500 Miles from You (Scottish Bookshop #3)(59)

Cormac, of course, had seen many.

“If you think I’d subject my perfect daughter to something the government—the government—thinks is okay, you have another think coming.”

Her face was now bright red, and Cormac didn’t think she was anything like as beautiful as he had when they’d first met.

“It can protect other people who can’t be vaccinated,” he said gently.

The woman stared at him. “You’ve been totally brainwashed,” she said quietly.

The child moaned on the bed.

Cormac held up his hands. “I think Titania needs rest. She’s going to be fine.”

“Of course she is!” said the woman. “She’s being treated. Naturally! By me!”

And the great city had looked a little meaner to Cormac as he’d headed back home.

For no stupid reason! Because of some stupid woman who thinks she knows better than hundreds of years of medical science!!!! Stupid spoiled spoiled spoiled cow.

Then ten seconds later he realized.

Shit! This is our official NHS account!!!!

I know!!!!!!!

Shit! Can you delete that? Please? Quickly?!

It’s NHS IT. They can’t tell the arse codes from their elbow codes!

I know. But!!!

I know.

And that was how they moved on to text messaging and swapped telephone numbers.





Chapter 43


Jake finally plucked up the courage—much to the disappointment and the rather unkind remarks, if we’re being honest, of Ginty MacGuire in the hairdresser’s, who also might have mentioned in passing that if that new nurse thought that she, Ginty MacGuire, was going to do her hair for the big night, she had another think coming—to ask Lissa to the farmers’ dance that took place before the fair arrived.

It was a big affair around their neck of the woods, and with the typical Highlands imbalance of men to women, it wasn’t like Ginty MacGuire hadn’t already been asked four or five times by shy, sturdy red-cheeked young men; but that didn’t matter. She wasn’t the least bit interested in them and very interested in the dark-eyed Jake Inglis and the excellent time they’d had last summer, but he seemed to have time for no one these days but that exotic-looking incomer, which was men for you.

In general her clientele agreed with her (it is wise, incidentally, if you live in a very small village, not to get on the wrong side of its only hairdresser). Lissa, to them, still seemed a little strange and standoffish, always looking as if she was in a hurry to get places, dashing here and there. That was English folk for you. And now (once Jake had, while slightly drunk in Eck’s, revealed his intentions to ask her to the dance) here she was, waltzing off with the most eligible man in the village, now that Cormac MacPherson was down south too. Talk about having your cake and eating it.

Then Jake had asked Cormac for her number, and Cormac had found himself slightly awkward about passing it on.

Jake asked me for your number, he sent, which was better on the text as they’d just been exchanging notes on anal polyp medication and he wasn’t sure they weren’t together.

I know, said Lissa.

I was going to ask you if it was okay to give it to him.

Of course.

Of course? thought Cormac.

Mrs. Murray and some very angry hairdresser told me he was going to ask me out. The hairdresser is quite scary.

She is. Are you going to go?

Cormac loved the farmers’ dance. He thought back ruefully to the previous year, when he’d drunk a load of cider and let Emer do what she’d been pretty clear she wanted to do for some months, given how often she happened to be walking past the cottage in full makeup. He wasn’t God’s gift, Cormac would be the first to admit, but when girls liked him, they really liked him.

I don’t know. Should I?

You should. It’s at Lennox’s farm, they always put a good spread on. And what else are you doing for fun?

Is this the bit where you show off about going to that private members club again?

In fact, Larissa had texted him, but Cormac had pretended he hadn’t seen it. It wasn’t really his scene. He didn’t tell Lissa that, though.

Well, maybe you should up your game then.

What game?

The “Who’s Having the Best Secondment” game.

That’s not a game!

That’s exactly what someone losing a game would say.

Lissa looked at the screen, slightly annoyed and amused. A tiny bit of her was, she thought, possibly—just a tiny bit, not really—hoping he might be jealous.



Piss off! And that looks NOTHING LIKE ME!!

I’m relieved to hear that.

And what’s the music going to be like? All fiddle-de-dee twiddly-dee “I would walk 500 miles” stuff?

Cormac didn’t answer and Lissa wondered if she’d offended him.

She absolutely had.

AFTER HE DIDN’T reply, she glanced around the room and noticed something she hadn’t noticed before: a small stereo system, exactly the kind of thing that a well-meaning but otherwise utterly clueless auntie would buy you for your fourteenth birthday. She had the exact same make and model, but it was in the attic at her mum’s house. Next to Cormac’s, however, was a line of CDs. Nothing as cool as vinyl, she thought, picturing her London hipster mates with their vintage record players and independent record shop habit. Who still bought CDs? She leafed through them. Runrig, Orange Juice, Deacon Blue, Biffy Clyro, Del Amitri, Belle & Sebastian. Then she pulled out one with a picture of two identical men wearing glasses and playing the guitar. Ah, she thought.