Page 26 of Scotlander

‘Finlay?’ Orla’s voice carried a note of apology in it. ‘You wouldn’t mind getting our guests’ bags into their stalls— rooms . . . ah ha ha ha . . . their rooms . . . for this’ – she threw her arms out wide again – ‘the world’s only truly immersive Jacobean experience.’

‘Stalls?’

‘Did she say stalls?’

‘Aren’t we staying in the castle?’

‘Claire stayed in the castle.’

‘Have you actually looked at that thing? There isn’t a roof!’

‘Jamie stayed with the horses. In a barn.’

‘Neighhhhhhhh, lassie,’ whinnied Jeff as he grabbed Rosa round the waist with a sexy grunt. ‘He stayed with Claire. Wheresoever she lay.’

Willa had been about to throw Gabe a playful would you get a load of the tantric sex couple? look but panicked he’d think she wanted to lay with him wherever he lay. Not that it would be a hardship. Who wouldn’t want to be bedded by a living, breathing, Latino version of the Vitruvian Man?

She could practically feel a version of herself raising her hand with a wince-smile and whispering, ‘Me’.

An imagine of Bryony, her replacement at work, popped into her head. If Bryony had found herself in this situation? She would have pounced on Gabe without a second’s thought.

She fancied Gabe, so . . . why the hesitation?

Again she pictured Bryony with her coltish long limbs and her pert, sassy confidence born of a life growing up in The Hills with a dad in The Biz and her plans to take over TiTs using the power of . . . erm . . . her tits. It was a perfectly believable scenario.

The fact Willa had opted to fantasise about someone she thought was fictional rather than the man she was pretty sure she was being set up with was telling.

Perfect wasn’t for the Willas of the world. This wasn’t her being all boo-hoo, poor me. This was fact. Perfect was for movie stars and prom queens and international human rights lawyers with glossy hair and enviable cheekbones.

A memory of Val gazing adoringly at her husband – a slightly chubby, balding, weirdy-beardy accountant with an obsession for barbecued pork – caught her up short. An acute reminder that perfect meant something different to everyone.

‘If you think I’m sleeping with Mr Ed, you’ve got another think—’ Rosa was saying.

‘Hush, now. We’re visitors from a far-off land, reliant on the kindness of strangers.’ Jeff cleared his throat and offered a grandiose bow to Orla. ‘Pray, dear hostess, are the mattresses stuffed with straw? Or is this a manger-type situation?’

Orla shot him a grateful smile. ‘We would, of course, love for you to be staying in the castle.’

Everyone’s eyes shot to the left where the pile of rocks formerly known as a castle stood proud of the landscape . . . the spotlights shining straight through the glassless windows and up to what would have been the roof, had there been one.

‘But this,’ announced Orla with a broad sweep of her arm towards another, lower stone building with a thatched roof, ‘is where you’ll be staying. The barn. Just like Jamie, but with a few more amenities than he was afforded.’ She gave another little curtsey bob. ‘We know many of you are obviously Claire fans, but as part of the experience, we thought it would be interesting to enjoy things from both their perspectives.’

Willa suppressed a snort. She’d worked in the world of showbiz long enough to know when a screw-up was being tactically repurposed as a triumph. And, for some reason, it made her warm to the experience. She looked round to see if she could get a reading on the situation from Finn, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Off sharpening the carving knives, no doubt.

Fenella sidled up to her and whispered, ‘I would’ve rather experienced things from Claire’s point of view after a thirty-hour trip. Wouldn’t you?’

Willa made a vague noise. She didn’t have a clue what Claire’s experience had been, but something told her admitting as much to this crowd would be a mistake.

Chapter Eleven

‘This way, please. Mind how you go.’

Using their phones to light the way, the group began trooping after Orla, who was brandishing a not entirely effective flame torch. She guided them through a passageway cut through the centre of the stone building. As a group, they fell quiet, less with giddy anticipation this time, and more with a shivery wariness. Were they being led to their doom?

When they got through to the other side, they let out collective sighs of relief. The stone barn was built around a huge central courtyard. In the centre was an impressive firepit. Enormous logs (trees, really) had been cleaved in half into the shape of massive timber sofas each of which was dappled with inviting piles of plaid woollen blankets and pillows with embroidered stag’s heads stitched into them.

A tall man with a huge shock of red hair and a hipster beard came into view. He was wearing a well-worn green coverall like the ones Willa’s dad wore at Grease Monkey’s. He threw a thick hunk of wood on to the fire, eliciting a cloud of red sparks beneath a massive cast iron tripod holding up an equally huge cast iron pot. Wafts of beef and gravy and herbs drifted over. Her stomach growled.