Page 21

GEORDIE

What the hell were we thinking?

As I drive the electrician’s van across town, heading for the Sharpes’ house, that final text repeats in my head.

Yesterday, I sat in the seat behind Jenna, visualising her typing those words, amused. In them I thought I heard her enjoying the subterfuge—playing a game—the riskiness and sneaking around, adding an edge to whatever it is we’re doing here. But when my two texts last night and another this morning went unanswered, I started to imagine other meanings.

What the hell were we thinking?

Now I hear doubt, regret, rejection. Like an opportunistic tackler for the other side, these ideas come charging in, unbalancing me and threatening to topple me to the ground with a crash. If I’m going to break free of them, I need to see Jenna. Even though my stomach churns with apprehension, Mum’s breakfast of porridge swirling uncomfortably beneath my ribs, it’s the only solution.

The ongoing electrical checking provides the perfect excuse for me to be here each day. I’ll need to tread cautiously, not wanting to scare Jenna off with over-attentiveness. After all, in her mind, this is not a relationship. Friends with benefits, on her terms alone, and no more. Whatever it is, I’m not prepared to have it end before we’ve started. Before I’ve shown her other possibilities, if only she’d believe she deserves them.

As I turn into the driveway, I’m relieved to catch a glimpse of Coach’s back. He disappears with long strides, off on his morning run. He’ll be gone for a while. Being here last week, I already know his daily routine: a lap right around the edge of the town and then up to the top of Bourke’s Hill and back. He’s fit for an old bugger. Then he’ll buy two takeaway teas from Meredith Markham’s cafe, an excuse to drop into Darby and Keene, where he’ll spend at least an hour chatting to Grant. With the season proper starting in two weeks’ time, he’ll have plenty to say.

Jenna laughs at Razor’s obliviousness as he monopolises Grant’s time daily. He seems to have forgotten that, unlike the admin people at the Highlanders, she and Grant aren’t paid for time spent on Cluanie R.F.C. matters. Grant’s role as president is an honorary position. Jenna throws in PR advice for free. But Razor taking up Grant’s morning suits me well, gifting me two unsupervised hours with Jenna every day.

Is this when we’re going to hook up? Stolen moments when I’m meant to be working, while her father’s out of the house?

It’s risky for sure, but we’re too old to be banging in cars. Too old to be having sex in my bedroom with my parents downstairs. It’s time to find somewhere else for me to live. I’m not needed at Mum and Dad’s anymore, so no one will think anything of me moving out.

I could get my own place. There’s enough money stashed in my bank account to buy a decent one with cash, but that feels one step too far for now. Yes, I’m back in Cluanie, and not unhappy about it, but inside me, there’s this nagging voice telling me I’m not ready to put down roots here yet. Buying a house in the town would be a permanent commitment to this place. While coming home feels like it was the right thing to do, I’m still fighting the thought of being tied to Cluanie.

For now, I should probably move into Nathan’s. He lives rent free in the house behind the distillery. Just him and plenty of spare rooms and I think he’s lonely. Whenever I’ve complained about living under my father’s judgmental sneer, he’s told me the offer of a room stands.

Nathan already knows our secret, and he’s not one to blab. Out there in the country, with the property screened off from the distillery by trees, no one would see Jenna’s sporty Beamer parked in the driveway. It’s a sweet car, but stands out in a town full of Fords and Vauxhalls. If I got a flat in town, the gossip would explode the first time she pulled up outside. Nathan’s place is a good option.

Parking beneath the imitation Greek columns of the portico, I divert my mind from these plans. No point getting too far down that track before Jenna and I have talked. I need to be sure she hasn’t changed her mind outside the bubble of Edinburgh.

I head straight for the summerhouse, finding it in darkness. At first I curse under my breath, thinking the lights have gone on the blink, annoyed at the possibility I missed something in my electrical check on Thursday. But the place is empty. No Jenna. No Skylar. Not even Andy .

I whirl around at the thought of the dog, wondering if the little shit is right this moment, making a beeline for me, about to pounce on my ankles. At least I’m wearing my safety boots. Surely footwear designed to protect from electrical shock, heavy objects, and slipping and falling on your arse can thwart a nasty little Scottish terrier.

But the entire property—the summerhouse, the rippling pool, the neat gardens and the looming house—is bathed in quiet, still and empty. She’s not there.

I trudge to the front door, retrieve the key from my pocket, and open up the house. I step to the keypad, ready to punch in the code, but find the alarm isn’t on. Coach is sloppy. I’ll need to find a tactful way to remind him about security. While this is Cluanie and most people don’t bother to lock their doors, most of them also don’t live in a mansion like this. It’s an obvious target for anyone hoping to score a good haul. Kyle and the two other local coppers do a good job keeping the locals on the straight and narrow, but it wouldn’t surprise me if some out-of-town crims saw the Sharpe house as ripe for a burglary.

I turn the power off at the mains board in the garage and head for the kitchen. I breezed through the work in the upstairs bedrooms on Friday. Down here, as well as the kitchen, there are ten other rooms, including a fancy media room and two offices. It could take at least a couple of days to properly check out the electrical wiring in this sprawling house, even if I worked on it all day, every day. Although I’d prefer to spin it out over a longer period, hoping that both Coach and Sparky won’t suspect my ulterior motive in timetabling the work that way.

Two hours later, I’m satisfied that none of the wired-in kitchen appliances are going to light up Jenna, and all the power points are safe. I stand for a moment in the entry foyer, my ears searching for any sound, but there’s none. I shove away the dragging disappointment at her absence, telling myself at least it’s better than if she was upstairs, ignoring me, after deciding the weekend was a huge mistake.

I send her another text, letting her know I’ve been in and giving an update on the work. It sounds too business-like, so I follow it up with a casual ‘ How’s your day going?’ I get no response.

On my way out I leave the alarm unset—don’t want to give Robbie a heart attack when he steps into the house—lock up, and set off for my next job at MacFarlane’s Distillery. Nathan’s an unhappy man, the ageing equipment determined to ruin the start of his working week by breaking down again this morning. Maybe his misfortune drawing me back there is a sign I should move in. Living there, I’d be on call to baby the plant along until his boss can replace it, as well as having a safe place for Jenna and I to meet.

I glance at my phone, thinking I’ll time the run out there so I can convince Jenna the drive’s not too far when I get to talk to her. Staring at the screen, still blank with no response from her, I swallow down the niggling worry that it may not be ‘when I get to talk to her’, but ‘if’, because right now this conversation is all one-sided.

When I return to the Sharpe’s the next day, I’m met with the same empty house. In between, I’ve dared two more texts to Jenna, trying to sound casual. I’m too scared to bail up Razor and ask him where she is. After all, he’d only ask why I should need to know or care. There’s still no sign of Andy or Skylar. Maybe the dog ran away from her house on the weekend and they’re all out hunting for him. It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s the definition of mayhem .

By the third morning, I’ve become despondent. And I shouldn’t be. In what universe does a beautiful, intelligent girl like Jenna choose a regular guy like me? Of course, by the harsh light of day, the weekend is just a mistake. She’s gone back to her pre-Geordie life. Jenna’s off doing something important while I’m here, buried in the ordinary.

I race through my work today, now spurred on to finish up everything, so I don’t risk facing Jenna and my huge error of judgement by coming back another day. Packing up my tools, I linger in the foyer one last time.

To the right, in the sunny front room, a baby grand piano gleams, its black lacquer in perfect condition as if Fiona Sharpe is going to take her seat at the instrument any moment, and coax it back to life. It’s beautiful, far removed from the more modest, upright piano of the lessons in my childhood memories.

I stroll towards it, and lay a hand on the glossy surface, as if offering sympathy for the loss of the woman who loved it. The big strings in its heart lie still and silent, mourning the person who encouraged sounds from its depths. The music stand lies with empty arms pointing skyward, as if holding phantom sheets in place. I open the lid to reveal the keys; smooth black hills and ivory valleys, starved of the touch of the woman who once made them sing.

I slide onto the piano stool, settling my hands into the familiar position. Just like at the hotel the other night, the music comes easily, the residue of years of lessons and hours of practice. It’s Beethoven. The man really was a genius. His Moonlight Sonata is my mother’s favourite; the one she’d beg me to play over and over, sometimes just for her, other times dragging me up in front of her friends like a performing seal, red-faced with embarrassment and clumsy under their scrutiny.

Today I play for Fiona Sharpe, a tribute to her kindness and patience with a boy who didn’t want to be in her studio, but found an unexpected ease in the learning forced on him there, the music a language that made more sense to him than any other, the intricate pictures on paper painting a pattern his hands could understand.

I play for me, too, the melancholy melody well-suited to my mood. I focus on the notes, trying not to think about how stupid I was to imagine the weekend could possibly mean as much to Jenna as it did to me.