I shook my head and uncrossed my arms.
No. I wasn’t going to do that anymore. No more ruminating. No more worrying over every tiny detail looking for the one that’s wrong. I was going to focus on the now. I was going to be friendly and sociable. I was going to be happy.
I was going to be better.
When I got back into Carlinsrest, I followed the directions Rowan had given me. I walked past Maggie’s Café twice before finding the right small alley. It was a thin path that ran a shortcut between the main street and the street that held the hardware and supplies store. It definitely looked like the kind of place locals went to hide.
I turned left and found a courtyard, half paved and half cobbled, bordered with pots and trellises holding a smattering of hardy flowers and creepers. At the opposite end of the courtyard was a set of lead-lined windows. They had panes of that old-fashioned glass with a ripple effect, as if someone had dropped a pebble in a square pond. The kind that made everything seen through them look all wibbly-wobbly. The light from the windows warmly lit a couple of smokers chatting in the paling evening outside, their pints—in those old-style glasses with the handles—perched atop an upturned barrel. A few kegs lined the wall and a scraggly bay tree stood guard by a green wooden door with a small stained-glass window. Above the door, two light fittings illuminated a line of tarnished-brass-effect plastic letters reading “The C_urtyard”. The small metal studs where the “o” had once sat were still embedded in the grey stone wall.
So that’s what Rowan had said: ‘Curtyard’.
An inside joke. An inside joke of which I was now a part. This was definitely the place. I hope I’d dressed right. The smokers silently nodded to me—as if I were a local already!—as I made my way inside. I had the distinct feeling that I wasn’t just stepping into a pub. I was stepping into my new life.
The Curtyard was warm and loud, a haven from the clinging damp and the gloom outside. People drank and gossiped in clusters around the small bar. Rows of spirits and optics lined the mirrored wall behind it. On the top shelf, a variety of china zebras looked down at the drinkers. Kissing zebras, drunk zebras, zebras doing ballet, zebras wearing sunglasses. Beneath this stripy zoo, hung up on a hook next to the bell that I assumed called time, was the Curtyard’s missing ‘o’: a circle of brass-coloured plastic, chipped at the edges, with a small handwritten note beneath reading: £10 for 3 tosses.
I watched as someone handed over a note and tried to throw the ‘o’ over the rows of whisky bottles. After failing to land on any of the flashier malts, he was slapped on the back and given a double of a cheap blend.
To the right, tables clustered around a darts board and booths lined the wall. All the furniture was made of old dark wood, and the walls were decorated with green wallpaper reminiscent of the pine forests on the hills outside. A wagon wheel had been repurposed into a low chandelier with a rim of large, dusty bulbs—the ones with the wire filaments that hipsters loved so much these days.
To the left a long seating area led to a rustic stone fireplace. Sat by the hearth was a scuffed wing chair and a power-assisted wheelchair. Inhabiting these chairs were the elderly couple I’d met yesterday on the bridge. I blinked in surprise. It was definitely them. The lady was still conked out, a line of spit glinting on her chin in the wagon wheel light. The old man bent over to pour some of his beer in the collie’s water bowl, then leant back in his chair and brought the same glass up to his lips in a slow, careful movement. I thought of the two fifty-pound notes I’d rescued for him earlier, and wondered if they were now being used to get a dog drunk.
A voice called from one of the booths behind me.
“Hey, Tamsin! Over here.”
Rowan was sat at a table by the window.
Next to him was the sullen-faced man from the antiques shop.
I stopped in my tracks. No. It couldn’t be. He wasn’t Rowan’s phone-alert-obsessed other half, was he? He glanced up at me coolly, did a doubletake then mouthed a swearword. Oh God. I couldn’t back out now. Rowan had already waved me over. I forced a smile to my face and walked to the booth, praying they hadn’t just been discussing me. The sullen-faced man took a sip of his beer and looked out the window. Rowan got up from his seat, only to awkwardly sit back down again as I arrived.
“You found the place alright then.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Rowan’s manner toward me seemed unchanged. Maybe his boyfriend hadn’t shared my faux pas from the antiques shop yet. There was only one thing for it. I had to make a good second impression. I turned to the sullen-faced man. “Hi, I’m Tamsin. I’m new here.”
“I can see that,” said the man.
Rowan gave him a nudge. “This is my partner, Fergus. He works at the—”
“The antiques place,” I said.
“Oh.” Rowan looked between us. “You’ve already met. Amazing.”
Fergus nodded tersely.
“Hi, Gus.” I put out a hand.
“Fergus,” he corrected sternly and looked away.
I retracted my hand. “Sorry. Fergus.”
“Tamsin,” Rowan continued, “has just moved into the Sgàthan Sìth cottage.”
Fergus turned back to me, suddenly interested.
“Sgàthan Sìth?”
My hopes raised.
