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“Morning, ladies,” he says cheerfully, jumping out to open the doors for us. “Off for a wee bit o’ retail therapy are we?”
“What’s going on?” asks Rose, looking at him blankly. “I ordered a taxi, not a farm vehicle. Jack’s assistant gave me the number.”
“Och, I dinnae use Vera here on the farm,” McTavish assures her, patting the rusty Volvo on the bonnet. “She’s strictly a passenger car, so she is. Well, Ididuse her last week to take that newborn calf to the vet, mind you. But the seats cleaned up just fine. There was hardly any blood at all.”
Rose stands rooted to the spot for a few minutes, looking like she’s about to offer to drive after all. But Frankie just shrugs and gets into the car, and, after a few seconds, Rose and I follow her: Rose in the passenger seat, and me in the back, next to Frankie.
I have to slide over to the middle when we pick up Mum (Who’s dressed as if she’s going to a wedding itself, not just a weddingshop), and then we’re on our way; all five of us crammed into the car, which MacTavish steers one-handed, chattering on about the new calf (Which survived its ordeal, happily) before moving on to talk about some of his favorite episodes ofNeighbours.
“But it wisnae really her,” he finishes as we arrive in Inverness. “It was her evil twin, the whole time. And that’s why ye should never trust folk to be who they say they are. Ye need to have the proof. Thereceipts, as Lexie would say.”
“That’s right, Alfonso,” says Mum, who’s been quieter than usual on the way here, apparently struck dumb by the presence of Rose — or “that posh girl” as she keeps referring to her. “Ye cannae trust anyone these days; it’s a right shame.”
McTavish finds us a parking spot, and I climb gratefully out of the car, my limbs stiff and aching after an hour of being stuck between Frankie and Mum in the middle seat.
“Is this it?” asks Rose, looking around with wide eyes. “I thought it was a city. Where’s the rest of it?”
“It’s no’ like That London,” says Mum apologetically, twisting her hands as if she’s personally responsible for Inverness and its shortcomings. “But it’s a nice wee place a’ the same.
Rose nods doubtfully, and Frankie scowls at her, making my stomach twist with anxiety.
I really need them to get on, if they’re both going to be in the wedding party.
Shit, I’m going to have to tell Frankie that they’re both going to be in the wedding party.
I really hope they hand out free champagne in this dress shop. I have a feeling I’m going to be needing a bit of Dutch courage.
The shop Rose has booked our appointment with is on the High Street, which is a short walk from where we’ve parked. We’ve arrived slightly early, so we wander slowly along to it, stopping on the way to admire the castle, which is showing itself off to its best advantage against the bright blue of the sky.
“Braw, isn’t it?” says McTavish, who has, for some reason, decided to accompany us rather than stay with the car, as I’d expected.
“I suppose so,” says Rose reluctantly. “It’s not a patch on the south of France, though.”
“Aye, St. Tropez is nice, I’ll grant ye that,” says McTavish. “I prefer Italy, though, so I do.”
“McTavish traveled around Europe the summer after he left school,” I tell Rose, seeing her surprised expression. “There aren’t many places he hasn’t been.”
“Aye, that was when the farm was still makin’ enough money for ma da’ to be able to do without me for a few weeks,” says McTavish glumly. “I couldna do that now.”
“Are things really that bad?” I ask, falling into step beside him, and ignoring the way Rose keeps looking back at us suspiciously, as if McTavish has tried to trick her in some way by turning out to be not quite the country bumpkin she’d clearly had him pegged as.
“Aye,” he says simply. “It’s that bad. And then there’s Mary.”
“What’s going on with Mary?”
I look up at him, noticing the shadows under his eyes that didn’t used to be there.
“Ach, nothing really,” he says , shrugging. “It’s just, she’s always wantin’ to go out on the razzle dazzle, ye ken? And I cannae afford that. Plus, I dinnae drink any more after what my da’ told me.”
I’m just about to ask him what he means by this when we arrive outside the shop, and Rose hustles us all quickly inside, as if she’s worried someone she knows might see us on the street.
Inside, the shop is everything I’d imagined, with rack after rack of the most beautiful gowns imaginable, and even one of those little raised podiums that the bride gets to stand on to show off each dress.
“Like Ginger Barbie,” says Mum happily, taking a seat.
“Champagne, ladies?” asks a woman wearing an elegant black dress, smiling as she comes towards us, carrying a tray. “We are celebrating, after all!”
“No for me, thanks,” says McTavish, finding a seat at the back of the room and sitting down. I wonder again what it was his dad told him that made him stop drinking, but within moments the woman from the store is back to take my jacket, and soon after that I’m being sent to the fitting room with a pile of dresses to try on, and McTavish and his woes are momentarily banished from my mind.
