Gene set down some scallop starters and bustled off again to fetch more. Mrs Fergusson inhaled their aroma approvingly and reached for her cutlery. The entire scallop shell was baked inside a case of golden pastry, Gene’s recent speciality, since he’d embraced his role as head chef with renewed gusto – now that Kitty was around to inspire him.
‘It’s no’ often I get to cradle a wee bairn,’ Atholl said. ‘My nephew Archie’s no’ so wee anymore either.’
‘That he is not. Such a bonny laddie,’ Mrs Fergusson put in, and everyone seemed to look pointedly between Beatrice and Atholl, all except the utterly unaware Gene, now back from the kitchen (he couldn’t be trusted with secrets for fear he blurted them out) and Mrs Fergusson (who Atholl and Beatrice decided to tell only after a scan confirmed all their hopes).
Atholl glanced at his mum, clearing his throat, a little panicked she’d pick up on the strange atmosphere. ‘Where’s that sad-looking lassie in the fancy gear? Room seven?’ he said, changing the subject.
‘Nina?’ Gene said, standing over Kitty’s chair, accepting a hunk of bread from her and talking through buttery bites. ‘She just asked to have her Christmas dinner in the computer room.’
‘Media centre,’ Beatrice corrected.
‘Aye, well either way, she’s alone on Christmas Day. Says she’s got work to do.’
‘Poor thing,’ said Beatrice. ‘Tell her I’ve put a ticket behind the bar for her for the Hogmanay speed-dating event. She can spectate and have a few drinks. She can’t work all the time.’
Gene was shaking his head. ‘I dinnae understand her, coming in here wearing sunglasses at noon in the depths of December and looking for lumpy tea.’
‘Bubble tea,’ Kitty corrected him.
Gene pressed on. ‘Here, she gave me her card when she checked in.’ Rummaging in his apron pocket, he handed the glossy grey card to Mrs Fergusson who, instead of looking at it, passed it directly to Beatrice.
‘Nina Miller. Trend Forecaster and Client Brand Relations Facilitator,’ she read aloud.
‘Whit exactly is that when it’s at home?’ Gene carried on, bemused.
‘Well, take your starter, for instance,’ Kitty said, breaking the pastry casing and pulling open the shell, releasing the steamy fragrance of scallop and white wine sauce. ‘You heard about a similar dish being served in that fancy place in Edinburgh, you tried the recipe and then you adapted it, giving it your own wee twist, and now it’s taken off here. Folk come in asking if it’s on the specials menu, don’t they?’
Gene shrugged. ‘They do.’
‘Well then, you spotted a trend, picked up on it, and now it’s getting bigger.’
‘There you are, you see, Gene? You’re a trend forecaster,’ Atholl’s eyes sparkled wickedly even as he reached a hand over the table top to take Beatrice’s, having noticed how pale she’d turned at the sight of the scallops.
‘You’re no’ hungry, Beatrice?’ Mrs Fergusson asked as she polished off the creamy sauce inside her own shell with a hunk of bread.
‘I had a big breakfast,’ Beatrice lied. ‘Nina’s our guest, so we need to look after her. It’s not easy arriving here all alone and feeling like a fish out of water,’ she added, hoping to deflect attention away from her untouched food.
The room was growing livelier by the minute. Locals and guests were enjoying family meals, making toasts with Mrs Mair’s mulled wine, and every one of them excited for more snowfall overnight. The two women potters had already joined forces with the watercolourists and were sharing a table with Mr Garstang, the painting teacher, who didn’t often venture out to the pub. The teenage willow-weavers were at another table with their mums. Both girls had finished eating and were sipping Cokes and setting up the new iPhones they’d opened that morning.
‘How do!’
Everyone turned to face Seth, who had just come in, brushing snow from his tweed jacket.
‘Are you joining us, Seth?’ Atholl asked.
‘I wouldn’t like to intrude, it’s Christmas Day and a family time,’ said Seth, already pulling up a chair in spite of his protestations and calling to Mrs Mair for a bowl of her Scotch broth.
‘Merry Christmas, Eilidh,’ he said to Mrs Fergusson.
‘Seth.’ The old woman nodded. ‘Are you alone for Christmas?’
‘I had a bit of lunch at my laddie’s place at twelve. He’s meeting his pals now for a drink.’
Beatrice set about introducing Vic and Angela, and Seth twinkled his moley eyes at the mothers.
‘How old’s the wee one now?’ he asked, as Mrs Mair set a steaming bowl of soup in front of him.
‘She turned one in October,’ Vic informed him.
