Page 52 of Scotch on the Rocks

On Friday, when I’d caught myself putting a little extra effort into my appearance under Shakespeare’s contemptuous stare, I’d done what any rational thirty-year-old woman would do when faced with what I feared was a developing crush. I avoided him.

Later that evening my stolen notebook awaited me at the reception desk. A blue Post-it stuck to the black velvet cover.

Made some notes. Hope you don’t mind.

And below that.

Shakespeare: try spreading some treats on the floor and lying in the centre with your eyes closed. It’s a confidence-building technique.

He had indeed made notes. His messy scrawl scored dozens of brightly coloured Post-its, as though his pen couldn’t keep up with his thoughts. He offered insight on what worked and what didn’t. Easy changes I could implement now to make Ivy Housemore energy efficient. Either he knew a lot about green living or he’d researched the topic. That seemed unlikely.

One note, beside my god-awful sketch of a garden compost, had simply said:Brilliant.With a little smiley face.

I’d pressed the tip of my finger to that smile—

“I’m thinking of dyeing my hair pink.”

“What?” Startled, I almost dropped the bathroom sink I held.

April stood behind me. Bare faced and effortlessly beautiful.

Her words finally registered, and I set down the sink to clutch her wrist. “What did Mal do? I’ll end him for you.” A dramatic hair change was always the first sign of a romantic crisis.

April laughed. “Want to ease up, killer?”

“Sorry.” I released my grip. “Why would you dye your hair pink?”

“I just said it to get your attention, I called your name three times. I haven’t heard from you in so long, I was starting to worry you’d killed Murray and gone on the lam.”

“I don’t think people say that anymore,” I pointed out, wiping the sweat from my forehead.

“I’m making a conscious effort to bring it back. It’s soBonnie and Clyde– hot-sex-in-a-getaway-car-esque.” She touched the short strands of hair slipping from my claw clip. “And you’d look fantastic in a beret.”

“Idolook fantastic in a beret. I have three in my wardrobe.” Under a thick layer of dust. I’d made the mistake of wearing one into the village once, I’d barely made it fifty feet from my car before someone shouted, “Where’s your baguette?”

No one took the piss quite like the Scottish.

“Because you’re wonderfully unique,” she replied cheerfully.

I shifted, searching the storage room as her compliment took shape and festered. People liked unique … until they didn’t. There was a reason people languished in the known, a favourite book read over and over; a movie recited line for line; the same oat and raisin cookie every Monday morning. The familiar held no ugly surprises.

“How’s it all going?” April’s voice pulled me to the present. “Callum says he’s ready to fit the new suite.”

I nodded, lifting the sink again and she grasped the other end. “It feels like the drama might finally be over.” The day of the flood felt like months ago, when fewer than two weeks had passed. Even with Callum only working a few hours a night, we’d made progress quicker than I anticipated.

“He asked Mal to help with some heavy lifting. That’s why we’re here.”

“He didn’t say.” Probably because I’d received a singular text from him that morning.

Macabe: Fitting the bathroom in room five today.

That was it. Seven words.

And what did I respond, you might ask?

A thumbs up.

A. Thumbs. Up.

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