Page 75 of Too Busy for Love

‘Hi. How are you getting on?’ she asks. I can tell from the background noise that she’s not at home either.

‘I’m going to Scotland,’ I tell her. ‘The chef is playing hard to get. Are you OK with that? I shouldn’t be away for more than a day or two and John’s got everything under control.’

‘Yeah, no worries.’ She sounds deflated.

‘Where are you?’ I ask.

‘On the train to London. I can’t get anyone at Emilio’s company to answer the phone, so I’m going to show up in person and refuse to leave until they talk to me. I’ll keep you posted, yeah?’

‘OK. Good luck.’ My mind is cast back to the night I was arrested, where I took the phone off the hook to stop the journalists from getting through. I wonder if Emilio’s team are doing the same. Thinking of that night takes me down a rabbit hole. I’m reminded of Jock letting me share his bed when I was scared, how safe I felt with him, and how he just seemed to be able to read me like a book. I let the mental images play in my mind as I pull out my phone and look at a few of the photos from our week together. I may have given Abby the impression that this trip was purely business, but the reality is I’m not even thinking about The Mermaid at the moment. This is all about Jock and me, and putting things right. I have no idea how long it’s going to take, so I’ve packed a small overnight case. Hopefully, I’ll be able to find a hotel or B&B if I need to stay over. One thing is for sure: I’m not coming back until this is straightened out. If Jock doesn’t want to come and work at The Mermaid, that’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine but I’m sure we’ll find a way around it. What I absolutely cannot cope with is the idea of him thinking badly of me.

‘Can you take me to Gregory’s restaurant in the city centre?’ I ask the taxi driver as I bundle myself into the cab.

He turns round and stares at me disbelievingly. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I’m just trying to work out what kind of person would get on a plane to come to Gregory’s. Where have you come from?’

‘London.’

‘Wow. I mean, it’s OK, but I wouldn’t cross the city to go there, let alone the country.’

‘Just take me. Please?’

‘You’re the boss.’

As we join the motorway heading for the city, I try to fit the taxi driver’s description of Gregory’s with what Jock told me. I guess a posh, old-school establishment isn’t to everybody’s taste, but that wasn’t the impression the driver was giving off. Maybe there are two Gregory’s, and there’s been some sort of mix-up. This is confirmed when he turns onto a shabby street and pulls up outside a greasy spoon café that looks like it’s seen better days.

‘Here you are.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. ‘There must be some mistake. I meant the other Gregory’s.’

‘I’ve lived here all my life,’ he replies. ‘This is the only Gregory’s. Do you want me to wait while you check it out?’

‘Would you?’

‘No skin off my nose. The meter’s running.’

‘Thanks.’ I get out of the taxi and push open the door of the café. It may look run down on the outside, but it’s obviously popular, as most of the tables are busy.

‘Find a seat,’ the guy behind the counter tells me. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

‘I’m not here for food, actually. I’m looking for someone. This is probably mad, but does Andrew McLaughlin work here?’

I’m expecting a flat no but, to my surprise, the man turns and yells in the direction of the kitchen.

‘Andy, there’s someone here to see you.’

After a moment, Jock appears, and my heart goes into my mouth. He’s hot, sweaty and a little dishevelled but he looks absolutely perfect to me.

‘Who is it?’ he begins before doing a double-take as his eyes meet mine. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks. He doesn’t look pleased to see me.

‘Since you won’t answer my calls or reply to my messages, you didn’t leave me much choice,’ I tell him, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. I’m aware that my hands are sweating and I can feel the heat as a hot flush spreads across my chest and up my neck. I probably look like some kind of beacon but I don’t care.

‘I’m working,’ he says flatly and starts to turn away.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I call after him. ‘I’ll sit here all day if I have to.’

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