Hot Scots Christmas Read online

  Pathetic, I know.

  ‘You know what else would be a good idea? If you shaved your legs.’

  I glance down at the prickly appendages. ‘What for? No one sees them.’

  ‘And if a bear poos in the woods, does that mean no one sees?’

  I snort. Ivy is forever getting things back to front, sideways and ass over tit.

  ‘For the sake of Pooh Bear’s modesty, I hope so.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Coming closer, Ivy leans over me. ‘Helps if you flick the switch, see?’ she says, doing just that to the kettle. ‘And you’re supposed to be the clever one.’

  Still smiling smugly, she turns and leaves.

  I dunk a spoon of instant into my mug, resting my hip against the cupboard. As I wait for the kettle to boil, I absently run my hand against one of the chairs, spotting a corner where the whitewash paint has run leaving an unattractive drip effect. Scratching the lump with my nail sets off a domino effect: the chair wobbles against the uneven floor, nudging the table, and bringing Ivy’s laptop whirring from sleep mode. Unconcerned, I continue my tidying repair when my vison snags on the backlit screen. Ordinarily, I’m not the prying kind. People who listen at keyholes deserve a poke in the eye as far as I’m concerned, but a particular word catches my attention, creating a wave of nausea that almost pushes me to my knees.

  The word is my dead husband’s name.

  Why would Ivy be writing about him?

  The chair grates a little against the floor as I pull it out, sliding my bottom onto the hard wooden seat.

  I really don’t know, the email reads. She’s still pretty fragile and not willing to talk about any of it. The email goes on, stopping mid-sentence after a brief mention of the recent waxing course I’d completed. It’s kind of a jokey judgement, something about getting me to practise on myself, though the underlying message is that I’m hiding from myself.

  I scroll up the page, reading the previous email, the one to which Ivy’s note responds. It’s from Soraya. I had no idea the pair had any kind of discourse since my return, and for a moment, I’m a little hurt. But as my eyes track the email contents, the wave of nausea returns and bile rises to my throat.

  Needs to be told.

  We’re not helping her by hiding this.

  She’s punishing herself and for what?

  ‘Fin, you’re not making Turkish coffee, are you?’ Ivy’s voice catches me off guard, guilt quick to rush to my cheeks.’

  ‘N-no,’ I call back. ‘Unless you want me to.’

  ‘God, no. That stuff’s like drinking tar. What’s taking you so long? Have you gone to milk a cow or something?’

  ‘Just a minute,’ I call back, my eyes tracking the words even as they begin to blur across the screen. I hear the kettle boil and click off somewhere in the distance, but I can’t move.

  ‘A person could die of thirst waiting for—’ Ivy comes to an abrupt halt in the kitchen doorway, her expression morphing in that split second from shock to sympathy.

  ‘What is it that you don’t want me to see?’ My voice is sort of distant and unsteady, my thoughts matching. ‘What can be worse than what I’m feeling today? Yesterday? This whole year?’ I realise my words aren’t a reflection of what’s going through my head—they aren’t loud and angry but rather plaintive. ‘I mean, I lost my husband, my home, most of my friends. My place in the world, and for more than a few weeks, my will to live. What else could there be left to hurt me?’

  ‘I wanted to tell you, but not yet. I didn’t think you were ready, not after yesterday’s conversation. We decided we’d wait until after your birthday at least, but Raya—’

  ‘Said I was making him a saint. That I needed to sacrifice his memory on the altar of my self-respect. Who says that kind of stuff?’ I huff a half-laugh because I know the answer. Soraya the ball buster. Soraya the harsh. Soraya the woman who got me out of the country after Marcus died, risking prison herself.

  ‘What is it she thinks I need to see? That you don’t?’

  ‘Yet.’ Ivy walks further into the kitchen and begins to shuffle the prunes and papers on the table. ‘I don’t—didn’t think you were ready. She means well, but she doesn’t know that there are still days where you cry yourself awake.’

  Shame blooms in my chest.

  ‘You didn’t think I could hear you?’ she asks a little sadly.

  Pursing my lips, I shake my head.

  ‘I just don’t know if this is going to make things better or worse.’ Her words are despondent as she pulls out a document wallet concealed under a pile. ‘I was hoping we could keep this quiet until you were back on your feet. Feeling stronger, maybe.’ Her words trail off, her next sentence sounding much the same. ‘Raya found out some stuff . . . recently.’

  She hands me the branded package. Fed-Ex.

  My hands tremble as I pull it from hers. ‘What is it?’ I hold the box so still it’s like it’s explosive.

  Ivy looks uncomfortable, yet her gaze doesn’t waver from mine. Which tells me this parcel is an explosive of another kind. Hers is the kind of look meant to reassure, though not in the it’s going to be okay way. It’s more like I’ve got your back. The kind of look that feels like a cold finger dragging down my spine.

  ‘I don’t know exactly. I just know, well, I know what it means.’ Her expression is more worrying than the package in my hands. ‘I just want you to know it wasn’t my intention to hide this from you. I’d have happily . . . well, not happily, but Raya was packing some of your belongings she’d managed to grab from your house. She was boxing them up to ship, only she found . . .’ She gestures to the package lying in my hands. ‘Those.’

  I tear the cardboard strip and pull out the contents, spreading them out on the table, picking up a folded credit card statement addressed to Marcus and a bill branded Agent Provocateur. Nothing shocking there, other than their prices.

  ‘It was for nightwear,’ I say, picking it up. ‘He—he bought me these on his last business trip.’ Tiny froufrou bits of silver lace and satin, more for the purpose of being peeled off in the bedroom, rather than to be put on to sleep in. As it happens, they were used for neither. I hadn’t even removed the tags. I’d been shocked when I’d found the gift box in the closet as we hadn’t had any kind of intimacy in quite some time. ‘Wonder what happened to them?’ I ask absently, suffering a fleeting, yet ridiculous vision, of George, the gardener of our house in Dubai—the last place we’d lived—wearing the sheer chemise and midnight lace robe while mowing the lawn in the searing heat.

  ‘Expect it’s all in a box somewhere. Maybe amongst the stuff that Raya managed to pack?’ A look of panic flits across her face before she ducks her head, her eyes now glued to the table.

  I pick up another bill; it’s from the same store, dated the following day. Each bill is charged with the same items and the exact same amount.

  ‘There must be some mistake. Is this credit card fraud?’

  ‘I wished it was,’ Ivy almost whispers, her fingers touching my forearm as I empty a smaller envelope. A series of photographs fall to the table and I gasp.

  These are photographs of my husband’s P.A. in the very same chemise and lace robe.

  The fat bitch.

  Eight

  Fin

  ‘So it’s a good job he’s dead, then?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that.’

  ‘But she’s happy he’s not here, right?’

  ‘Well, I suppose, but—’

  From my prone position on the sofa, I listen to Natasha and Ivy debate the merits of my current situation in the kitchen, given this morning’s revelations, in unsuccessfully hushed tones.

  ‘So what’s the issue?’

  ‘Sometimes you’ve got the emotional empathy of a tub of cottage cheese,’ says Ivy emphatically.

  ‘I don’t get it. He cheated on her—more than once if those credit card statements and voluptuous nearly nudey shots are anything to go by—but she’s still sad?’r />
  Voluptuous is right. His P.A.’s body filled those bits of lace better than my meagre curves ever would. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.

  ‘Well,’ Ivy tries again, pausing as she probably scans her mind for simpler language. More base terms? Man dead. Fin sad. Maybe she should get out her phone and use emoji’s. ‘Of course she’s still sad. He was her husband and he’s still dead, only now as well as sorrow, she’ll be feeling off her rocker mad. Hopefully,’ she adds. I can almost feel her staring at me through the wall. ‘At some point.’

  Personal fucking assistant, I attempt to fume silently. Very fucking personal. Take down a message Miss Carreras, all the way down to the base of my cock.

  Can you attempt to fume? Force some kind of angry response? Why aren’t I cursing and screaming? Wouldn’t that be the best way to process all this?

  ‘If he didn’t have the good sense to die after dipping his dick in all those other holes,’— because, yes, it seems my husband was quite the amateur photographer, though I’m relieved Raya saw fit not to send images of multiple women—‘ he’d be wishing he did drown if he was my husband, because honestly, I’d kill the cheating bastard!’

  Such vehemence, but where’s mine? Shouldn’t I be feeling robbed of that satisfaction?

  ‘Shush, for goodness sakes!’

  ‘Calm your farm. He cheated. He was a dog. And now he’s gone. If that’s no’ grounds for celebration, then what is?’

  ‘It isn’t a wake, it’s her birthday,’ Ivy whisper-hisses. Technically, it’s not until next week, but this evening we were supposed to be going out; a meal and a few drinks, not that it was my idea. In fact, when it was mentioned, I think I may have altogether refused the invitation.

  ‘Exactly. Thanks be to fuck we’re finally getting somewhere!’

  I really can’t stand much more of this. For months now, I’ve not known what to do, never mind feel. I’ve barely existed, spending most of my days inside this building’s tiny walls. I’ve tried to stay busy, to help Ivy where I could, if for nothing else than to repay her in some small way. But I haven’t lived. Just existed. Like a scratched CD, I’ve been stuck. I’ve barely engaged with anyone outside my limited circle and I certainly haven’t put any effort into anything personal, beyond what was absolutely required from me. The basics of eating, personal hygiene and stuff. And during this bare existence I’ve cried a fucking ocean. I’ve cowered in that crappy bed, too scared to examine or contemplate what the future might bring, while blaming myself for what he did. But somehow, since this morning’s rude awakening, these feelings have been switched off. Like a light and I’m the opposite of the dark right now. I’m ashamed to say it all makes a sort of sickening sense, though I’m sensible enough to know that Marcus’ final betrayal hasn’t forced me into some kind of recovery. I’m just numb. Comfortably numb and content to remain so for now.

  These feelings—or non-feelings—aside, what I can’t stand right now is listening to Ivy. Yesterday she was all for forcing me back into the real world, dragging me kicking and screaming, if she had to. But now it looks like that has all taken a back seat.

  I’m back to being the basket case again. She’s expecting me to bow under the weight of this added bullshit. To crumble a little more.

  And I’m not down for that.

  Swinging my feet onto the floor, I pull myself upright and make my way into my bedroom, rummaging through the solitary set of drawers until I find what I’m looking for. Ah, there.

  ‘I’m not going to suggest—’ Ivy stops speaking, eyeing me like I’m a cause for concern. Probably the result of my abrupt appearance in the kitchen while carrying sharp, pointy implements. ‘Hey, Fin,’ she says carefully. ‘What have you got there?’

  I smile at her tone and the fact she’s looking at me as though I’m a nut, but it feels weird, this smile. Sort of forced, so I cut it short. Yes, I’m numb, but I also have something to accomplish as I set a pair of large shearing scissors on the table.

  ‘If I was gonna off myself—or you two—it wouldn’t be with a pair of scissors,’ I say, pulling my elastic hair tie part way down my ponytail. My hair mushrooms at shoulder length. I pick up the shears again. ‘Murder?’ I ponder. ‘I’d probably go for poison. Or maybe a nasty accident. Oh, I know! I’d rewire your vibrators!’

  ‘So we can go out with a bang?’ adds a delighted Natasha.

  ‘Why are you—’

  ‘You know what? I feel fiiine .’ A slight overstatement, but what the hell. ‘But I look kinda Stepford-Wife-Beige, right?’ The pair don’t exactly join in with my nodding head. ‘So, I was thinking, you could help me. Both of you.’ Grasping the end of my ponytail in one hand, I use the other to slice the blades clean through the pale strands. The room is silent but for the sound of their sharp gasps.

  ‘So, this is what’s gonna happen.’ I place the length of my ponytail on the table. ‘You’re going to give me a totally new look,’ I say, pointing the scissors at Ivy. ‘And you’re gonna make it fabulous. ‘And you,’ I demand of Nat, pointing the scissors again. ‘Are going to get me a large glass of something alcoholic, because at some point tonight, I’m going to get so fucking drunk.’ As I put the scissors down, I’m not sure what I’d expected as a reaction, but it wasn’t this. ‘You look like a couple of guppies. Come on, chop-chop!’ At the sound of my clapping hands, the pair jump. ‘I thought we were going out tonight?’

  Ivy did a great job, even if she did look kinda scared as she cut and styled. I don’t recall the last time I had short hair, and I love that my sophisticated highlights have mostly gone. I move my head from side to side loving the swish of hair against my jaw and run my hands through it, adoring the length and the bluntness of the cut, absolutely digging my Betty Paige bangs. It’s a fun haircut, but still grown-up. Sexy and kinda kick-ass. It’s a cut that demands the same standard of clothing, so while we may just be heading to one of the village pubs, I pull out the works—I even shave my legs and some other stuff— a black super tight silk jersey skirt that looks almost like it’s been spray painted on, teamed with a one off silk blouse. I’d picked this up in Paris last year; I love the pussy-bow front and diaphanous sleeves. Plus, according to Ivy, the green brings out the same tones in my eyes. Nice underwear, pulled from the back of the tiny drawers, heavy denier jet black hose and sky-high heels.

  ‘Sophisticated and flirty and on the right side of thirty.’

  ‘Is that for your Snatch dot com profile?’ Natasha plonks down a shot glass of something dark looking and sweet smelling in front of me, raising a matching one to her lips.

  ‘My what?’

  Drawing in a breath through her teeth, she does a liquor induced whole body shake. ‘You know, the dating site.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to start. Especially after the whole marriage thing.’

  ‘Committed?’ she asks. I nod. ‘Anyone who wants to get married should be committed,’ she says. ‘To a psychiatric ward.’ My head turns sharply to hers, but then I remember; Natasha’s mum died young and her dad was never on the scene much. That’s how she came to live with June. ‘Like my mother used to say, anyone can make a mistake. It’s when a person insists on repeating the same mistake that you’ve got to worry for their sanity.’

  It might also explain how she is with men.

  ‘What makes you think I’m looking to get involved with anyone again?’ Ever. My gaze returns to my reflection as I swipe dark eyeliner across my eyelid. ‘Nothing has changed today.’ I’m not sure which of us I’m trying to convince more.

  ‘Here, sit down. Let me do it,’ she says, almost manhandling me onto the bed, moments later handing me the compact from my make-up bag. ‘There.’ The mirror is so small I have to examine each eye in turn, but she’s given me a pair of perfect winged lines.

  ‘That looks great, Nat.’ And it really does—all I need now is a bright lipstick to finish my retro look. ‘My eyeliner game’s pretty weak.’

  ‘Your whole make-up game is pi
sh, you mean. You need to start putting in a bit of effort. Your face hasn’t so much as seen a lick of moisturiser in weeks. I’d give you the sunscreen lecture, only you never leave this place.’

  ‘The sun only shines in Scotland, what, maybe twice a year? I look like an anaemic vampire, more like.’

  ‘Shut it. You still look sun kissed compared to the rest of us.’

  ‘Not the ones who worship at the spray booth.’ She doesn’t smile, just peers at me as though waiting for some sincerity.

  ‘Look, I know,’ I say quietly. ‘I’ve just . . . ’

  ‘Stopped caring,’ she says softly. ‘Well, it’s time to start again.’ She touches the edges of my eyes with her thumbs; it could be to straighten my eyeliner or to wipe away the sudden appearance of a tear. ‘This suits you. Your peepers look even more like cat’s eyes now.’

  My return smile is still watery, though I’m pretty sure there was a compliment lurking somewhere there. It’s nice of her to say so, though I think my eyes are pretty unspectacular. I suppose by cats, she could mean I’ve that greeny-blue common-or-garden moggy look.

  Still standing in front of me, she folds her arms. It could be a defensive stance but for the expression on her face.

  ‘Come on. Spit it out.’

  ‘You’ll tell me to shut it, but I think dating might be a good idea.’

  ‘Dating?’ I repeat, bewildered. ‘Nothing’s changed for me, Nat.’

  ‘You keep saying that, but it’s not true. He might still be dead, but he cheated on you. Cheated you .’

  ‘I’m aware.’ At least I am now. ‘And dating’s not going to solve that.’

  ‘Well, it’s not going to bring him back so you can kill him again, but I think you need, I don’t know, training wheels?’ Nat is sometimes off the wall, but she’s usually coherent. ‘Stabilisers. Like what little kids have on bikes.’