Page 82 of Scotlander

They might shout, scream, then remember that Orla was actually a kick-ass cook and that they’d all, up until this moment, had a really good time even though their personal hygiene had gone to pot.

They could sue for emotional distress. Physical injury. Fraud.

Maybe they’d pack their bags, call a taxi, and head to Edinburgh and take a real tour.

They could expose everything on Twitter.

Maybe they’d blame Willa. After all, she’d known the situation pretty much from the start. Part of her hoped they’d channel their hurt on her. Go ballistic the way her exec producers did when she informed them a celeb had decided against baring their darkest, most intimate selves to the American public at 8/7 Central.

She could take it. For Finn. For not watching boxsets with Val. For wishing she’d been born into a different family.

All of these things were possibilities.

But the truth was, she knew deep down, that each and every one of these people – these epic, big-hearted, kind, generous superfans – believed this had been about as close to a perfect experience as you could get. It lacked the whole raping, pillaging and sword-fighting element, sure, but . . . they all had jobs to return to, long lives yet to live. Orla had largely delivered what the brochure had promised. A Jamie (or Claire). Jacobean fayre. Jacobean clothes. And an authentic understanding of how the Highlanders went about their day-to-day lives.

Stripped of the amenities of modern-day life, they’d all come to enjoy the ice-cold showers, the searing heat on one side of their body at the fire circle, the satisfaction of a hard day’s work. The porridge! The porridge just kept getting better and better. Not to mention the meat pies and the festy cocks – delicious oatmeal pancakes, which were the Scots comfort food version of cheese on toast.

Willa made that point and many more. From the moment they’d landed, Finn and Orla had done their level best to provide an authentic Jacobean experience. Exactly what the brochure had advertised. It hadn’t mentioned filming sites or meeting the celebs or any of tchotchkes the other tours had on offer.

They’d asked one simple thing of their visitors: to take a step into yesteryear.

And what could be more olden days than getting to midwife cows and unearth walled gardens and build stone walls for livestock on the shores of a bonnie loch?

No one said a word.

So she carried on advocating for them, knowing that the more she talked, the more she was setting herself up for some serious backlash. If not from these lovely people here, their hosts: Finn and Orla.

But that was just the way the shortbread was going to crumble today.

She’d do her best to take the brunt of it. Years of working at TiTs – being the most convenient person to scream at, to blame, to hold accountable for things that had never been within her control let alone her fault – had made being the object of someone’s wrath commonplace.

What did scare her was Finn’s reaction to her decision to tell everyone the truth.

He liked her. She liked him too. Had from the moment she’d laid eyes on him in that stupid, flimsy brochure with those perfectly beautiful blue-grey eyes of his looking thoughtfully off into the middle distance. Back then he’d been a fiction. Not a living, breathing, complicated, intelligent, thoughtful, insightful man. He was real. Losing the connection that had grown between them over this last week wasn’t something she was willing to do. Not yet, anyway. Not until she’d done her level best to prove to him that when she’d said ‘sweet’, she’d meant like honey. Natural, golden perfection. The type of man she’d never imagined herself with because he came with a life she’d convinced herself she didn’t want. But now, like the way his dad had changed chores into Farm Delights, the life she thought she’d wanted may have been there all along, it just needed a little spin. Like a kaleidoscope. The same colours seen by the same mirrors, but with just the right change in perspective.

‘This was the first time I got to pick our experience.’ Rosa looked as if she was going to hyperventilate. ‘Are you saying that . . . that it’s over?’

The question broke the dam.

What had happened to their money? How long had Willa known this? Was she complicit in it? Could they get a refund? They’d got actual blisters from working here – did Orla and her so-called ‘team’ know this? Did they appreciate how hard everyone had worked to save the money to get here only to be conned? There were people they could call. People who would know people who could get them out of this. Had anyone noticed if the place was ABTA certified?

Jennifer didn’t seem to be able to absorb any of it. She sat, her knitting on her lap, looking as if she’d just been told her cat had died. ‘I haven’t finished Duncan’s scarf. I promised him . . .’

ChiChi wrapped her arms around herself and said to no one in particular, ‘Outlander has brought me to my happy place so many times. So many times.’

The reminder of why they’d all come here stopped everyone short. Talk turned to Jamie and Claire and what they did when things didn’t go the way they’d planned.

Jules shifted gears from angry dragon to fired-up unicorn. ‘Blair and I did not get blisters and calluses and cuts and bruises to see some nameless, faceless, corporate fucker slap a foreclosure notice on this place.’ She kicked the log bench, howled in pain, then punched her fist into the air. ‘This place is not going down. Not on my watch!’

Fenella rose from the bench. ‘Willa, are you saying that the lads – our fake hubsters – are going to be out of jobs for real?’

‘That’s up to us,’ Willa said. ‘I don’t think Finn and Orla can see the wood for the trees right now.’

A chorus of ‘What do you mean?’s shot across the fire circle.

‘I mean,’ Willa said, her idea gaining traction, ‘that if you’re willing to try something a bit outside of the box . . . we might be able to help them.’

The suggestion hovered in the air as everyone considered what they wanted to do. There were two choices. They could take a risk that what Willa was suggesting might work, or pack their bags and walk away.