‘Apparently,’ Nina replied, looking around shakily and not at all impressed. ‘Thisisthe Princess and the Pea?’ Gene confirmed it was while Nina checked the paperwork in her hand again. When Mitch had booked her in he’d assumed, like Nina had, that the inn’s name spoke of a quirky boutique guesthouse.
She’d been expecting something along the lines of the smart Edinburgh Airbnbs and the spa hotels she’d passed in the cab on her way from the airport oh-so-many hours ago when in her naivety she’d thought she had only a short drive ahead of her to reach her Highland destination. Four-and-a-half exasperated, exhausted hours later, she’d been dropped off at the top of the village.
‘It’s doon that way,’ the driver had told her, as she’d tried to blink herself awake. ‘I cannae get the taxi doon the waterside, no’ with all the snow and parked cars.’
She’d grown used to New York snow. The kind that got cleared by ploughs as soon as it fell, the kind that turned grey and slushy at the sidewalk edges but generally it was out of everyone’s way and no impediment to the commuters and dogwalkers, hotdog sellers, and, most importantly, her designer heels. This stuff, on her trudge along the blustery Port Willow waterfront, had been left in drifts shin-deep and was next to impossible to drag her two-thousand-dollar Louis Vuitton through without it getting horribly wet.
Her ticket had limited her to only one piece of luggage and a carry-on – the rest of her belongings had been by necessity surrendered to baggage storage at JFK, around about the time she was trying to check her emotional baggage too and determining to do her very best with this Scottish assignment so Seamus couldn’t fail to see her worth.
Nina stood before Gene, bedraggled and disorientated, only half understanding the accents she’d been bombarded with since landing.
‘Name, please?’ he enquired.
‘Nina Miller, booking by Mitch at—’
‘Coming through,’ interrupted Davie the camera operator, and Beatrice, Atholl and Seth led Kirstie through the reception and up the wide, creaking stairs towards the Princess room.
Gene paid them no attention, scrolling for her name on his computer screen. ‘Aye, there ye are. This says it’s an open-ended reservation, two weeks in the first instance? Bed and breakfast, no craft sessions booked.’
‘That’s right, I don’t know when I’ll be leaving.’
Gene ignored the desperate note in her voice that said she’d do her level best to get out of here as soon as she could escape.
‘Are they filming a TV show?’ Nina asked, watching in the wake of the latest stars of Highland and islands broadcasting now at the top of the stairs.
‘It’s for the news. About the refurbishments. At least that’s what I thought it was about. It seems to have taken a turn towards the speed dating and Beatrice’s lonely hearts board.’
‘Huh?’ Nina tried hard to hold on to her patience.
‘On account of there being so many men in the village and so few lassies for the ones that want them. My co-manager, Beatrice, has a taste for matchmaking.’
‘Does she? Well I’ll be sure to avoid her.’
‘Are ye no’ wanting a ticket yourself, for the speed dating at Hogmanay, like?’
‘That won’t be necessary. I’m here to absorb the arts and crafts culture around here, not to meet lonely old Scottish men.’
Gene shrugged. ‘You’ll be wanting to look over the activities brochure in that case. These are all the crafting sessions available. You’ll need to book in quick, mind, some are already full.’
‘No, I’m not here todocrafts. I’m here to scout for them.’
‘Well,’ Gene stared blankly, ‘you can scout them all ye like in the brochure. Every local maker is in there, just about.’
Nina only nodded. There was no point explaining to this BFG that she wasn’t here for hobbyists and their amateur handicrafts. She was here for heritage creators and their internationally marketable, exclusive wares. This guy wouldn’t understand.
He handed her a key from the board behind the desk. ‘Room seven, top o’ the hotel. Breakfast served eight ’til nine only tomorrow, what wi’ it being Christmas.’
‘Right, of course.’ She took the key shakily. ‘It’s Christmas Eve.’ Somehow, in all the mess, she’d forgotten. An ache struck her deep in her chest that felt like homesickness for her mother back in Hove, followed by bitterness at the reminder that some other woman was luxuriating in her perfectly premeditated Christmas back in New York.
‘Have ye plans for Christmas day?’ Gene asked.
Nina shook her head. ‘I’ll work through it. I’ve a lot to do.’
‘Mind ye join us all for Christmas dinner at four just through there in the bar restaurant.’ Gene’s voice was gentle. He’d learned a thing or two about tearful-looking women arriving alone at the inn from the day he’d checked in Beatrice and got off on entirely the wrong foot with her. Little did he know then she was suffering from a pain and loss he couldn’t comprehend. Gene resolved to be polite to this sullen woman standing before him now and gripping the handles of her case so fiercely tight that her knuckles were white. She was staring at her phone and getting paler by the second.
‘There’s no signal here?’ she gulped.
‘Signals come and go in Port Willow, you’ll catch one soon enough. Maybe the snow’s affectin’ it?’
