“Size isn’t everything.” I brushed grit from my knees, enjoying the familiar weight of the stone in my hand. I hoped I remembered how to do it.
A light breeze rippled across the loch’s surface, carrying the distant bleating of sheep from the hills beyond.
“Ladies first,” Eliza said with exaggerated gallantry.
“Who you calling a lady?” But I stepped forward anyway. I drew my arm back, snapped my wrist forward, and my stone kissed the surface once, twice, three times, before disappearing with a soft plop. Not bad.
“Beat that.” I rolled my shoulders back and turned triumphantly, wiping my damp fingers on my trousers.
Eliza stepped up beside me, her shoulder almost brushing mine. I caught a whiff of her perfume mixed with the dusty heat from our walk down. She wound up like she was playing a different sport entirely, hurling her stone with considerably more force than finesse. It hit the water with a loud splash and sank immediately.
“Technique, Eliza. It’s all about technique. I thought you of all people would know that.” I couldn’t hide my grin as I selected another stone. This one was even better: perfectly smooth under my thumb, the right thickness, the right weight distribution.
“Shut up and throw,” she replied, but she was smiling, too.
“I don’t throw,” I told her with a wink. “I finesse.”
The second stone flew from my hand in a low arc, hitting the water at exactly the right angle. One, two, three, four perfect skips before it sank.
“Show off,” Eliza said, but there was warmth in her voice.
In the old days, the prize had been bragging rights to our parents. I wasn’t sure what the rules were today. I wasn’t sure of anything where Eliza was concerned. From being sure she was a robot who hated me, I’d flip-flopped to the fact I’d carried a crush on her half my life, to then thinking she was a spy working for her dad, out to get me.
However now, skimming stones by the loch, we’d relaxed. Her next two shots sunk without trace. Whereas mine skimmed the surface with fluid elegance. She tried a couple more times, then sunk onto our familiar log, a frown on her face.
“Turns out, I’m not always good with my hands.”
I grinned. “Not what the graffiti in the club toilets claims.”
Her laugh echoed around the loch.
“Dammit, I thought I rubbed that off.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the breeze caress our faces.
“This is so different from our usual lives. Less hustle. No bustle.” Eliza leaned back, spreading her hands on the log behind her. “I used to think that as a kid, and I always thought it was strange. Now, as an adult, I’m wondering if it’s the key to a good life.”
I snorted. “You’d never hack it. You thrive on corporate life, and what would you do without your Pret coffee? Jetting off places, doing deals.” I swept an arm. “Trust me, the only deal happening around here is Marcus — Fiona’s eldest who runs our pub — negotiating with his wife Val for a lads’ weekend in exchange for her getting a girls’ trip next month. Pure negotiation genius.”
Eliza stretched out her long legs and stared at her chunky green loafers. She tucked her hair behind her right shoulder, then turned her gaze to me.
“You’re probably right,” she said. “I’m too far into the game to drop out now. But imagine living here? What a different lifewe’d lead. Did you see Fiona’s skin? I couldn’t believe it when she told us she just turned 65. And not a hint of retiring.”
The thought had crossed my mind when she told us her age. “I hope not.” She couldn’t: Fiona was eternal.
“Whatever they put in the water clearly agrees with her.”
I knew what she meant. As soon as I got off the train at Goldloch, it was like we’d stepped into another universe. Life here moved at a different pace.
Eliza dug both hands into her trousers. “It hasn’t changed since we were kids, has it?”
I shook my head. Every time I came here, I was painfully aware of that. It was something my mum had always loved about the place. Same went for my gran.
“Untouched by the ravages of time,” I replied. “Although the inn we’re at does have flavoured gin and the internet now.”
“Flavoured gin is never progress,” Eliza told me. She stretched her arms over her head and leaned her head back, revealing the elegant line of her throat. Her golden hair fell away from her face, and I stared for longer than I should have, until I caught myself.
At 33, Eliza had perfected the art of looking beautiful sat on a damp log in the middle of nowhere. It was almost irritating how good she was at it.
