Page 37

Maisie brings over our next round of drinks and clears away our old glasses. After she leaves, Emily takes a large gulp of white wine.

“I know I said tonight you’d do the talking and I’d do the listening, but I want to tell you why I’m in Bannock.”

“You don’t have to. I mean, if you want to, I’m all ears, but I don’t want you saying something you regret tomorrow. There are plenty of other things we can talk about.”

“No, I want to tell you.”

And so she blows my mind by explaining that, just a few days ago, she was to be married. Her utter bawbag of a fiancé jilted her, though. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, she’s a wedding planner and is worried about how this is going to affect her business. She also doesn’t know how she’ll cope with planning other people’s weddings when her own went so disastrously.

“With hindsight, there were signs. I see them now, although I didn’t at the time. For example, he wasn’t as interested in organising the wedding as I was, but then what groom is? Besides, as a wedding planner, it was so easy for me to just make all the decisions. Now it seems obvious the reason he didn’t get involved was because he was having doubts.”

I shake my head. “I’m having a hard time believing someone jilted you. The guy must have been an idiot.”

The very idea of Emily being hurt like that angers me, but I also feel jealousy at the thought she was so recently tied to another man. She nearly married him!

The evening goes on, and we get through a few more drinks. The local band sets up in the corner: Eileen on the fiddle, Neil on the accordion, Scott on drums. Emily eyes them with interest. When they start up a reel, she bobs to the music.

“You like it?” I ask with a laugh. “You should try a ceilidh sometime.”

“A ceilidh? Will the men be in kilts?”

“Aye, of course.”

“Aye, of course,” Emily repeats in a low voice, attempting to imitate my Scottish brogue, her impression absolutely shocking. “In that case, count me in.” She giggles drunkenly.

“Oh, you’d like to see me in a kilt, would you?” I raise an eyebrow, the alcohol having loosened me up almost as much as Emily.

“Aye.” Still with the Scottish accent. “Preferably on a windy day.”

She climbs to her feet, wobbling a little. Holding her hand out to me, and still using the low voice, she says, “Will you do me the honour of this dance?”

Right, if she’s pretending to be a man, does that make me the woman in this scenario? Well, that’s emasculating. Still, she is pretty funny when she’s drunk.

“Dancing isn’t really the done thing in the pub. Just sit and tap your foot. Save the dancing for a ceilidh.”

“What was that? Did you say yes—I mean, aye—you’d love to dance? Great!” She yanks hard on my arm. “Get up!”

“Sit back down!” I laugh.

But she keeps tugging my arm, and so—groaning—I stand.

“This is a bad idea. Please don’t make me dance. We’ll be the talk of the town for the rest of the year. Besides, I’ve got two left feet. This is not a good i—”

She takes a hold of my hand and pulls me towards the band, where there’s a wee bit of floor space. As we pass tables, eyes turn to watch us.

Reaching the front, Emily wastes no time: she does her best impression of a Highland fling. She must have seen it somewhere, on TV perhaps, but she doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing. She stands with one hand held up high, the other at her hip, bouncing on her feet, a stupid grin on her gorgeous face.

It’s just as well we don’t take ourselves too seriously here in Bannock. No one takes the slightest offence at a drunk Englishwoman making a mockery of our national dance. Instead, the band chuckle, and others in the pub laugh and clap along. Someone even does a wolf whistle. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that—just as I expected—every eye is on Emily.

“Come on, Ally! Join in!” someone calls.

Others pick up the chant, including Emily.

I may be tipsy, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling embarrassed. “Er . . . as you all know, the Highland fling is a solo dance.”

This statement is met by boos.

“Go on, Ally! Don’t leave her dancing by herself.”