Page 27 of The Breakup Bookshop

My face flushes, even though no one is giving us a second look in the busy bar. Rory lifts my hand above my head and begins twirling me around. I catch the warm and smoked scent of whisky on his breath, or maybe it is mine, I’m not sure. My fingers tingle at their edges at the feel of his hand taking charge of mine. His strong arms lead me through the moves and, despite some clumsy footwork here and there, I manage to keep up.

He guides me through the dance with a practised strength, holding me close by the waist before flinging me into spins and twirls, and then pulling me back again. We alternatively jump, shuffle and dance, finding what space we can in the crowded pub. A few neighbouring punters hoot and clap along to the music. I can feel the heat of his body on mine. When I glance up at him, there’s a playfulness in his eye. He’s having fun.

His jaw is strong and set. He wants me to learn. This is serious business, this Scottish dancing. Not to be messed with. But I’m sure I see a small hint of a smile on his lips as I turn underneath his arm in an expert motion. I’m conscious of my heart thumping in my chest. I don’t want him to know how he is making me feel.

Howishe making me feel?

Uncertain. Breathless. Hot. God, it ishot.

The song comes to an abrupt end. Or it feels abrupt as he lets go of my hand, and I land back on my chair quicker than I anticipate, my heart beating wildly. I gaze up at him; his eyes meet mine as he takes a sip from his glass.

‘And that’s the Gay Gordons,’ he proclaims with a nonchalant shrug.

‘Well,’ I say, regaining my breath. ‘That was an experience.’

‘Ah, you’re not a ceilidh virgin any more, Ava,’ Donna grins. ‘No excuse not to come along now.’

I feel my cheeks burn even more. I want to turn the attention away from me, but I struggle to form a sentence.

‘Where did you learn to ceilidh dance?’ I ask.

‘School,’ they say, in unison.

‘You learn that dancing inschool? Like, as part of the curriculum?’ I ask, my mouth falling open.

‘As part of our PE lessons,’ Finlay affirms.

‘We did sports too, obviously. It wasn’t like we did the Gay Gordons or Dashing White Sergeant instead of basketball or anything,’ Rory says.

‘Who is this Gordon? Is he the Sergeant too?’

The others laugh and explain that these are all dances. ‘And the boys had to ask the girls to the end of term ceilidh,’ Donna says, with a nostalgic smile. ‘It was a huge deal. Mating season for Scottish teenagers.’

‘Ah, the annual walk of shame back to your seat after asking someone to the ceilidh followed by the “Aw, cheers but no thanks”,’ Finlay says wistfully. ‘Those were the days.’

‘You didn’t have to ask in our final year,’ Donna reminds Finlay with a swift nudge from her elbow. ‘It was the girls’ turn to approach boys.’

Finlay smirks, glancing sideways at Donna, like they share a secret.

‘Yep, those annual moments of ritualized torture we look back on so fondly,’ Rory says. ‘The real nightmare before Christmas.’

‘Don’t give us that, Rory MacGregor.’ Eilidh rolls her eyes. ‘You refused to ask anyone. Ever. You were always waiting for that girl—’

‘Anyway,’ he cuts Eilidh off, looking flustered as he shakes his head into the last of his whisky. She frowns into her own whisky and shrugs, while Donna grins at Rory. ‘This has been a fun trip down memory lane, but I’ve really got to head off.’

It’s strange being in this group who have so much shared history between them. Sometimes, you can see it in the looks they exchange, other times they say something that seems to have a deeper meaning. As an outsider, I’m grateful to be in the mix, but often it’s confusing. The conversation feels full of pitfalls. The time will come when I might know an inside joke or two myself, if I’m lucky.

‘You need to be at work at 8.56 a.m. sharp tomorrow,’ I say to Rory, giving a small salute.

‘8.56 a.m.?’ he repeats.

As his eyes narrow, I wish I hadn’t reminded Rory of our daily interactions, rather than whatever that had been during the impromptu dance. I’d hoped to launch my own inside joke, but it falls flat as he shoots me his usual disdainful look.

‘That’s the time you arrive. On the dot. Every morning,’ I say. I can’t exactly stop now. ‘Never a minute later or earlier.’

‘How do you know it’s the same time every day?’

‘Well, I was taught to tell the time at school, while you were all dancing around in your kilts. And I am your next-door neighbour, remember.’