Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

R ain battered against the windscreen, its percussion out of sync with the hypnotic swish of the wipers. The world outside was a bleak watercolour painting come to life, greens and greys bleeding into each other with every mile Kirsty covered. The Scottish sea was throwing a tantrum, hurling itself at the rocks with full force. Waves burst into the air, a thundering show of froth and spray against the stoic coastline. This stretch of Scotland’s coast could be extraordinarily pretty, but only when it wanted to.

Today it didn’t.

Kirsty gripped the van’s steering wheel. It was only a thirty-minute drive to the hospital in Aberdeen to pick up her mother, her second time taking this coastal road after her visit yesterday. Her father might not have been comfortable with longer drives anymore – Kirsty, however, would have loved to drive all the way up to Thurso.

Far, far away from Cairnhaven.

From him.

Her mind swirled like the clouds overhead as she navigated the slick road. She’d avoided going to the stall to help Connor yesterday. Instead, she’d let her father join him, if only for moral support and instruction. Her da needed to be useful.

And she needed to stay the hell away from Bannerman.

Why did I kiss him?

For one fleeting second, she’d forgotten who she was. The woman with impenetrable walls. For a minute there, her honed fa?ade had been replaced by this feeble creature who longed for someone to break through. But that was nonsense. Dangerous, stupid nonsense. This wasn’t some rando from the pub that she could safely keep at arm’s length. This was Connor Bannerman. The handsome devil who, for some unknown reason, still wielded some unholy power over her vagina.

She scoffed and focused on the road along the craggy Aberdeenshire coastline. The surging waves of the North Sea mirrored her muddled thoughts. Every mile she put between herself and Connor was a stitch in the gaping wound that was her pride.

If only she could talk to someone, anyone. Eleanor? Maybe. Ellie used to be her best pal in London – until she’d married a city boy a few years ago, had his babies, and seamlessly pivoted from dating columnist to mummy blogger.

Kirsty glanced at her phone in the cup holder, hesitated, and dialled Eleanor’s number. It had been a few weeks. Maybe months. But she really needed another perspective to help her make sense of this mess.

‘Kirsty?’ Eleanor’s voice was crisp and polished through the speakers, the sound of her children in the background.

‘Hi, Ellie.’

‘It’s been ages. How are you?’

‘I’m…okay, back in Scotland for a bit,’ Kirsty began, choosing her words carefully. ‘Taking care of some family stuff.’

‘Oh, are you? Suppose it’s a nice change from the hustle and bustle of London,’ Eleanor replied. ‘We went shooting in the Cairngorms for our wedding anniversary. Do you remember when I told you? Was gorgeous.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Great stuff. How are the kids?’ Kirsty asked out of politeness.

‘They’re fabulous. Have you not read my latest blog post on Theodore’s violin lessons? He’s getting rather good.’

‘It’s in my bookmarks,’ Kirsty fibbed and paused. ‘Actually, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about. It’s a bit…personal.’

‘It is? What’s going on? Not much time, though. Have to take Sophie to ballet in ten minutes. But shoot!’

‘I ran into someone from my past here in Cairnhaven,’ Kirsty began. ‘Do you remember Connor? We dated in school. My first boyfriend.’

Eleanor paused for a moment. ‘No. Don’t think you ever mentioned that name. What about him?’

‘It’s hard to explain. The bottom line is… Well, I…I kissed him last night.’

‘Your teenage boyfriend? That’s droll.’ Eleanor let out a giggle. ‘Maybe I should give good old Binky a call. He was cute.’

‘No, it’s mostly confusing,’ Kirsty said, ‘I haven’t been up in Scotland for ages and he’s working on an oil rig. So I haven’t seen him in over fourteen years and last night, I jumped him like a prisoner after decades behind bars, Ellie. What must he think of me?’

‘Oh, I bet he enjoyed it.’

Kirsty grunted. Normally, she wouldn’t give a flying fuck about a guy’s thoughts after a bit of snogging, but something was shifting underneath her surface. ‘He probably thinks I’m desperate. Frisky-knickers Munro strikes again.’ Her cheeks lit up like stoplights at the mere thought.

‘And, are you – desperate?’

Kirsty huffed. ‘No! Yes. Maybe.’

‘Did he enjoy it?’

‘I guess so.’

Very much, actually – judging by the carbon steel in his trousers and the way he’d fucked her mouth with his tongue. His naturally talented tongue. He’d been more demanding, more commanding, more masculine than the boy she’d once known. This was Connor, the man. The improved, well-sculpted model. With a lot of pent-up hunger.

‘More importantly, did you enjoy it?’ Eleanor asked.

The memory of his kiss was a wild beast in the pit of Kirsty’s stomach, clawing its way up her throat, demanding more. As if his confession had plucked away her defences and inhibitions one by one.

‘Kind of, yeah.’ The understatement of the millennium. She’d enjoyed it so much that the mere idea made her pulse with the need for friction.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Eleanor sighed. ‘Then I honestly don’t see the problem, darling. Maybe you need a bit of a tumble with him to clear your head. A roll in the hay or heather or whatever Scots like to roll around in.’

‘Maybe. But it’s more than that. There’s something about him… He’s different, yet the same. Matured,’ Kirsty said, struggling to put her thoughts into words.

Eleanor sighed. ‘You’re not talking about feelings, I hope.’

‘Not sure, but—’

‘What was it that he’s doing? Oil platform? That’s not your vibe, darling. We don’t date blue collars, that doesn’t get you anywhere. And how’s that even supposed to work – you in London, him out in the middle of nowhere?’

‘I know, but—’

‘You have to remember who you are and what you deserve, what you want in life. Know your worth,’ Eleanor said firmly, sounding like a pseudo-inspirational meme. ‘And I have to remember Sophie’s ballet lessons. So sorry, but got to scoot. Was lovely chatting with you.’

‘Thanks, Ellie.’

‘Speak to you soon. Don’t be a stranger. Bye now.’

Before she could utter one more syllable, Eleanor was gone and Kirsty had no more clarity than before.

Wow. That conversation had been shockingly unhelpful. So back to running in circles in her own head then. Fab.

Ahead, the road appeared longer and lonelier. The silence in the car amplified her thoughts, bringing back not just the kiss but the look of raw and aching emotion in Connor’s eyes.

It was clear he hadn’t forgotten a thing. What she’d done to him all those years ago.

She’d been so focused on her own hurt that she hadn’t realised how much she’d wounded him, too. She wasn’t eager to acknowledge it, but Connor was right. She’d excluded him, shut him out, made plans without him. Then she’d left without another word. The consequences of her decision were laid bare before her. She’d kind of known – and conveniently forgotten – that Rhona had had an epic crush on Steve-O. Had she seriously believed all those years Rhona and Connor had made out?

Or had it been more of an excuse to strengthen her resolve to pack up, leave, and start over?

She didn’t like the answer.

The car’s vibrations did nothing to soothe the ache in her heart and between her thighs. She cursed as she navigated a narrow bend in the road, framed by gentle green hills and barley fields under heavy, towering clouds.

Kirsty blew out a long breath. Connor was a walking sex- and heart-hazard, and her hazmat suit was at the dry-cleaner’s. That night had been perilously close.

Cairnhaven was too small for avoidance to be a long-term strategy. Sure, Eleanor was right, she would eventually go back to London and Connor to his oil rig. But the next weeks were going to be extremely uncomfortable if they kept rubbing up against each other like flint and steel, just shy of sparking a conflagration that would burn through everything.

Kirsty braced herself for what was to come. She was no shrinking violet. Time to put on her big girl trousers and deal with it.

But how?

She pulled into the hospital car park, cut the engine, and dropped her head against the steering wheel with a groan at the thought of her next daunting challenge.

Even though she loved her maw, she wasn’t prepared for thirty minutes of interrogation and nagging.

Half an hour later, she helped her mother into the passenger seat, the faint whiff of disinfectant and stale sheets clinging to her clothes. ‘Right, Maw. Let’s get you home then.’

‘One more day of hospital food and I’d thrown myself oot the windae.’ Her gaze flicked over her daughter with the precision of a seamstress taking measurements. ‘Kirsty, you look like you’ve been dragged through a thistle patch. What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’ She navigated the car onto the road.

‘Don’t you “nothing” me, love. I raised you. Even if you don’t care to remember.’

Kirsty held on to the wheel, her mum’s words needling under her skin. ‘That’s not true. You know it’s not. I’m just tired from the festival.’

Her mother gloated. ‘Oh, is milady not used to hard work? Well, if you’d taken over the café as you were supposed to—’

‘Maw. Please .’ She kept her gaze glued to the road, avoiding her mother’s piercing eyes. The shrill ring of her phone in the holder on the dashboard unexpectedly interrupted the Spanish Inquisition. Kirsty glanced at the display.

Boss Bitch.

Charlotte?

Being grilled by her mother or pestered by her boss. Fucking Sophie’s choice. And she’d happily trade both options for a root canal treatment.

With a defeated sigh, Kirsty picked up and put Charlotte on speakerphone.

‘Christie! Christie Monroe! How are you? Still in Scotland? God, it must be so nice and cold up there! It’s boiling down here in London. And I’m bored to death in postpartum. I’m so glad Mummy is here to onboard the nanny. How are you?’

‘I’m in the car with my mother. Congratulations on your baby. It looks…healthy.’

Her mother’s side stare burned a hole into Kirsty’s cheek.

‘Oh, yes! Gigi is the cutest little munchkin. I already started an Insta account and the followers are pouring in.’

Of course she had. Of course they did.

‘What can I do for you?’ Kirsty asked curtly.

‘Well, you see…Grigori and I were wondering if you’d come back a tad earlier? We have a former singer – I forgot her name – who’s willing to talk about her beauty secret, exclusively with us. She’s been keeping her skin radiant with her own urine for twenty years. Can you believe it? But only midstream clean catch or something. Anyhoo, we can’t think of anyone else to get the most out of this story. Oh, and then there’s this ex-Big Brother star who keeps calling us because he’s sleeping with the mayor’s bodyguard and promised us pictures. That’s right up your alley, Christie. You’re the best at this job. People tell you anything. What do you say? Wednesday?’

Her mother’s eyes doubled in size. Kirsty wanted to liquefy with shame and dissolve into a stain in the driver’s seat.

‘Christie?’

‘Yeah, I hear you. I…I have to clear that with my parents and their GP.’

Baby Gigi started wailing in the background. Rightly so.

‘Okay, but let me know by Friday. We’re planning the next months and we need more conversions. It’s a numbers game, as you know. And we miss you here, of course.’ She giggled in this well-versed way that made Kirsty’s hair stand on end.

Like hell you do.

She groaned as she ended the call. This was exactly why she’d needed to get away from London. The never-ending pressure to get the next salacious scoop. This toxic algorithm death cult. She was so tired of it. How nice it must be to be seen and accepted for what you are and want. Not that she had any idea what that was like.

And now her mother – who was still staring at her in sheer perplexity – knew.

‘I’m sorry you had to hear that, Maw.’

‘Why did she call you Christie Monroe?’

‘That’s kind of my pen name,’ Kirsty explained and flames rose to her hairline. ‘People kept calling me that anyway when I got to London, so I let it stick. Like a nickname.’

‘And if people call you an idiot, do you let that stick too?’

She winced at her mother’s harsh words. Though she couldn’t blame her. This wasn’t how she’d wanted her to find out about her tragic life as substandard tabloid and trash journalist.

To be honest, she hadn’t wanted her to find out at all.

‘I know you must be confused,’ Kirsty said. ‘But Christie Monroe is only a persona for work.’

Her mother shook her head, looking both hurt and disappointed. ‘We never understood why you wanted to write. Or why you wanted to live down south. But now I understand it even less.’

It was out in the open anyway. She might as well use the next twenty minutes to come clean and explain.

‘When I first moved to London, I was so excited to become a writer. Young and na?ve and ambitious. Then I got this internship and became a journalist, almost by accident. But I still wanted to tell and share stories.’ Kirsty took a swerve to avoid a pothole, careful not to rattle her mother’s brand-new hip. ‘And then…years went by, online-journalism grew, and all I did was write fluff pieces with silly headlines. I kept telling myself that one day, I would write a book or start a blog. Get promoted. Or found my own magazine. But…somehow, it never happened.’

‘You could have had a happy, fulfilling life in the café,’ her mother declared with a reproachful undertone.

‘No, Maw! I couldn’t! I’m a writer, I’ve always been a writer. Why is that so hard to see and accept? It’s not like I ran away and joined the bloody circus, for fuck’s sake.’

‘You might as well have,’ she said dryly. ‘It’s all the same to us. You left for a frivolous job and never came back. That’s not nice for parents. People were talking. Well, at first.’

‘Oh, because it was so nice for me!’ Trying to hold back the flood of emotions rising inside her, Kirsty risked a quick glance at her mum, who was now sternly staring out the window.

She’d never intended to hurt her parents by leaving home. All she’d wanted was to follow her dreams and write.

The hum of the engine filled the space between them, its steady thrum marking the minutes as they drove through the rain-soaked countryside, punctuated only by the rhythmic sweep of the wipers against the rain-streaked windshield.

‘Okay, look. I’m sorry I left the way I did,’ Kirsty broke the silence as they passed the Cairnhaven town sign. ‘At the time, I was eager to get out and start my life. It took all my courage to tell you my dreams, and you called me silly and ridiculous. That hurt, Maw. It really, really did.’

‘Och, we just wanted to protect you.’

‘No. You wanted me to be your mini-me. You didn’t care for who I was, for what I wanted. You gave me the notion that what I wanted was wrong. That I was wrong. As if the real me shouldn’t have existed. I showed you my dream, and you stomped on it.’

‘Kirsty, we’re your parents. We only want what’s best. And we didn’t think that was London. You had a life here! Family, friends. And Connor.’

Oh no. She wasn’t taking that particular bait. ‘Aye, well. Let’s agree to disagree. We’re here anyway. We’ll leave it at that for now. Okay?’

‘If you say so, love.’ Suddenly, her fierce mother looked small and tired in her seat, like a crumpled hankie.

You can have painful disagreements and still love one another to bits.

Kirsty put her hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on, Maw. I’ll get you upstairs and make you a nice cuppa. Da and I can handle the café. You get some rest and enjoy your steak pie victory over Isa.’

A fleeting smile lit up her features. ‘Aye, we beat that gossiping cow. If I could, I’d do a victory dance.’

Kirsty laughed. ‘With your new hip? I bet you’ll be twerking in no time.’

Carrying her mum’s bag up the stairs, Kirsty thought about her job. Why she’d wanted to become a writer in the first place. Not for urine facials and bodyguard shagging.

Somewhere along the way I lost my compass.

Time for a new direction. But where?

As she put down her mother’s bag in the hall, Kirsty’s phone buzzed in her pocket.

UNKNOWN (12:07 PM) Freckles, it’s Connor. Can we talk? Beach tonight at 9. Old spot. I’ll bring the blanket.

That evening Kirsty sat on her bed, staring at the R.E.M poster on the wall in front of her. She caught herself biting her nails, an unconscious mannerism she thought she had kicked aeons ago. But apparently old habits resurfaced.

Like a lot of old stuff.

Connor’s unexpected text had blindsided her. A meeting at their former spot on the beach? That smelled like disaster. Even though it would give them the opportunity to hash things out. She wondered if it was worth taking the gamble. Connor Bannerman was like a thistle: prickly and surprisingly beautiful if you caught him in the right light. But there could be stings and scratches. And not necessarily the good kind.

As the pressure on her chest grew, it dawned on her that she had no one to talk to for relief or clarity. Evidently, not Eleanor. There were a handful of people in London who she went to the movies with every so often. To grab sushi. The occasional cocktail. One or two she’d even bake a birthday cake for. But none of them was the right person to call and scream, ‘Do I still love him? The hell do I know! You tell me!’

It was impossible to talk to her parents. They didn’t understand her. Never had, never would, never wanted to.

No, it was clear as day.

She had nobody.

Not a soul she could call in the middle of the night when shit hit the fan.Or when she was about to hump her teenage boyfriend on the beach.

Because honestly, that was a real possibility.

Kirsty was all too aware that she couldn’t avoid him, not here. Was probably wise to have it out after that kiss. Something had to give, one way or another. Jaw set firmly, she rose from the bed and quickly got dressed in a pair of jersey trousers and a casual tank top. She needed to be comfortable. Definitely didn’t want to seem eager. Her fingers fumbled clumsily as she struggled to tie her canvas shoes.

Taking one last look in the mirror with its faded Nirvana stickers, Kirsty noticed her hair. It was fiery red again. No time for touch-ups in between all the chaos.

Looks okay, I’ll leave it for now.

She snatched her bag and made her way to their old beach haunt. To a scary one-on-one with Bannerman.