Page 73 of Highland Games
Sam grinned. ‘Nah, they’re just pissed. Most of the time it’s fine. I tie my hair back and put sunglasses on and no one bothers me. Anyway, pleased to be back?’ she asked mischievously.
Zoe nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, it’s so great,’ she said, her forced smile starting to hurt.
Sam narrowed her eyes. ‘I can tell… Did you get my package?’
Zoe blushed. Sam folded her arms in front of her chest. ‘Aha. So, tell me. What on earth are you doing in the trenches of sexual desperation, suffering the likes of those two idiots when you could be banging Thor in your shed?’
Zoe’s blush spread down her chest. She stared at the floor. ‘He lied to me about who he was, so I left. It’s complicated.’
‘Who is he then? Some local crim? The village idiot?’
Zoe shook her head. ‘No, he’s the Earl of Kinloch,’ she mumbled.
Sam stood in stunned silence as the music from the bar pulsed through the door to fill the void. ‘What? The actual Earl of Kinloch. The one with the castle?’ she finally managed.
Zoe nodded.
‘And he’s single?’
Zoe nodded again.
‘And he likes you?’
Zoe nodded.
‘Has he told you he loves you?’
Zoe nodded imperceptibly.
‘What? Fuck’s sake, Zoe! Then why are you here?’
‘I told you, it’s complicated,’ she said, her face twisting with pain.
‘Try me.’
Zoe wokethe next morning as her mum brought in a cup of tea and a package that had arrived in the post from Morag. She placed them on the bedside table and kissed her forehead.
‘You get up in your own time, love, I’m glad you’ve finally seen Sam,’ said Mary, leaving the room and gently closing the door behind her.
Zoe sat up in bed. Last night she had felt so out of place, like she was in an alien world. It had been amazing to see Sam, but as for everything else, it wasn’t what she enjoyed or wanted any more. And despite the messages Sam had sent her in Scotland, begging her to return to ‘civilisation’, last night she had insisted Zoe go straight back up. Her parting words ran around Zoe’s head on a circular loop.
You’ve always wanted this. Scotland is where you belong. Go back and be happy.
Zoe slurped some hot tea, and picked up the small parcel. It was from the post office, and the handwriting was Morag’s. There was an object inside, about the size of a clementine, wrapped in tissue paper with the words ‘for Zoe’ written in pencil on the outside. Her pulse raced as she pulled off a strip of Sellotape and opened it up.
It was a small carving, slightly larger than a walnut, of a heart surrounded by oak leaves. The detail was exquisite. It was so fine and so carefully made it looked as if it had been crafted by woodland fairies. On the back were inscribed the words: ‘Zoe, my heart is yours’.
She held it in her hand, rubbing her thumb gently over the words, her eyes pricking with tears. He had made this for her. Could she forgive him? Could she live with the thousand tonnes of baggage he came with? She sighed. Did her heart belong to him as his did to her? She picked up her phone. She needed to speak to Fiona.
25
Rory stood at the end of the great hall. Before him swirled a sea of people dressed up to the nines in their best kilts, tuxes, dresses and jewellery. Their eyes were bright, their cheeks reddened by alcohol and excitement. For the first time in decades, the castle felt alive. Putting on a Christmas ceilidh was his coming out party. A way of introducing himself to everyone and showing to them, and himself, that he was here to stay. He’d arranged with the landlord of the only pub in Kinloch to put on a bar at one end of the hall, and had paid for a ceilidh band at the other with yet another credit card.
His mother had refused to attend.
He had spent the first part of the evening meeting and greeting everyone. Trying to memorise their names, and what they wanted from him. He thought back to Lucy and how she would have loved this. She would have been in her element. On the arm of an earl, and finally seeing him inhabit the role he was born for. When she left him, it had broken his heart. He didn’t resent her decision. He was grateful she’d recognised they weren’t right for each other. The acute pain of her loss was infinitely preferable to the chronic pain he would have lived with if he’d married her.
He put the brakes on his memory trip and realised that thinking of her and that time had absolutely no effect on him any more. He tried another memory on for size and found it equally unmoving. He thought back to the depths of his despair and just felt sadness for the man he was then and the way he had suffered. He realised that Lucy had gone from his heart, burned to ash by the fire that was Zoe.
