Scotlander, page 5
He grinned back. ‘You look good, guapita.’
Their eyes caught and a ridiculous thrill swept through her. Who even was she right now? Someone confident? Someone pretty? Someone happy enough in her skin to actually let herself become attracted to this guy? He was ambrosia to the eyeballs, so, her body was all in. But her brain kept raising its hand to timorously ask if things weren’t a bit more complicated. The fact he was a connection to Valentina meant he could be a mullet-wearing hotdog-eating champion and she’d still want to spent time with him. Besties like Val were unicorns. What they’d had was rare and so, so painful to lose. Valentina, in her wisdom, had known Willa would be lost without her and had handed her a lifeline. But was it meant to be a lifeline complete with tingles in her lady fandango? Or one where Friend Zone lines were very clearly drawn in the sand?
She pretended to gaze at her reflection, surreptitiously glancing at Gabe, who was inspecting his own pile of manly outdoor wear. Everything he’d tried on had fitted him immaculately. As if he’d Ashtanga-ed himself into whatever size models wore in order for everything he put on to look custom made. Now that she thought about it, he might be too perfect to actually be mortal. Maybe he was a figment of her imagination.
She turned round, reached out and poked him in the chest.
‘Hey! What was that for?’
‘Just checking you were real. That I wasn’t hallucinating this whole thing.’
‘Nope.’ He gave himself a loud thump on the chest. ‘Genuine flesh and blood.’
‘Hunh.’ She plopped down on the bench beside him. A small yawn escaped before she could pop her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s been a weirdly long day.’ He flopped a companionable arm over her shoulders which was quite the sea change from the Mr Frosty of this morning.
‘Yes, it has,’ she agreed, checking her phone for the time. ‘Five thirty. We’re a couple of powerhouses, you and I.’ She held her hand up for a high five and received one in return. He let his hand rest against hers for more than the traditional nanosecond, as if he wanted to convey something deep and meaningful.
‘Dios, I’m tired,’ he said. Then with a stretch of his arms and legs, he pressed himself up to standing. ‘C’mon. We better get used to making the most of our daylight hours.’
‘Why?’
‘The “true Outlander experience”? I’m no history expert, but I’m pretty sure they didn’t have mobile phones or electricity.’
She gave a sniff. ‘Perfect. I have it on excellent authority I look better by candlelight.’
He laughed. ‘Oh, really? And how do you think you’ll feel about candlelight when it’s pouring rain outside and your stone garret is completely freezing cold?’
She pulled a face. ‘Less desirable, but also grateful because I won’t be able to use my straighteners.’ She gave a little shrug that barely registered from the depths of her coat. ‘I’m hopeful climate change will be on our side with this one.’
He gave her a side-eye.
She leant in to give him a little shoulder bump. ‘Don’t worry. I recycle and I drive a Prius.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Well done, Greta.’
When they got to the register, Gabe elbowed her out of the way and said to the earthy-looking checkout guy, ‘No matter what this woman says, don’t take her card.’
‘Hey!’ She grabbed his wrist. ‘You already helped with work. I’m going to pay my own way.’
‘No, you’re not. This is my treat.’
‘For what? Making you drink shots at Hooters?’
The checkout guy kept his eyes down and began fastidiously zapping barcodes.
‘No. For convincing me I should do this hare-brained thing.’
‘Erm . . . I didn’t really do much convincing.’
‘You did,’ he said.
‘How?’
He gave a heavy sigh, peeled her fingers off his wrist and, with surrender hands raised, asked, ‘Can you please just let me pay?’
‘No, thank you, Richard Gere.’
Gabe shot a get lost for a minute, could you? glance at checkout guy, who instantly developed an urgent need to get some more paper bags from another till. He lowered his voice and said, ‘I missed a lot of Concha’s big moments, okay? Meeting you, her best friend, reminded me of just how much I’ve missed. And I have to live with that. For ever.’
So he had been paying attention when she’d drunkenly run him through just about every picture she’d ever taken of Val and her family.
She nodded for him to continue.
‘So . . . since I can’t be a big brother to her any more . . . you’re just going to have to let me do it for you.’
She was on the brink of snapping back that she already had two big brothers, thank you very much, when a) she remembered she still had two brothers to whine about and b) this was the first time he was openly acknowledging his absence in Valentina’s life.
She asked the one question she’d been avoiding all day. ‘What made you show up today?’
He laughed and swept a hand through his inky hair. ‘The letter from the lawyer said I was being sued by her estate.’
‘For what?’
‘Breach of contract.’ He looked down at his hands then back up at her. ‘She included a crayon drawing I’d done for her when we were kids that said “Best Buds Forever”.’
Willa cackled. That was definitely a Valentina move. Go big or go home. ‘Suing you was the only way she thought you’d show up?’
‘Pretty much! Trust my kid sister to be both a hoarder and to know which buttons to press twenty-odd years after we’d last spoken.’
She winced. ‘Was it really that long?’
He nodded, his voice choked with regret as he said, ‘And I will never, ever forgive myself for it, so let me do this. It’s a pathetically small gesture, twenty-two years too late.’ He pulled out a black AmEx card and in a completely non-showy way said, ‘I think you’ve figured out I can afford it.’
True. And she would be paying it off in twenty-five-dollar instalments for the next two years, so . . . she offered him her hand to shake and, solely in the spirit of clearing up the whole boundaries/set-up/not a set-up thing asked, ‘Does this make me your honorary kid sister?’
Expression implacable, those tiger eyes of his gave her a once over. ‘Something like that.’
A swirl of something distinctly unsisterly left a trail of sparkles drifting around her belly.
Courtesy of the forest fires blazing away in Malibu, the sunset down at Venice Beach was breathtakingly beautiful.
‘Nice to see you again,’ Ancient Chinese Man said, gently shifting his deck of tarot cards towards her on his little portable table. ‘I was just about to head home.’
Willa gave him a shy grin. His name wasn’t really Ancient Chinese Man. It was Pete Young. But when Valentina and she had first gone to him after the first of many bottomless brunches some seven years ago, he was rocking a Fu Manchu beard and looked like a dried apple. Willa had hooked him up with some sunblock, suggested he shave the few wisps of chin hair, and, since then, The Very Best Card Reader In The Whole of Venice (according to his sign) was looking a very youthful eighty-seven. She’d put money on him dating the patchouli vendor a few stalls down.
‘You sure you’re okay to stay for one more reading?’
‘One?’ He looked around, presumably searching for her usual tarot-cards-in-arms friend. When he didn’t find her, he closed his eyes in acknowledgement that Val wouldn’t be coming any more. When he opened them, she saw compassion, but not pity. Which was nice. Because she’d been throwing herself a big enough pity party these past couple of months to cover the both of them.
‘Three card draw?’
‘Three cards is good.’
Mind, body, spirit.
He gave her a hard look. ‘Is this a new style?’
She looked down at the outfit that had arrived yesterday in a couple of taped-up Porridge Oats boxes from Scotland along with a letter on yellowed paper with swirly text explaining that ‘it was kindly requested’ for all participants to arrive ‘in authentic garments to ensure THE EXPERIENCE was wholly immersive right from the start’.
It was a bit weird that they wanted her to fly in it, but there’d been so much upheaval in her life these past few days, what were a few extra side-eyes going to do her?
The bodicey bit was nice. It was beautifully embroidered and featured a deep red silk that added warmth to her light sepia-coloured skin tone. Courtesy of the dress, she had some serious boobage on display. To the point she wondered if they’d sent the wrong under-blouse with which to offer her some ‘maiden modesty’. To be fair, she kind of liked how the outfit accentuated her curves in all the right places. Arrowing in on her waist, then blooming out into a huge, petticoat-accented skirt that, with the chunky heels she’d chosen, made her legs looks super long even though they weren’t. It also had a name tag sewn into the waistband that said ‘Moira for Pirates’ in purple Sharpie which had made her wonder if there was an immersive pirate experience too.
‘Cut the deck,’ Pete instructed.
She did as she was bid.
He flipped the first card.
They both sucked in a breath.
He flipped the second.
A nervous giggle squawked out of her.
The third nearly undid her.
‘Seriously?’ she demanded of the cards. ‘This is what you’re giving me for body, spirit, soul?’
Pete looked at her. ‘I thought we were doing past, present, future.’
She looked back down at the cards and wailed, ‘It’s not great either way, really, is it?’
Pete gave her his usual, Yoda-esque nod that said a thousand things in one. Life works in mysterious ways. What is written is written. Destiny can be a bitch. ‘Let’s take a look,’ he said.
Pointing to the first card, the Three of Swords, he said, ‘This can indicate rejection, sadness, loneliness, heartbreak, betrayal, separation and grief.’
‘All of them at once?’ she asked.
‘Yes and no.’ Pete gave her hand a pat. ‘Ultimately? They point to a loss.’ He let her sit with that a moment. ‘And then, if you are open to it, a period of renewal.’
‘What?’ she scoffed. ‘Like an ashes to ashes sort of thing?’
‘Flowers grow from poop,’ Pete said, the waves susurrating along the shore as if in agreement. ‘The card can indicate a period of deep understanding. A gaining of knowledge that empowers you to go forward instead of staying mired in the past.’
‘Yeah, but . . .’ She tapped the next card which showed a turret in flames being blasted by the heavens with lightning as the body of a woman hurtled, headfirst, to the jagged cliffs below.
The Tower.
Her stomach churned. This was bad. Really, really epically bad.
Pete swallowed, thought a moment, then said, ‘When someone experiences a loss, it is often the case that they withdraw not only from their regular day-to-day activities, but from themselves. They feel lost. Alone. Leaving that solitary place can be frightening.’
Tell her about it. She was dressed like a yesteryear serving wench and about to board a 777. If that didn’t scream Things Willa Would Never Do In A Million Years, she didn’t know what did.
‘But,’ Pete continued, ‘as you know from the Death card’ – he pointed to her third card – ‘Death does not always mean death.’
She dropped her head into her hands. What on earth had possessed her to redirect her Uber driver to Venice? It was a rhetorical question, of course. She knew exactly why she’d come here. It was nothing on earth. It was someone up in heaven. This was a comfort thing she and Val used to do whenever they were dithering about something. They’d come down to the beach. Have brunch by the sea. Sometimes a bit of retro roller skating. Then they’d visit Pete, who always had some wise counsel to offer. Then, bellies full, skin salty from the sea breeze, they’d get in the car and talk and talk and talk on the long drive back inland and, almost always, feel better for it. (The post-cancer diagnosis two years ago had been the toughest one.)
Only this time she wouldn’t be driving back home with Valentina. She’d be getting on a plane to Scotland with Val’s sexy, estranged brother and a pamphlet with Catalogue Kilt Man.
She looked out to the ocean. The sunset which, moments ago, had seemed so romantic and beautiful now looked like a portal to purgatory. Flames surging up from beneath the horizon to remind all the wretched mortals yet to shuffle off their mortal coils who was really boss here.
‘Thanks, Pete.’ She gave him a twenty, pulled the handle of her wheelie bag round and aimed it towards Main Street. She shouldered her tote, then gave him what she hoped looked like a brave smile.
‘Wait!’ he called as she turned. ‘Touch the deck. Let’s do one more journey card.’
She gave him a doubtful look.
‘I’m retiring,’ he said. ‘I probably won’t be here when you get back.’
The news made her instantly and stupidly sad. Could nothing stay the same?
Fighting the sting of tears, she put her hand on the proffered deck. He looked into her eyes then flipped the card. He gazed at it awhile, his face unreadable. Then he turned it around with a slow, mischievous smile and said, ‘Buckle up.’
Chapter Seven
By the time they’d got through security and into the lounge, Willa was fuming. This, despite the fact Gabe’s four gazillion points had got them upgraded to first class.
Not even a glass of champagne delivered with a cheek kiss made her feel less of an idiot than she did now.
‘The Princess Leia look suits you,’ he said, settling into the armchair across from her.
Instinctively, her hand rose to touch one of her fastidiously whorled braids. They’d taken ages to get just right. She stopped her fingers from tracing the tingly bit of skin his lips had brushed and curled her hands into little balls in her petticoat-augmented skirt.
This was not going to plan.
Instead of enjoying being in first class with a finger-lickingly delicious Gabe (read: her body was lit up like the long-time, unlaid, horn dog), Willa was crackling with annoyance that he hadn’t shown up in full regalia.
Why risk her professional welfare at TiTs to honour her best friend’s memory if Valentina’s own brother wasn’t going to do the same?
‘You read the notes, right?’ Willa snipped, giving him a superior look over the rim of her champagne glass as she took a sip, then promptly choked when the champagne bubbles went up her nose. (Class in a glass.)
Gabe bit back a smile.
A low growl surged up her throat.
Just because he looked like a GQ model and she looked like something out of Historical-Re-enactments-R-Us was no reason to laugh.
She scraped her teeth along her lips. Hard.
Gabe’s long legs were bossing some cranberry-coloured cargo pants no one had any business looking good in. His immaculate white T-shirt was spread across his chest like butter on warm toast and, over that, a half-buttoned green corduroy shirt made those amber eyes of his pop even more brightly than they had the day they’d first met. To cap it all off (ha ha) he was wearing a slouchy beanie hat that should have made him look like an idiot poser, but actually made her want to tease her fingers underneath it for the express purpose of running her hands through his oil-slick-coloured hair and say something ludicrous like, Take me, tiger. Show me what a beast you really can be, even though she already knew from one humiliating phone sex experience that erotic bantz was not in her toolbox.
‘Gabriel?’ she asked, as if he were a naughty schoolboy who’d shown up for soccer practice wearing non-regulation kicks. ‘Why are you not in a flowy white top and a kilt?’
He smiled at her and gave his carry-on bag a friendly pat. ‘It said we were “kindly requested to be in costume in the arrivals hall . . .”’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘In Scotland.’
Oh.
Had it?
Her cheeks burnt with embarrassment.
Maybe it had. She’d been running round like a headless chicken at TiTs and hadn’t had brain space for much else.
Without Gabe – her smooth-talking, favours-owing wunderkind by her side – Willa had been piled high with four billion ‘tiny little jobs’ before she’d left including (deep breaths moment) . . . including bringing newly minted junior producer, Bryony Stokes, up to speed.
It hadn’t just been a cringe moment. It had been soul crushing.
Not only was Bryony a willowy twenty-something whose studio exec father had landed her the post, she was also a shark. Ambitious, over-confident and prone to say things like, ‘Yeah, babes. I’m all over that like gloss on a pucker.’
She was the girl Willa had always wanted to be. The one who knew exactly who she was, what she wanted and how she was going to get it.
‘That’s us.’ Gabe pointed at the ceiling where a soft spa-like voice was gently suggesting people flying to the UK might want to consider making their way to the plane.
Did she want Gabe?
Val seemed to want her to.
But if he was flirting with her? It was so subtle her Spidey-senses weren’t picking up on it.
‘Can you even believe we’re doing this?’ she asked, gathering the endless yards of fabric in her skirt before she stood.
‘Now that I’ve met you?’ He extended a hand to help her up from her seat. ‘I can.’
Wow. Thanks, bud. ‘Which means . . . what exactly?’
He smiled a soft, closed-lipped smile. ‘Tranquillo, chica. It means I can see why my sister was friends with you. Good friends are hard to come by in a place like LA. Val always was up for an adventure and I’m glad she had someone to have them with.’
‘I’m glad I—’ Willa’s voice cracked as the sting of tears scraped the back of her throat. This was an adventure they should’ve shared.
Gabe gave her one of his more penetrating looks then, with a low baritone ‘C’mere, you,’ pulled her into his arms for a hug.
He smelled delicious. Male and citrussy fresh. Strong and comforting in equal measures.
