Chapter 11

11

Shelley is wary of the over-praising of men for doing ordinary things. The fanfare and wild applause when, say, a father helps his young daughter up onto the slide and then waits to catch her at the bottom. ‘Aren’t you a marvellous dad!’ an elderly lady exclaimed once, when Joel had done precisely that. ‘You deserve a medal!’

What about me? Shelley thought. What about the millions of times she’d brought Martha and Fin to the park in the rain, and pushed those swings while Joel stayed at home, having said he had ‘stuff to get on with’? Why hadn’t anyone rushed over and said she deserved a medal? Yet despite this, there is something about Michael and the way he seems to run things here – singlehandedly, it appears – that Shelley can’t help but be impressed by.

‘So, if guests want the dinner option, we eat here all together,’ he explains as they rejoin him in the kitchen. ‘But you don’t need to do that. It’s your weekend and you’ve come a long way for this. Just come and go as you like?—’

‘We’d love to eat with you,’ Shelley cuts in, turning to her friends. ‘Wouldn’t we?’

‘Of course,’ Lena says. ‘But only if it’s no trouble…’

‘Only if you have space for us,’ Pearl adds. ‘And if you let us cook.’

‘Yes, just tell us what to do,’ Lena insists, even though her culinary skills are decidedly limited. All those years with her faithless ex-husband, she had vowed to crash-course her way through Jamie Oliver’s early works in preparation for the family they planned to have. However, she had never quite got around to it.

‘Honestly, it’s no trouble,’ Michael says firmly. He hands them generous glasses of wine and pours a small one for himself. ‘I’ve been doing this for so long, it pretty much runs like clockwork. I have my systems,’ he adds with a smile.

‘So how many will there be tomorrow night?’ Pearl asks.

‘Um, the Sampsons are a family of three, and then there’s the single guy, Niall-someone – a hillwalker, I’m guessing – and you three, and me. So that’s eight. That’s pretty normal. There aren’t many other options for eating around here,’ he explains, turning away to tend to their supper.

Although all three offer to help, Michael insists that everything is in hand. He sets the table with charmingly mismatched china, and lights the cluster of creamy candles sitting in a bowl surrounded by holly sprigs. Chatter flows easily as their glasses are topped up. ‘You’ve brought way too much,’ Michael insisted earlier as he unpacked their gifts. ‘But thank you.’

Now he’s back at the stove, busying away without an iota of fuss. Shelley can’t help observing, in the manner of an examiner at a home economics practical exam, as first a whole baked salmon emerges from the Aga, surrounded by perfectly roasted fennel and tomatoes, to be scattered with fresh herbs. Top marks! A tray of roasted baby potatoes follows, and a green salad is tossed and served in a huge earthenware bowl.

There’s no banging or crashing or swearing here at Shore Cottage. Crucially, the kitchen hasn’t been destroyed in the process. Excellent presentation and thoughtful, methodical processes. A-plus! Somehow, Michael seems to be capable of cooking, serving and clearing up after himself, all while sipping wine and chatting with his guests.

As they eat, Shelley replays Joel’s performance in making that mountain of over-fired cheese on toast the other night. There’d been an explosion of crumbs, a liberally buttered worktop – and a bleeding finger, for crying out loud, as if a toddler had been let loose with a knife. But then, this is Michael’s job, she reminds herself. Clearly, he is well practised at welcoming in strangers, and asking everyone about their jobs, families and lives. She also notices that, while he tops up their glasses, and makes sure there is a chilled bottle of wine on the table – they are on their second already – he is spinning out a single glass.

‘Have some more,’ Pearl urges him. ‘It’s only us. You can kick back yourself tonight.’

Michael hesitates. ‘Oh, why not? This is a night off for me.’ He chuckles. ‘I tend to forget what that actually is.’

‘It must feel like you’re always on ,’ Lena suggests, ‘when you have guests.’

‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘It’s funny, because most of them are lovely and we keep in touch. And I have my regulars who’ve come back again and again. But even so…’ He tails off.

‘You’re still hosting,’ Shelley suggests.

‘Yes, exactly.’

‘But d’you enjoy it?’ Pearl probes him. ‘Running this place, I mean?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he says, and she catches a moment’s hesitation. ‘Like I said, most of the guests are great. But there’s the odd rude one, you know? Demanding types. A bit, “Hey!”—’ He clicks his fingers sharply, mimicking a rude customer in a restaurant.

‘I hate that,’ Lena exclaims. It had been a trait of her ex-husband’s and she’d pulled him up on it many times. All through university Lena had juggled numerous waitressing jobs and was familiar with diners forgetting that she was an actual person.

‘Oh, it’s par for the course,’ Michael says lightly. ‘I guess I’ve become pretty immune to it.’ A small pause settles, and Stan stretches and yawns, limbering up as he gets up from his basket. When he potters over it’s Shelley he makes for, nuzzling her hand.

‘Stan,’ Michael starts, but Shelley assures him it’s fine. Keen to have someone at home who’d be happy to see her, she has mooted the suggestion of getting a dog. The kids were keen and immediately checked out some rescue centres’ websites. But Joel proclaimed that, as the home worker, he’d be lumbered with all the walking and care. So she let the idea drop.

‘So, Michael,’ Pearl says, emboldened by wine now, ‘please tell me if I’m being nosey here.’ She pauses. ‘But I just wondered?—’

‘How come I’m running this place by myself?’ His brows raise and he smiles.

She squirms a little. ‘It just seems like a lot to manage.’

Michael sips his wine. ‘It wasn’t planned like this,’ he starts. ‘Can you believe I’d never been to the Highlands before I saw this place?’ Pearl shakes her head. ‘It was all Rona’s idea,’ he explains, looking around at all of them. ‘We were still young, mid-twenties, neither of us massively happy in our jobs down south. She’d always had this fantasy of finding a little place in the middle of nowhere and turning it into the perfect B that here is this somewhat tragic middle-aged man, desperately lonely, despite the steady stream of guests.

And actually, there is nothing tragic about Michael at all. At least, not in so far as she has gleaned tonight. So why does her mind run away like this?

The answer seems to hit her squarely in the gut as Stan’s sandpapery tongue laps at her hand. Emboldened by wine now, Pearl has asked Michael how he might possibly meet anyone, living out here, miles from anywhere.

‘Well, there sort of is someone,’ he replies.

And as he starts to share his story, Shelley decides that it’s not Michael who’s the tragic one. It’s her.