Page 57 of Scotlander

Willa apology-winced. ‘Is there any chance I can get another one? It’s just – I might have accidentally slept in it and now my bedding’s a bit – bleurgh.’

Orla’s eyes widened.

Oh crap. She’d over-asked. From childhood, Willa’s parents had ingrained in her a deep horror of ever being ‘that guest’. The one who passive-aggressively doubled their host’s workload.

Willa began talking over Orla, speaking super quickly, as if log jamming all her words together made the situation better. ‘I can sort out the bedding. Turn it inside out or something. In fact, forget I said anything at all. This is authentic, right? Totes Jacobean. Check me out. Down with the outlanders.’ She struck a pose.

Orla stared at her for just a fraction too long before popping on her cheery smile with a bright, ‘Honestly. It’s no problem. Just get your dress to me whenever you’re able.’

Willa knew the tone well. She used it regularly when Aubrey or one of the execs dumped a shit ton of extra jobs on to her extensive list of things to do with a ‘you don’t mind, do you?’

Though she never admitted it (#FearOfGettingFired), of course she minded. She worked her ass off and on bad days it seemed like she was the only one who actually worked for a living at TiTs. But the perks of the job – like, having one – put her on a par with mothers who spoke of the joy of a child versus the trauma of childbirth. No matter the pain, you just kept coming back for more.

This definitely wasn’t one of those days for Orla. Besides, what did Willa think? That Orla was made of time and money, dispatching a servant to the Jacobean Dry Cleaners and another to the dressmakers to get her sorted? No. Anything anyone asked Orla was likely going to be done by Orla herself.

‘I can wash it.’ Willa batted at her skirts, hoping the feeble gesture proved she knew how to clean things. ‘Honestly. I’m good.’

‘No, no. I can get something else for you.’ Orla stared at Willa’s body clearly trying to divine what, if anything, in her arsenal of dresses would fit Willa.

‘Seriously. I’m so happy wearing this. I actually feel closer to Mother Nature this way. It’d be wrong to be too clean, right?’ She silently pleaded with Orla to please, please forget this had happened.

Orla’s eyebrow furrow deepened. She looked genuinely worried. ‘Are you sure wearing a smelly dress won’t take away from the magic?’

Willa’s throat seized. She couldn’t admit to Orla that, apart from the food and beautiful setting, there was no magic for her. The only links she had to Outlander were regret and sorrow. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she assured her.

‘So long as you’re positive,’ Orla fretted, absently ladling a huge dollop of porridge and stewed apples into her bowl.

‘Really. I’m happy.’ Again, the rapid talking took over. ‘It’s amazing here. What you’ve done . . . I mean . . . I don’t know what it looked like before, but now? It’s like . . .’ She pressed her fingers to her head and pretended to get an electric shock. ‘Time travel. Doctor Who mach ten thousand. You’ve transported me. Us.’ She swept her arm out wide, narrowly avoiding slapping ChiChi in the face.

Orla’s fragile smile gained a stronger footing when she looked round at the others who were chiming in with hearty ‘Hear hear!’s.

‘Thank you.’ Orla pressed her hands to her heart, managing to upend a dollop of gooey porridge on to her pinafore. She looked down at it, sighed, then swept her finger through it and popped the porridge in her mouth.

Unexpectedly, Willa’s eyes stung at the familiarity of the gesture. It was a mom move. One she’d seen her own mother and then Val perform countless times. What was a cum-coloured food splodge on their boobs when there was laundry to do, dishes to clean, and other people’s wishes to fulfil?

An ache for that sort of closeness washed through her. She’d never felt the closeness her brothers shared with her parents. Val and her family had been the closest thing to a ‘chosen family’ that she’d had but even then . . . How did a twenty-nine-year-old woman find unconditional love?

She started when Rosa gave Willa’s arm a gentle squeeze. ‘That was nice, back there. You’ve obviously read the books.’ She laughed softly and shook her head as if remembering an old friend. ‘Claire’s always talking about how smelly everyone was back then.’

‘I know, right?’ Willa agreed, possibly too enthusiastically for someone who didn’t have a clue.

‘Jennifer,’ she whispered once she’d wedged herself between Jennifer and ChiChi’s thick petticoats and overskirts at the long breakfast table. ‘My pits stink! Maybe a bit too much.’

After a very brave sniff, Jennifer suggested soaking the armpits in a bit of white vinegar, some of which she just happened to have in a travel bottle if Willa needed any.

Of course she did. Jennifer was one of those people you wanted to be with when Armageddon came. Her wicker arm basket would be a survival kit. Travel sewing kits, astronaut food, the lot.

She was suddenly consumed by a powerful, urgent impulse to ask Jennifer to adopt her. Not be her actual mom, but . . . Without any offence to her own mother – who was great and who she knew, on an intellectual level, loved her – Willa had always hungered for someone like this: a woman who went on holidays with her lesbian superfan daughter, carried travel packs of vinegar, and sniffed a stranger’s pits because it was the nice thing to do. A mum who supported her daughter no matter what her passion.

‘Thank you, Jennifer.’ She clutched the small bottle to her chest, then opened her arms. ‘Can I have a hug?’

Jennifer very kindly agreed despite the fact that this was not a Super Soul team-building retreat.

‘Are you okay, love?’ Jennifer asked when Willa finally released her from the hug.

‘Yes. Definitely. Why? Do I look weird?’ She probably looked weird. She felt weird.

Jennifer took a quick look round, then lowered her voice, ‘I thought you might be upset about Finn not making it today.’