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I called Jack three times on the way here, and got his voicemail every single time. I had no idea what to say to it — Where would I even start? — so I just kept hanging up, but I check the messages anyway, in case he’s seen the missed calls and decided to call me back.
You have one new message.
I press the button to listen to it, my heart pounding with something halfway between hope and fear, then sinking with disappointment when I realize it’s not Jack, after all: it’s Lexie.
“Hi stranger,” she says, her voice going up at the end slightly, with just a hint of an American accent which I swear to God she’s putting on. “Sorry for the voicemail, but I just got my nails done, and I can’t type properly until they dry.”
I snort. I sent her that message ages ago. It’s so like Lexie to wait until I’d almost forgotten about it before deciding to reply.
“Anyway, I don’t know much about the grandads and the distillery,” she chirps down the phone. “All Mum told me was that her dad was supposed to be going into business with the Laird, but it didn’t go ahead in the end, because of the whole thing with the war. She didn’t mention anyone else being involved in it, though; she always made it sound like it was just the two of them, but you know what Mum’s like. She always has to be the star of the show.”
I snort again.
It takes one to know one, I guess.
“Oh, there is one thing,” Lexie goes on. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but she let it slip one night that Grandpamighthave used the recipe he created with Buchanan when he started his own distillery. But, then, the Laird was dead by then, so I guess it was no biggie. Anyway, enough about grandads: I’m more interested in hearing about this wedding of yours. From what Shona McLaren says, it’s going to be the event of the decade. Call me back and give me all the deets!”
I sigh again as I delete the message with no intention of replying to it. For once, Shona McLaren’s intel is out of date; the way things are going, I’m not sure there’s even going tobea wedding, let alone one that could be described as “the event of the decade.”
I wonder if Jack knows that Donald Steele stole his grandad’s whisky recipe, though? Not that it matters now that Jack’s bought out Steele Spirits anyway, but it’s exactly the kind of grandad-centric news he loves.
I start typing out a message to him, then abruptly delete it. All of my other messages to him are still on ‘unread’. Why would this one be any different?
“God, this is an absolute nightmare, Jude,” I wail, throwing the phone down, then instantly snatching it back up to check it yet again. “Why isn’t he answering his phone? Why hasn’t he called me? I don’t even know where he’s staying while he’s in London; or how long he’s there for.”
Jude has no answer to any of this, though, so I slump mournfully back against the pillows, trying to figure out what I’d say to Jack if hedidcall. Would I go straight in with the McTavish/stolen land thing, or would we have to get past the whole Ben/Rose fiasco first? And if what Ben said was true, and Jack knew about the issue with the land all along, does it even matter? Do I really want to be with someone who’d treat my friends like that? And willhestill want to be withme, after I went off with Ben on the pedalo?
I lie awake for a long time, with all of these questions tumbling through my head, but by the time Jude Paw starts clawing at me to wake me up next morning, I’m no further forward with any of them.
Jack still hasn’t called.
His phone is still going straight to voicemail.
There is, however, a new message from Scarlett, asking if I want to go round and see what she’s managed to dig up from the newspaper archive, like she promised. I don’t, particularly: after my conversation with Ben yesterday, I never want to hear the words “land” or “grandad” ever again. It’s either that or spend the day moping around the house, waiting for Jack to call, and fielding awkward questions from Mum and Dad, though, so once I’m up and dressed, I head over to Scarlett’s, stopping briefly at The Wildcat, to grab us some takeaway coffees on the way.
Scarlett’s house is on the banks of the loch, not far from Jack’s, and going there always makes me think of the first time I met him; which was when I came here to clean the place and ended up pretending to be Scarlett. Who Jack was here to take on a blind date.
The more I think of it, the more amazed I am that she doesn’t hate me.
“Wow, what happened to you?” says Scarlett as she lets me inside. “You look like you’ve been up all night.”
Scarlett’s wearing jeans and a plain sweater, but her trademark red lipstick is perfectly applied, and she still looks impossibly glamorous — especially next to me, in the clothes I didn’t like enough to bother bringing them with me when I moved to Jack’s.
“Ihavebeen up all night,” I tell her, handing her a coffee. “Because I found out who’s been sending me those messages.”
“Whoa.” Scarlett looks gratifyingly excited by this, which is refreshing. At least someone’s interested in my increasingly bizarre life.
It’s just a shame it’s not the man I’m supposed to be marrying.
“Okay,” she says, leading me through to the living room, with its huge picture window looking out onto the loch. “Tell me everything. Don’t leave out a single breath.”
I quickly fill her in on everything that’s happened since I last saw her; from seeing Rose and Jack in the library that day to Ben arriving on the loch yesterday evening.
“And he rode up on a whiteswan?” says Scarlett, trying unsuccessfully to hide her grin. “I thought the hero was supposed to arrive on a whitehorse?”
“Oh, Ben’s not the hero,” I assure her, grimacing at the thought. “I know he’d probably like tothinkthat’s what he is, but—”
“But he’s still the asshole who stole your money, then turned up years later to rat out your fiancé?” Scarlett finishes helpfully. “Yeah, I can see how that wouldn’t quite do it for you.”
