Page 62 of Surprises on the Scottish Isle

The knock came again, and she heaved her stiff body off the sofa and staggered to the door.

‘Oh, dear,’ were Cal’s first words when he saw her.

‘If that’s all you can say, go away.’ She pretended to shut the door on him.

‘Heavy night?’

‘You could say that.’ She poured a glass of water from the tap and drank it down. ‘What’s the time?’

‘Eleven thirty. Have you just got up?’

‘I’ve been up since nine.’ After her mum’s phone call, she’d taken two paracetamols, made a cup of tea and curled up on the sofa, her head resting on the cushions as she stared vacantly at the loch. At some point, she must have fallen asleep.

‘Are you working today?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think I can.’ Thankfully her headache had gone, but she wasn’t in the mood for making anything more than a piece of toast. The thought of making fiddly little doors and windows for Bonnie’s doll’s house made her feel ill. Besides, a day off would do her good.

He said, ‘What if I cook you a fried breakfast? Have you got any bacon?’

She did, though she wasn’t sure a full English was the way forward. But her tummy had settled since earlier, and it was telling her it was hungry. When it rumbled loudly, she gave in. ‘I like my bacon crispy,’ she told him.

‘I haven’t forgotten.’ His gaze caught hers and held it.

She wondered what else he remembered. She hadn’t forgotten a single thing. The smallest detail was imprinted on her memory.

‘Do you mind if I have a quick shower while you make breakfast?’ she asked.

When he said he didn’t, she hurried into the bathroom, grimacing when she saw herself in the mirror. Pale face, scarecrow hair, no bra.

The shower took care of the hair, make-up helped with the pale face and getting dressed helped with the droopy boobs.

Feeling more presentable, she emerged from the bedroom to the enticing smell of grilled bacon and hot coffee. The radio was on, and Cal was shaking his backside to an old Motown number as he fried a couple of eggs.

‘Nearly ready,’ he yelled over his shoulder, then yelped when he saw her watching him. Putting the spatula-free hand to his chest, he said, ‘You scared me to death. I thought you were in the bedroom.’

‘So I noticed.’

‘You caught the dancing, did you?’ He wiggled his hips. ‘I’ve still got the moves.’

‘You never had any moves to start with. You dance like a monkey who has eaten too many E numbers.’

‘That’s harsh. I’m insulted.’

‘You know it’s true.’

‘OK, maybe it is, but at least I can fry an egg.’

‘So can I.’

‘You never used to be able to. You always managed to break them.’

‘I’ve been practising.’

He slid an egg onto a plate where bacon, mushrooms, a grilled tomato and some baked beans were already sitting and passed it to her.

Her mouth watering, Tara sat at the table, noticing that Cal had already laid it. He’d even poured her a glass of orange juice and had remembered the salt and pepper. She began to eat, hesitantly at first, as she wondered whether her delicate stomach was ready to receive it.

It seemed it was, and she and Cal scoffed their food in contented silence, the only sounds being the muted music from the radio and the scrape of cutlery on plates.

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