Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

‘You’re busy Friday? Fine. Sunday, then. You’re meeting the fuckers for dinner on Sunday. You and me and Louis and my parents, right? They’ll be briefed in advance—told that we’re keeping this away from Louis for now, but by Christ, they’ll know who you are.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I mumble as he swipes away my tears with his thumbs.

‘That you’re more than a distraction. More than just the au pair. Come this weekend, I’ll have you, Ella. And God help me if I’m not fucking some sense into you.’

Bloody Nora. ‘You can’t tell them that!’

27

Mac

I just don’t fucking get it. How can someone who looks like she does have so little self-esteem?

‘Macormac, will you watch what you’re doing? You put the fear of God into me!’

‘Da, relax. I’ve been livin’ in London since I was nineteen and driving around the place for more than a decade.’

‘George, you are such a back-seat driver,’ complains Mum. My father is Geordie to everyone else, but not to my mum, who always seems to deliver his name like he’s in trouble.

‘Stella, did you not see?’ he gripes, holding out his hand as though he’s a waiter missing his tray. ‘He nearly hit yon fella with his wing mirror!’

‘Yon fella is a bike courier and well able to look after himself and take care of himself, judging by the way he thumped said wing mirror as he passed.’ My tone drips with antagonism, the things Ella said still niggling my brain. And temper. It’s not really my parents who are bugging the ever-lovin’ fuck out of me but my relationship status. It’s not like I’ve had a line of girlfriends I’ve wanted my parents to meet. I just don’t get why she’s so reluctant.

‘Oh. Is that what it was? He hit you, eh? Get closer to him,’ he says, narrowing his gaze at the biker in question, currently weaving his way in and out of the traffic. ‘And I’ll lean out of the window and push him off his bike.’

‘George Drummond Adams!’ reprimands my mother. ‘You will do no such thing.’

‘She means it, Da. She middle named you. Best check she doesn’t have her slipper in her bag.’

‘It’s a good job the bairn isn’t in this car,’ she continues, ‘to hear what a foul temper his grandfather has.’

‘Foul temper? Me?’

‘Yes, you heard me,’ she replies. ‘Good to see your lugs are no’ painted on.’

Da begins to complain about his hearing being excellent, and I decide it’s not the best time to tell either of them about my trip with Louis last week. The same way I’d chosen not to tell Ella. I’d taken him to school one morning, saying I’d drop him on the way to work. The traffic was a nightmare, and I might have sworn at someone who cut me off, to be faced with these questions from my son;

‘Who’s a twastard, Daddy? And why are you horning the honk?’

Then, at the traffic lights, in the same street as his wee school, I’d watched him flip some old lady off sat in the car next to us. For no reason, as far as I could tell. She looked like a sweet auld thing. But then again, so does the boaby obsessed June.

‘You still haven’t answered my question. Do you want to go for dinner before I drop you at the hotel?’

‘No, I think we’ll take Louis out. You get yourself back and put your feet up and rest.’

‘His feet up?’ Dad repeats. Without the same indulgent intonation. ‘The lad’s been livin’ the life of a monk for all these weeks. I’m sure he’s got plans to paint the town red while he’s not on duty. Am I right, son?’

‘Well, I was planning on taking my parents out for dinner, but I can see where I’m not wanted.’

‘Pish. Go on out for a few pints.’

‘He’s not going to find a nice girl out in some pub,’ my mother complains.

‘Plenty of time for that,’ he replies, turning back to her. ‘I expect it’s the naughty girls he’ll be after tonight.’ This he adds in an undertone, trying to bite back a delighted smile. But it’s a theory I neither confirm nor deny.

‘What? What was that?’

‘Nothing, Stella. Ah, this’ll be Louis’s school, then?’

After picking up Louis, I drop them at the hotel, amazed at my son’s excitement. Seems he’s never stayed in a hotel, never mind one with bunk beds made to look like a traditional London bus. If I’d thought he might be worried about spending the night without me or Ella, I’d have been disappointed. He’s as high as a kite at the prospect of dragging his grandparents around the theme park for two days straight. Rather them than me, as much as I love my wee man.

Love the wee man. The thought fills my chest with such a sense of warmth and contentment. Fatherhood might not have come naturally to me, but I’d met the task full on. Done the right thing to the best of my ability. But had I expected to feel this rush of . . . warmth? Of love? In truth, I didn’t know it was possible. Nurture or nature, I’m not sure which is responsible for this tide of emotion strangling my chest. And as I watch my parents fuss over Louis, setting his tiny suitcase on his bed and admiring the trinkets he’s brought along with him—the gold framed picture of his mother, his favourite pyjamas, and his “scary bear”—I decide I must be going loose in the head. I blame watching The Lion King with Louis and Ella the other day because what else could be to blame for this “circle of life” shit.