Page 6

JENNA

A slushy slurping noise drifts upwards from the floor beside my bed. I force open gritty eyes and lean over, already suspecting the source from the faint whiff in the air. And I’m right.

Despite my room being a no-go zone for an entire day yesterday, while I zonked out on high-powered migraine meds, somehow this morning wily wee Andy has managed to sneak his little body inside. No doubt he wheedled his way past my father. I heard Dad pop his head in earlier, as he always does, checking in to see if I’m winning the battle against the stabbing headache and swirling nausea.

I may have defeated the migraine, but I’m not betting on a win over Andy, though. He’s lying on his back, his little front paws clasped tight around one of my favourite fluffy slippers. His eyes scrunch tight with pleasure, his wee lips fastened onto the shaggy faux-fur as he makes contented sucking noises.

This is not the first time he’s got his sneaky paws on my slippers. My theory is he was taken off his mother too soon, hence his need for a surrogate. He kicks his little back legs in happy circles, keeping time with the rhythm of small grunts as an imagined stream of warm milk trickles down his throat.

I definitely don’t have the physical or mental stamina this morning to fight Andy for the slipper, but I’m not prepared to let him have it either. I love those slippers. Instead, I create a diversion using another of my possessions he’s developed an obsession with.

The baby haggis soft toy I bought to complete my outfit for a Burns Night party last year looked super cute tucked under my arm. In reality, haggis sounds like some gross medieval method of execution, where an unsuspecting sheep has its heart, liver and lungs chopped into little pieces before they are stuffed back into its stomach with some oats, onions and a bit of seasoning.

I’ve never eaten it and never intend to. Call me disloyal to my heritage. I don’t care. But I’m more than happy to join in the imaginative Scottish craze of pretending the haggis is a wee furry animal, bred for the table as well as hunted in the wild. I liked my funny little haggis toy so much it has occupied a spot on my bed ever since.

The instant he spotted it, Andy snapped into terrier mode, desperate for the kill. I’d be sad to see him succeed, but I’m not so attached to the toy that I won’t sacrifice it for the sake of saving my slippers. I snatch it off the pillow next to me and toss it across the room.

Andy’s eyes snap open in recognition as it hits the floor, and he’s off. I swoop down to pluck the sad, damp, sucked slipper and its undamaged mate from the floor. Hearing my squeal of delight, Andy skitters to a halt just short of the haggis, and narrows his eyes, realising I’ve duped him.

I wouldn’t put it past the wee terror to launch himself at the slippers, so I slip them on my feet. If he does, I’ll have a better chance of kicking him away. I’m not normally the sort of person who would kick a dog, but I feel justified if said dog is Andy trying to do me damage—after all, self-defence is a legitimate argument.

Andy seems to admit defeat, turning his attention to the haggis. Deciding that getting out of his range is the best idea, I cross the floor. Reaching for my dressing gown, I keep one eye on him just in case he decides to try a sneak attack. I value my ankles too much to risk his nasty little teeth wrapping around them. Realising I’m leaving, he springs to his feet, trailing behind me like he always did with Mum. I’m a poor substitute considering how lukewarm I am about the dog, but I’m all he’s got, and for Mum’s sake—and maybe for my own healing too—I vow to try harder with him.

Downstairs, the house feels unnaturally quiet after Saturday’s festivities. A blanket of sad emptiness hangs across the enormous lounge that just days ago buzzed with laughter and conversation. I enjoyed the party more than I expected, and now the contrast only emphasises what’s missing.

The rhythmic tapping of keys drifts from Dad’s bedroom. No doubt he’s on the BBC Sport website, poring over match reports with the intensity of a man who’s lived and breathed rugby his whole life. It’s overlaid with vague muttering, probably him voicing his disagreement with the analysis of a game.

Rugby is the only thing that’s dragged my father into the digital age and even then he seems to both love and resent how it’s taken over from listening to the radio or leafing through the sports section of a newspaper, a pleasure he still insists on even if the news is out of date by the time it gets into his hands.

I pour myself a cup of tepid coffee, a familiar loneliness settling in me as I survey the stark white kitchen. Even though I chose to take this year away, I still miss the bustle of Glasgow and the craziness of Highlanders HQ. I miss my apartment and its view of the Clyde, and meeting my neighbours on the stairs. I miss lunches in cafes, and clubbing on weekends. But for now, there’s no time to mope about what I’m missing out on, but focus on what I have.

It’s been ages since I’ve had the luxury of calling in sick. At my job in London for Imagine PR, with one phone call I could hand off most things. However, once I stepped into the media management role with Dad’s pro team, I became indispensable. Like the players who’d rather quietly tape up than admit injury, I pushed through illness, never one to make a fuss, showing up as my usual efficient self even when fuelled by ibuprofen and caffeine.

Now, as I experiment with this little one-woman PR business, it’s even more important I show up. If I don’t do the work, no one else will. Besides, I’m loving it. The chance to represent who I want instead of who I have to, and the interesting range of clients, not limited to male rugby players, is feeding an unmet need I never knew I had. When I return to the Highlanders in November, it will be on the understanding I still get to keep this going on the side. With Andy at my heels, I shuffle across to the summerhouse, flick on a light and slide into my desk.

I’m buried in the most important task of my week, when the door swings open and my father steps in. To combat the cold, he’s wearing leggings under running shorts, a thermal top, and a beanie on his head, ready for his daily run. Dad doesn’t take advice from many people, but he’s listened to his doctors. If he wants to overcome the battering his body took as a young man, back when the game wasn’t so safety conscious, and reach old age in good health, he needs to do his bit. Plus, he thrives on knowing that while he can’t keep up with his young players, he’s quickly able to cover the field, getting up close to a rucking pack or a rolling maul. I’ve watched him give coaching messages in person with an intensity he couldn’t deliver from the sidelines.

“Sure you’re OK love? You don’t seem like yourself at all.”

Dad’s thick salt-and-pepper brows furrow in concern. He’s not one for fussing, so I read this as a definite sign that I look as bad as I feel—and I feel like shit. The post-migraine fog has yet to lift, and until it does, I worry the pain will grab hold of me again and rip away another day of my life.

“I’m fine Dad,” I say, although I can see why he’s come to the conclusion I’m not. I must look a wreck.

I sit at my desk in a pair of Wonder Woman pyjamas, the bright slippers capturing my feet in a warm hug. Of course, one is a little worse for wear after its earlier ordeal with Andy. Numerous tiny damp dreadlocks nestle amongst the formerly sleek fibres, but the damage isn’t terminal.

My face is flushed; the room is too warm. Frost in August isn’t unheard of in Cluanie, but seeing the delicate white dusting across the lawn still triggers an unwelcome reminder that winter’s never far away up here, even though it’s accompanied by nostalgic memories of sliding across icy grass in my childhood rugby games. This morning I cranked up the heater to push off the chill, but now the heat I sought when I first came in here is making me nauseous again .

“You know there’s no reason for you not to have another day in bed,” he suggests. “Better to be properly well than trying to work and do a half-arsed job.”

It’s the same wisdom Dad’s always applied to his players. No one goes back on the list unless they are fit to do the task he expects of them. This time he’s wrong. There are two very good reasons that I need to be here, match fit or not.

“No Dad, really I’m good,” I say, mustering a smile.

After losing too much of my twenties to these debilitating headaches, I’ve finally got the migraines under control. My daily preventative meds run the offence and the newer, more effective drugs are ready on the bench if one breaks through the defensive line. I have this ridiculous fear that should I offer up a second day, the migraine monster will become greedy and, before I know it, I’ll be back to the bad old days.

However, the document open on my laptop is the other more pressing reason for keeping upright.

“I need to go over this proposal for Quinn,” I tell him, unable to keep the enthusiasm from my voice despite feeling like death warmed up. “I’ve got a zoom with her this afternoon and I want to be prepared.”

There must be something in the water in Cluanie. We’ve produced more than our share of outstanding sports people, the man standing in front of me included. But it’s not because she hails from my hometown that I’m desperate to add Quinn Jamieson to my stable.

I’ve made a name for myself in a male-dominated sport, which means my first few private clients are all guys. However, women’s sport is on the rise and I want to be part of the new wave as we no longer play second fiddle to the men. To have this world class triathlete sign with me would be a victory not only professionally, but personally.

It’s heartening that she and I are the same age. Many thirty-four-year-old athletes are facing the cold hard reality of a body punished by sport and looking for an exit strategy. They’re forced to bow out gracefully and accept the narrowing of their world while younger rising stars, hungry for success, shove them aside. Quinn is at her peak and shows every sign it’s not just a spike with her career all downhill from here. She offers a small beacon of hope that maybe, just maybe, my best years aren’t all behind me, either.

“I suppose it’s a bit rich me telling you to take it easy.” He’s notorious for not calling in sick, even one time when Doc threatened to handcuff him to his bed. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t so damn like me,” he says with a wry curve of his mouth. But I know it’s not true. “Well, make sure you pace yourself.” Like he doesn’t know I only have one speed—and it’s full on. “I’m just off for my run, and then I’ll stop in at Grant’s office. Promised I’d go over a couple of things with him. Some ideas I’ve been mulling over.”

Poor Grant. How the man even gets a single spreadsheet finished, I don’t know. I assume he’s got a team of junior assistants who pick up the slack while he’s deep in conference with Dad. They must shudder when he steps in the door of Darby and Keene Accountants. My father forgets he’s not dealing with professional administrators who are paid to listen to his latest musings on the state of the game and rugby politics.

“Take care, Dad,” I say. “Early frost. Could be some ice on the pavements. ”

He pulls his beanie down hard, stepping out into the clear sky, where the fog has peeled back. It’s going to be a beautiful day, although still too bright for my over-sensitive eyes. He breaks into a jog, his breath misting a little, and disappears with steady rhythmic footfalls across the concrete paved courtyard.

I lean forward at my desk, head cupped in my hands, fingers rotating across my temples in a delicate probing massage. I breathe in, right into the depths of my stomach, allowing the air to sweep through my body with soothing tendrils, and then out again, in a slow stream, seeking out the tiny bits of the miasma of migraine that linger. In—hold—out; and repeat.

The well-practised mantra helps me tap back into simply feeling normal. It’s bliss after the painful hours of early Sunday followed by the dull, heavily-sedated sleep that, while it is my saviour, comes with a price. It’s like having a hangover without the pleasant memory of the alcohol to compensate.

The door swings open and I raise my head, expecting to see Dad returning with some reminder or further sage words of advice. But it’s not. My witty comment about his over-protectiveness withers on my lips.

I blink, unsure if this is some fever dream, as bottled sunshine walks into my office clutching a tall takeaway coffee and a full-wattage smile. It’s my fangirl. What was her name? Taylor? No—Skylar. Her smile wavers a little in the face of my frown. I’m told I look downright intimidating when I’m thinking.

“Skylar,” I say, forcing a bright tone and hoping my face complies with the order to follow. “You’re here.”

OK, maybe normal isn’t quite in the building yet; but even normal me isn’t so good at welcoming small talk. I’ve lived in the world of men so long, I’ve had too little practice in the warm fuzzies that oil the wheels of feminine conversation.

“I brought you a coffee,” she says, thrusting the cup at me. “Figured everyone needs a coffee on Monday morning.”

“You figured right. That’s exactly what I need. Thanks.”

I stretch out my hand in gratitude, folding my fingers around the waxy paper cup. Its warmth feels good, soothing against the residual tension of the headache I’m still holding in every part of my body—but not as good as the smell that drifts towards me.

Maybe I’m hallucinating. Maybe I’m not in the arse-end of Scotland. Maybe it’s not Monday morning. Maybe I’m not facing the spectre of my migraines coming back in their life-sapping ferocity. The aroma begs my mouth to taste, to confirm what I suspect is true.

“Where the hell did you find a toffee nut latte in Cluanie?” I say as the first sip of hot, sweet deliciousness passes across my tongue.

“It’s not what you know, but who you know,” she says with a wink.

“Maggie at the Co-op?” Her face falls just a millimetre knowing I’ve guessed her secret supplier, then lifts back to high beam. “I heard a rumour she was planning to expand the offerings.”

The town is growing with all the work-from-home people who’ve relocated from cities to smaller rural places. People like me. Smart locals like Maggie know there’s money to be made in feeding their caffeine addiction, the lifeline of a city worker.

“I hope it’s still OK,” she says. “You said, on Saturday night—“

“Of course it’s OK. I remembered. You want to work for me.”

“Not work, volunteer. A sort of internship?”

“Skylar, I’d love to have you, but on one condition. It’s a paid internship.” I won’t profit from this girl’s enthusiasm .

“That’s very generous,” she says, and I note she knows when to be gracious and accept a sincere offer without a fuss, showing unexpected maturity. “When can I start?” She’s trying to suppress her puppylike eagerness, and it’s heartwarming.

“You can start right now. See this folder. I need three copies of what’s inside, bound—that’s this machine here.” That will be the acid test. The damn binding machine hates me with a vengeance. If she can work out how to use it without it chewing the edges of freshly copied documents, spitting them out with ragged tooth-marks, then she’s a keeper.

“And then, this is a list of Twitter accounts. Jump on here,” I pull Twitter up on the iPad, “and screenshot any tweets that mention them from the last three days.”

“Got it, boss,” she says, offering me a salute and a grin.

I gather myself from my desk, trying to appear nonchalant as I reveal the full extent of my Monday morning slovenliness. Skylar tries to look equally unsurprised as she takes in the sight. Her new boss is wearing superhero pyjamas and slippers that look like twin bright pink Highland coos, one of which is going through a reggae phase. Meanwhile, my hair resembles something from The Walking Dead.

“I’ll be back in half an hour. Need to deal with this.” I point a finger at my lank hair.

In the shower, I melt under the soothing water. Rain from the large showerhead cascades over me, little rivers washing away the fog from my brain. Multiple jets massage my back and legs, while a fine mist drifts around my shoulders in a warm cloud.

I breathe a sigh of gratitude that the excesses of this house extend to the bathrooms. The vanity of a failed businessman, many features of this sumptuous home are wasted on us, but here in the shower, I’m glad of his need to do everything on an impressive scale.

The oversupply of space within these walls may also prove useful if Dad continues to invite big groups of people over, like the almost one hundred at Saturday night’s party. I blame that for the migraine. Too much peopling often beckons in my headaches. Although, besides the stress of facing them all, a few positives came out of the evening.

Skylar for one. I hate to admit it, but the rapid success of my new solo business venture is putting me under pressure. I’m used to having a team of assistants to step up when necessary. I’ve missed that. But perhaps not any more. If this girl has even half the potential I sense in her, she’s just what I need.

And it was good seeing some of the old familiar faces. Maybe not Kyle Stewart. That brought up memories of a version of myself I’d rather forget. But having a chat with Connor, still just a big-hearted teddy-bear, spoke of possible connections, of renewing friendships that my life lacks. And alongside the warmth at thinking of Connor comes another warmth, one that has a slightly disturbing edge to it and Geordie MacDonald’s face smack in the middle.

Although I didn’t talk to Geordie for long, the entire time, something hung in the air between us. While he still has the same sweet sunny nature, little boy Geordie has grown into an attractive man: body filled out, gangly limbs replaced—long muscular denim-clad legs, toned arms under the close-fit plaid shirt, strong golden-haired forearms—but the same wide blue eyes, unruly curls, and easy smile.

I shiver at the memory of his large, firm hands on my waist. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m having very hot, very sexual thoughts about my friend’s not-so-little-anymore brother. Could be the migraine.

Migraines will do that to me. My body innately knows that release offers relief. Ask Dr Google and he’ll tell you the same: orgasm can cause or cure migraine. In my case, it’s the latter. Sometimes, wavering between my meds in the left-hand bedside cabinet and the vibrator in the right, my hands seek out its black satin bag and opt for a natural remedy.

Much as I’d like to do that now, and let my fingers wander down to the little tingling bundle of nerves between my legs, I don’t. I fear the images that would undoubtedly accompany such pleasure. I can’t encourage thoughts of Geordie in that way. They already swirl too close for comfort, and I need time to process exactly why they’ve invaded my life before I even begin to consider the consequences of acting on them.