Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

‘She’s not a girl.’

‘No, she’s not,’ Will answers carefully. ‘She’s a whole lot of . . . lovely,’ he says, changing his phrasing in response to my stiffening spine. To my glare, tensed jaw, and general pissed off-ness.

‘Surely, you must’ve kissed and made up by now,’ Keir interjects as the waitress walks away. ‘I’ve ordered for us all, seeing as you were too busy cat fighting. Drinks are on you,’ he adds, directing his words to Will.

‘I didn’t do anything to piss you off,’ Will protests.

‘Debatable,’ returns Keir mildly. ‘You behave like a twat fifty percent of the time.’

‘With friends like you, who needs enemies,’ he grumbles.

‘Enemies? Come on, William. Who else would keep your latest rejected and weeping conquest busy when they stalk you on social media to, say, the place we’re having dinner? Or a quiet pint. Or a game of rugby.’ He’s right. This has happened. Plenty. ‘Without us, who would you have to cover your escape?’

‘Aye, spot on,’ I say, joining in, my satisfaction growing in direct correlation to Will’s angry expression.

‘Fuck you very much, Keir.’

‘You’re not my type. Now, get your wallet out and pay this lovely lady,’ he says as the waitress returns. ‘And don’t forget, tonight you tip well.’

Will’s response is little more than a scowl.

Following a couple of drinks, we head off to this stage show Will’s just “dying” to see. Inside, the place is a far cry from the wine bar, which I’m sure Keir suggested to piss off Will and his aesthetic sensibilities. I make a note of the name of the place—Mede—thinking it might be nice to bring Ella here for a drink sometime. The interior consists of dark woods, aged mirrors, and velvets, and has a gentleman’s club sort of appeal. It’s the kind of place I can imagine bringing her. We’d sit in a booth, and she’d curl into me while we drink cocktails and listen to the night’s singer croon about love.

Atmospheric is definitely the word. It’s the kind of place that plies you with alcohol as it lulls you gently into the mood for sex. And not the kind of place you want to drink with your mates. But we are here for some kind of show.

‘Get the drinks in,’ Keir says, thumping Will on the shoulder as he passes. ‘Got to go syphon the python.’

‘Charming,’ Will grumbles, though brightens quickly as we make our way to the flame-haired hostess.

‘Reservation for three under the name of Tremaine.’

Why does that name ring a bell? As she leads us to our table to the right of a small stage, it hits me. Rory and Kit Tremaine. Rory, as in Fin’s husband Rory. And Kit is his twin.

‘How do you know the Tremaines?’

‘Who? Oh. I know a Kit Tremaine but not the family.’

‘So you don’t know Rory? His brother?’

‘Didn’t even know he had a brother. What are you having to drink?’ he asks in a change of subject.

But the point remains. And the point sticks in my throat like something I should be careful of. Like a pin. And when Kit turns up at our table not thirty minutes later, somehow, I’m not surprised.

‘I know you, don’t I?’ he asks as we shake hands. I know I do but want to give him the chance to recognise me. Call me a bastard, but maybe I want to make him uncomfortable even though I don’t have an issue with him.

‘I know your sister-in-law. She’s best friend with my sister, Ivy.’ I don’t give him time to digest that titbit before bulldozing on. ‘I met you once when you gave Fin a lift to my house in Auchkeld.’ It was my parents’ house, to be precise, but there are also other things missing from this statement. Like how his expression seems to recognise that Rory had fucked Fin over at that point. Like how it was me, not anyone else, she asked to see when fleeing the scene.

That Kit had delivered her to my door.

That I’d held her in my arms as she’d sobbed.

And that, in the days following, I had made sure she would be all right.

‘She’s a braw woman, Fin,’ Kit says with a curt nod of his head. ‘I’m pleased she finally gave in and married him.’

‘Is this your brother’s wife?’ Will cuts in. ‘The one who wore his engagement ring on a keyring?’

Unexpectedly, I find myself laughing. This is something I didn’t know, but something I recognise as pure Fin.

‘Aye,’ Kit says, rubbing his ear. ‘She’s led him a fine dance to the altar. Or in their case, the beach. And it’s no more than he deserved.’ His eyes catch mine again.

‘So long as she’s happy,’ I say. ‘That’s all that matters to me.’ And that’s the truth.

We drink. We laugh. And I manage to be merry, despite the things eating away in my brain. Kit’s not a bad bloke even if he is the spitting double of his twin. We discuss business, my line of work linked tenuously to his as a hotelier. It’s all in the realms of the leisure industry, anyway. The owner of the club, Dan Masters, stops to chat who both Kit and Will seem to know already. He’s a pretty cool customer, but when talk turns to whisky, he surely knows his stuff. And it’s appreciated by all when he sends over a bottle of Talisker with his compliments. We’re all partaking when the lights in the place dim then brighten three times, much like they do when you’re at the theatre for a show.