Him:
Along with a dossier on my fake identity? As a professional agent I expect full background, work history, hobbies, habits, style of underpants etc. if I’m going to pull this off. Who is Mack Macintyre?? And what is the nature of his relationship with Jenny Birkenshaw?
Oh, boy. I put my phone down.
I knew,knew, this man should not be making me feel like this. My heart should not be pounding for another woman’s husband. Skin humming. Stomach swooping. I sent one more message:
Just be yourself (I might get to learn something about you!) And Jenny is totally happy being FRIENDS with Mack Macintyre. See you Thursday.
I switched my phone off and picked up a gardening book I’d salvaged from the Hoard, forcing myself to concentrate on organic composting techniques until I was too tired to think any more.
* * *
I was flapping about in my bra, changing my top for the ninth time in an attempt to achieve that classic ‘don’t care, but somehow happen to appear stylish and stunning nonetheless’ look, when a jaunty toot from the front of the house signalled my wingman was ready to go.
Stuffing my head into the original T-shirt I’d chosen three days ago, I yanked a brush through the cloud of static that was once my hair, swiped my rucksack off the bed and half ran, half tripped down the stairs.
I came to an abrupt stop at the kitchen doorway, pausing to take a big breath before I opened the door and saw Mack standing in front of me, arms folded, eyes crinkled.
‘You’re fine.’ He grabbed my rucksack and disappeared.
‘What the hell am I doing?’ I muttered, as the reality of the next three days, pressing down on me for weeks now, grew to suffocating.
‘You’ll be fine. I’m with you, buddy.’ Mack had reappeared.
‘Mmmmf.’ I didn’t tell Mack that him being here was part of the issue.
‘We’re going to have enormous fun rigorously mocking your preposterous sister and her twazzock life-partner’s ludicrous nuptials. We’re going to laugh off their scorn, play up to their judgemental pre-conceptions, eat a huge amount of food and drink gallons of pretentious wine at their expense. Plus, I’m dying to see how many of those wedding etiquette rules we can break in the next thirty-six hours.’
As a degree of feeling returned to my arms and legs, Mack took hold of my hand and walked me round to the car.
‘In you get.’ He opened the door.
‘Wait.’ I reached one hand up in a ‘stop’ gesture as he started to move round to the driver’s side.
‘What? Have you forgotten something?’
‘For the record, can I stress, while it’s easier if we go with Mack Macintyre for the sake of the seating plan, guest book and whatever other dreadful nonsense has been planned, I’m not asking you to pretend we’re something we aren’t. I’m so grateful not to be walking into that wedding alone, but I don’t think it’s okay for a married man to pretend he’s with someone else. And I don’t care if everyone else there thinks I’m a sad, sorry failure. I’m starting to realise that might not be true. So, who cares what they think?’
Mack winked at me.Not helpful.‘Okay. But while we’re on the record, I wouldn’t do anything that might upset my wife. Even if you cried. Or tripped and lost your glasses again.’
‘Okay. Great.’More helpful, thank you.
‘Great. Let’s go. Mack Macintyre’s hoping to squeeze in a couple of wee drams before bed.’
Was there anything as bittersweet as driving through the rain at night, cheesy old pop songs crackling in the background, laughing, gently bickering, telling stories, playing Revels roulette, sometimes saying nothing at all, with a lovely man, who made your heart pound whenever he glanced across at you, or barked with amusement, or crinkled up the two lines between his eyebrows as he listened to the story of your life, when that man happened to be married?
I knew I liked Mack. Liked him plus found him attractive. I could work at keeping those two feelings in separate boxes. But in the quiet moments, with the only sound the radio and the swish of windscreen wipers, I became painfully aware that we were huddled side by side in one of the smallest cars ever invented. In the intimacy of the darkness, I didn’t feel like friends, or neighbours. I felt like a woman sitting inches apart from a man she was teetering on the edge of falling in love with.
I didn’t want the journey to end. I wanted us to get lost in the moors and end up driving all night. Or at least as long as my bladder held out. Honestly? I wanted to stay in that car forever. For the rest of my life to be one long, intimate, funny, tender, heart-wide-open journey with Mack.
After a stop for coffee and fuel (Mack wanted a full tank in case a speedy getaway became necessary), we arrived at the hotel around eleven. Crunching up a long drive to a floodlit courtyard, we pulled to a stop in front of what could only be accurately described as a castle.
‘We’re staying at the wedding venue?’ I asked, my voice a tad strangled, eyes fixed on the turrets towering above us.
Mack shrugged. ‘I figured it would be easiest. Is there a problem? The reviews were excellent. Apparently, it’s got the best venison in the—’
‘Whole of Ayrshire,’ I finished.
