an actualhead– Daniel Foster’s to be exact – and it’s looking up at me with so much horror that, for a split second, I wonder if I’ve somehow managed to wrench it right off its body.
The head looks at me. I look at the head, its cheeks scrunched together between my palms and the lips forming a perfect ‘O’ of shock.
‘Sorry!’ I gasp, letting go at last. ‘I’m so sorry, I—’
Before I can go on, the bus makes another turn, which, once again, knocks me off balance, making me sit down sharply .?.?. on what turns out to be Millie Mitchell’s lap.
Millie and I shriek simultaneously into each other’s surprised faces, and I jump back up again, just in time to see Zara’s shoulders shaking with laughter, and Bex holding up her phone, filming the entire little show I’ve just put on.
Great. I’d have hated forthismoment to go unrecorded.
Muttering yet another apology, I throw myself into the nearest empty seat and lean my forehead against the window, staring out at the passing scenery as I wait for my nervous system to stabilise itself, and everyone on the bus to stop laughing at me; which takes much longer than really seems necessary.
Trust me to turn even the simplest of tasks – like getting onto a bus, say – into a comedy show.
The sky outside the window is a moody dark grey this morning, to match my mood; purple rain clouds obscuring the craggy hilltops, and making the landscape look like a watercolour painting – little stone cottages set in miles of unspoilt countryside, with views out over the coastline we’re following. Just as we reach the outskirts of Glenmuir village, though, which is a few miles north of the hotel, there’s a break in the clouds, and a feeble ray of sunshine breaks through, sending a rainbow shimmering into the damp air. The bus fills with the sound of camera shutters as everyone oohs and ahhs at it in unison, all scrambling to get the very best photo for social media, while I just sit there, nose pressed against the glass as I watch the light change in front of my eyes.
It might be windswept and remote, but I think I understand what it is that Hunter sees in this place. There’s something secret and wild about it, as if it’s a place from some long-forgotten story that couldn’t possibly exist in the same universe as the humdrum city streets I’m used to, and as I sit there watching it slide past the window, my heart rate finally starts to slow to a more normal pace.
It would be very easy to feel at home here.
It’s just a shame I’m never going get the chance to.
‘OK, everyone,’ says Sabrina, getting to her feet as the bus comes to a stop at the edge of a little harbour, which is lined with cafes and restaurants, some of which have bunting hung around their windows, and tables and chairs arranged invitingly outside. ‘As you know, the purpose of today’s trip is to show your followers a bit of the local area, and make them want to see it for themselves, by booking a stay at the Chrysalis. I’m thinkingquaint. I’m thinkingauthentic. I’m thinking haggis, bagpipes, tartan; you know the kind of thing.’
‘I’m thinking bullshit,’ mutters Zara from the seat behind me. Sabrina glares at me as if it was my fault, and then very deliberately turns her back on me to address the rest of the bus.
‘You have two hours here to do your thing,’ she says, ‘so, off you go. Let’s really make that contentsing.’
‘It’s not very big, is it?’ says Millie, as we file off the bus – me waiting until last, so there’s no chance of me grabbing onto any more heads as I pass them. ‘I don’t think it’s going to take us two hours to look round it, somehow.’
She’s probably right. But as we split up to go our separate ways, Zara and Millie teaming up again so they can take each other’s photos, I can’t help but feel excited at the prospect of getting to explore the place. There’s a split second when I find myself wishing I had someone to wander around with but, then again, I know that if my ex and I were still together, and he was here with me now, I’d have felt like I was on my own anyway, so maybe it’s for the best that he isn’t.
As I said to Hunter last night, sometimes the loneliest place is the middle of a crowd; or, in my case, when you’re with someone who barely even notices you’re there. And at least this way I get to do whatever I like, without having to worry about someone else, or feel the weight of his disinterest bearing down on me.
I take a few photos of the pretty little harbour, then head for what I’m assuming is the centre of town. Sure enough, the narrow street I head down opens out into a small, open square, which is filled with market stalls, from which vendors are selling a dizzying array of goods. The mouth-watering scent of fish and chips wafts over from a food truck parked at one side of the square, and there’s a buzz of chatter and life as tourists mix with locals, all enjoying my very favourite thing: shopping.
‘Oh, this is gorgeous,’ I say, stopping at one stall and picking up a little gift basket filled with things like hand soap and shower gel, all beautifully presented and tied up with a bright red bow.
The stallholder straightens up from a box she’s been unpacking, and I give a start of recognition at the sight of her long, purple hair and forget-me-not eyes.
It’s the ‘witch’ I saw on the train; looking even more witch-like up close.
‘All handmade right here in the village,’ she says proudly, holding out a little glass jar for me to inspect. ‘Here, try this one; it helps ward off evil.’
I’m not sure about its evil-repelling properties, but the cream smells exactly like a sunny day at the beach, while the one after that is a mixture of spices and woodsmoke that reminds me of Hunter Stuart.
Not that I’ve been thinking about Hunter Stuart, you understand.
Well, notmuch.
