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It’s only when I get to The Thirst Trap that I realise I didn’t ask them what it was going to be.

“Flats maybe? Office space?” I suggest after Tom arrives and I fill him in on the building work.

“I don’t know, Abs. I guess we’ll find out soon,” Tom replies as we work behind the bar to stock the fridges for the evening rush. “Why are you so interested, anyway?” he asks, a curious look in his eyes.

“I dunno. I just always daydreamed about the place. That was going to be my project if I ever won the lottery. I’d love to live on the top floor.”

“But, Abby, you don’t even play the lottery, do you?” Cassidy asks from her perch on the other side of the bar. She’s taken to coming down some days and working here for an hour or so while we bustle around her. She likes having company while she writes her latest book. And I love having the opportunity to sneak a glance over her shoulder to see what smut she’s writing.

“No, that’s true. Dammit, why didn’t I buy a ticket?”

“I didn’t even know the place was up for sale. There was no signage or anything,” Tom says with a frown.

“Can’t you look up planning permission applications online?” Cassidy asks, peeking over her laptop at me. “Surely they’ve already put the application in if there are people there starting to do stuff.” She stares at me for a moment before going back to her laptop and typing. I shrug and carry on filling the fridges withsoft drinks, assuming she’d gone back to her work in progress when she yells, “Found it!”

“What have you found?” Tom asks, puzzlement drawing his brows together.

“The planning application. I’m just opening up the file now.”

I stand up from my kneeling position, dusting off my jeans with my hands as I do.

“Oh.” Disappointment edges her voice.

“What is it?” I ask, wondering why she’d sound like that.

“It’s a mix of uses, but it sounds like one of them is going to be a bar.” She winces at Tom as she says it. “Were you informed someone else locally had applied for a bar licence?”

“No, but I’m behind on my emails. There’s the possibility I got something about it.” His tone is infuriatingly nonchalant. I reach across, slapping Tom’s bicep. “Ow, what’s that for?” he asks with a scowl.

“If we’d known, we could have put in a protest. Dammit, Tom. Now some rich guy is gonna open a swanky bar and steal all our customers, and I’ll be out on my ear.”

“Abs,” Tom sighs as he tugs me into his side in a one-armed hug. “It’ll be fine, even if it is another bar, there’s enough room for two of us in this town. It’s good to have some competition. It’ll keep us on our toes.”

“That’s the spirit, my love,” Cassidy says, giving him an encouraging smile.

But I’m not convinced. This feels like it could rock my stable boat. And it took me a long time to feel this way. Is this the storm I’ve been expecting to hit when life got easier and I wasn’t convinced I deserved it?

Chapter six

Pixie

Despite seeing plenty of vans parked up outside and hearing building-type noises from inside each time I make an excuse to walk past The Juniper, I am yet to catch even the smallest glimpse of the inside. It’s making me antsy and becoming an obsession. I need to know. I’ve never been this crazy about a building before—not even my tiny bedsit, which is my den to hide away from the world when I need to. I love that place. It may just be a rental, but I’ve carefully curated my second-hand and upcycled furniture to make it mine.

Tom, Cass, and Jack have just purchased their own place further out of town, and I’m excited to visit and get the tour, and make friends with the dog they’re talking about getting.

But this old, crumbling building that has nothing to do with me, other than being just down the road from where I work, and that I walk past most days, has lured me. I even did an internet search last night, trying to find out the history of the place. Icouldn’t find much, but no doubt there’s more digging to be done.

Deep in my search, I found mention of it being used as some kind of club for rich folks in the roaring twenties all the way through to the forties. I had visions of flapper dresses and people smoking cigarettes on long sticks a la Holly Golightly inBreakfast at Tiffany’s. I could picture the sparkling chandeliers and the Art Deco style. It seemed to be empty during the Second World War. More recently, it had been a pub and at one point also offered hotel rooms on the upper floors.

Today, I’m heading towards work a little earlier. I’m going to visit the bakery across the road from The Juniper and hope there’s space at one of their tiny outdoor tables to grab a coffee and a cake before my shift. Perhaps there’ll be a little more activity at the building as I sit and watch. I was so tempted to borrow some binoculars, but realised that would border on levels of crazy obsession that I’m not willing to tell my friends about. I can’t even decide which of my friends would be more likely to own binoculars. Perhaps I should buy some. You can get anything delivered these days, including spy equipment.

My mind takes one of its tangents, and I imagine planting a listening bug in the building to hear what they’re doing. And I might even hear the plans for the place that could help Tom and The Thirst Trap.

I rub at my chest, at the conflict of wanting this beautiful building to be made good and brought back to life, but the fear that it could lead to my home and family of choice at The Thirst Trap being under threat. Maybe it will be a stuffy old man’s pub, attracting completely different customers to our place.

‘Our’ place. It’s not really. It’s Tom’s. But after so many years, it feels like mine too. I’m there most days. I’ve cleaned every inch of it. Made friends with the regulars and got to know their names and their drink orders. The Thirst Trap has become mysafe place, and my boss and his partners are the closest thing to family I know.

My steps speed up as I head towards the corner. A van pulls up, and a guy in what can only be described as workman’s clothes steps out. He’s tall and chunky and his gait sparks a memory of chatting with Saffy as we headed towards that cute little Italian restaurant. Cam had trailed behind us while we talked but overtook us to hold the door open. I shake my head.Over five million Scots, Abby. It won’t be him.