The Wedding Cake Tree (30 page)

‘No, Alasd
air. Don’t! Okay, I admit it, I swapped the bloody rods.’

‘I knew it!
You’re a little sod. Say it then, who
really
won the competition? Say it!’ He lowered me down so my backside was only an inch from the water.

I screamed
again. ‘No! Don’t get me wet …
pleease
!’

He lifted me a little higher, rest
ed his forehead on mine and whispered, ‘Say it then, who won the competition?’

I
smiled up at him serenely. ‘Okay, you did! But the mussel thing was cheating. You must have had insider knowledge.’

He lowered me to my feet but kept me wrapped in h
is arms.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, ‘w
e’ll call it a draw.’ He tried to kiss me but I pulled away slightly.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Oh nothing’s wrong,’ I whispered, ‘I was just wondering if it might be a good idea to head back to the hotel and explore that Bond theme we were talking about. After all,’ I flashed him as seductive a look as I could hope to pull off, ‘you already have the uniform with you.’

His eyes danced
.

‘
Know this, Buchanan: when you
say
things like that, and then
look
at me like that—’

‘
Like what?’
As if I didn’t know.

‘
Oh, I think you know – then you risk me hauling you over my shoulder and taking you straight back to your room. And I can assure you my stamina knows no bounds. You’ll be begging for mercy in the end, guaranteed.’ He looked pretty pleased with himself.

‘
Oh, I don’t know,’ I said in a seductive whisper, ‘I seem to remember Zagreb being pretty relentless, and one thing you should know about me Alasdair Finn, is that I never, ever, beg. Particularly for mercy.’

‘
Oh really?’

‘Really.’

‘I bet you do.’

I did.

After an energetic and somewhat enlightening afternoon at the hotel, we stepped outside to explore more of the village. We found an art gallery and I had a conversation with a local artist about the effect of light on his work. Paul’s comment that my photographs were ‘good but hardly groundbreaking’ had got me thinking about how I might want to progress in the future, into landscape photography perhaps.

One particular painting caught Alasdair’s eye.

‘Hey, come and look at this,’ he shouted across the shop. ‘Someone has painted the two of us here at Arisaig.’

I
ntrigued, I thanked the artist and crossed the gallery to find Alasdair enthralled with a beautiful painting of Camusdarach beach, the isles of Rum and Eigg silhouetted in the far distance. In the middle distance – and barely discernible to the viewer – stood a man and a woman with their backs to the artist; they were walking away from the scene.

‘
You’re right, it
is
just like us. I’m surprised there’s no dog in the painting, artists usually throw a dog into a scene like that. Who’s the artist?’

Alasdair peered
at a card on the wall.

‘
Robert Kelsey.’

‘
He must have known we wouldn’t have a dog.’

I
analysed the painting further. ‘He’s got the light and the perspective just right … clever. Have you noticed how everything seems to be in sharper focus here, without actually being in focus at all, if you know what I mean?’ I studied it further before announcing, ‘I’m going to buy it.’

‘
What?’

‘
The painting, I’m going to buy it – for us. It’s a print so it won’t break the bank.’

A cloud descended over Alasdair’s expression.

‘I don’t think you should.’

‘
Should what?’

‘
Buy it.’

‘
Why not?’

‘
I know it sounds daft,’ he explained, ‘but it looks to me as though this particular couple’s story is nearly over, look’—he pointed to the painting—‘they're walking out of the shot, signifying their journey together is nearly over, but our journey is just beginning. Maybe he’s done another painting with the couple in the foreground, let’s look for one.’

I placed my hands on Alasdair’s
shoulders and turned him towards me.

‘
You’re over-thinking life. Everything will be fine, I promise.’

He nodded, smiled, took my
hand and we left the gallery.

I didn’t buy the painting.

W
e idled away the rest of the afternoon exploring the coast. Alasdair took a shine to my camera and we sauntered from harbour, to rock pool, to sand dune and back again. As a result it was late afternoon before we headed back to the hotel. Alasdair closed the door to my room behind him.

‘
So then, I wonder what we can do to kill an hour before dinner?’

‘Well, it’s funny you should say that,
’ I said, putting my camera on the bedside table and placing my arms around his neck, ‘because I’ve got an idea.’ Alasdair’s eyes danced. ‘I was thinking of sexing up my
Singin’ in the Rain
number, just for you …’

Alasdair
loved
my impromptu performance (it was probably the sexiest rendition ever performed – I had never wiggled my backside so much in my life!), and we were just getting busy on the bed when a loud beep reverberated around the room. Alasdair sat up on the bed and took a bleeper out of his pocket.

‘For crying out loud,’ he said to himself, ‘give a man a break!’

His eyes moved from the bleeper to me.

‘
I need to make a call. Sorry.’

‘
It’s okay. I understand.’

He
kissed me on the nose and left. He returned twenty minutes later and I could tell from his expression he had news I wouldn’t want to hear.

‘
What is it? What’s happened?’

He paused for a second, took my hand and led me
from the bed to sit on the window seat. He knelt down next to me.

‘
I have to go.’

‘
When? Not now, surely?’

‘
First thing tomorrow.’

He sat
back on his heels and ran his fingers tenderly through my hair; I tilted my head towards his fingers as he spoke.

‘
This is how my life is, Grace. Are you sure you want to be part of it?’

‘Yes,’ I said softly, ‘I do.’

The sun was waning in
the west, allowing a golden haze to be cast across the room. We lay on top of the bedcovers and held each other for quite some time while the light faded. We were shaken from our private thoughts by the sound of music.

‘
What the hell is that?’ I asked, untangling myself from his arms. Alasdair rubbed his eyes.

‘
That would be Scots’ night. Didn’t you notice the poster?’

I
went to the door; once opened the noise became deafening. I looked back at Alasdair.

‘
Brilliant, I bet they've got Scottish country dancing and everything.’

Alasdair walked to the door
and slapped me on the backside.

‘
Come on, let’s go downstairs. I’m starving.’

The hotel was heaving. It was an evening awash with fun, laughter and a considerable amount of booze. Before too long, Alasdair was tipsy and I had to slow down. I did not want to descend down the slippery slope to blotto again.

Four r
evellers from the adjacent table insisted we join them in the Dashing White Sergeant. Alasdair and I were completely useless, but no one seemed to mind as we blundered around the floor, turning left instead of right, going under when we should have gone over and generally getting the whole thing wrong.

A
half hour of rib-rattling laughter passed by until the man in charge of the microphone suggested we charge our drinks and return to our seats to watch a display of Scottish dancing, after which the ceilidh band would be happy to take requests. The man finished by stating that, ‘If there are any singers in the house, the band will happily oblige.’

‘Now
’s your chance,’ Alasdair said as we took our seats.

‘Chance for what?’

His eyes sparkled. ‘Chance to show how you’ve conquered your fear of singing in public. I bet they would love a bit of Grace magic here. What was it that journalist said again?
The voice of an angel, a tantalising cheeky smile
?’ He leant in and kissed me seductively on my bottom lip. ‘And after your performance upstairs, I have to agree with him. But I would have to add
with an outrageously sexy backside
to the description!’

‘
Why thank you, kind sir, but one performance per night is more than enough – I would hate to overexpose myself – except to you of course.’ I held his gaze. He grabbed my hand.

‘Right! That’s it! Enough Scottish stuff,
let’s get back upstairs.’

For the very last time on our journey I put on Alasdair’s fleece, wrapped his shemagh around my neck and we strolled hand in hand along the deserted village road. Instinctively, and without words, we found ourselves standing on our stretch of silver sand.

I
t was a perfectly still evening. The moon was bright and round, while the black of the night sky fought for space amongst a trillion stars. The gentle, melodic lapping of the receding tide was the only noise to be heard.

Alasdair took my face in his
hands, kissed me tenderly and led me over to a dune. After depositing me with my back to a dune, he strolled around the beach looking for something.

‘
What are you doing Alasdair? Come and sit down.’

‘
Making a fire. I don’t want you to be cold.’

‘
Oh, brilliant, I’ll help then.’

I jumped to my feet and within ten minutes we had piled together an admirable amount of
birch bark (it burns well, apparently), wood, twiggy sticks and dry grass. Alasdair spent a while building the fire to his exact specifications, reached into his jacket pocket and took out a box of matches. I dropped my head in exasperation.

‘
What now?’

‘
For the first time since I met you, I’m afraid I’m completely disappointed.’

He looked up, crestfallen.

‘Why?’

‘
Because you’ve just dashed the image I have of you as a capable man.’

‘
Why?’

‘
Because you’re using matches.’

He shook his head and laughed.

‘Of course I’m using matches. What do you expect,’ he flourished his hand, ‘I’d use a wand?’

‘
No. I thought you would rub some twigs together or something.’ He glanced at me sarcastically but I shrugged and continued to explain. ‘It’s just there’s something incredibly sexy about a bloke who can do that kind of thing. It must be a primeval instinct for a woman to go for a man who can look after himself, and I’ve always wanted to be able to start a fire from scratch in case I’m ever in a survival situation.’

‘
Why? Are you expecting to be in a survival situation sometime soon?’

‘
You just never know, Alasdair.’

He
sighed and put his matches back in his pocket.

‘
Come on then, I’ll teach you how to do it. But it takes bloody ages and it was raining yesterday so the tinder might not be dry enough.’

I beame
d my brightest smile and knelt next to him on the sand.

‘
So,’ he said, ‘there are three basic components necessary to start a fire: heat, fuel and oxygen.’ He searched about until he found what he was looking for, and returned with a flat rock.

‘
What we create first is the perfect environment to sustain a fire. In our case we’re sheltered out of the wind by the dune, which is good, and by placing sticks on the rock and then placing the tinder on top, the air can circulate under the fire. But this isn’t going to be easy because the tinder – in our case twigs and grass – should ideally be very dry.’

He glanced up at me sarcastically as if to say
I can’t believe you’ve got me doing this
, so I smiled encouragingly, scrunched up my nose and said, ‘Well, we’ll give it a go anyway. Can you do lots of this type of thing by the way?’

‘What type of thing?’

‘You know, set traps to catch wild animals, hollow out a dead deer and use it as a shelter, gut a seal and use it as a wetsuit, that kind of thing.’