Page 2 of Scotch on the Rocks

“Are you looking at the documents I emailed over from the Boutique Hotel conference? I’ve highlighted a few paragraphs under the sustainable business model section—”

“This all looks very modern. You know your dad preferred to keep the inn traditional.”

Yeah? Well, Dad isn’t here anymore.Clutching my phone tighter, I swallowed the cruel retort, eyeing the door of my Glasgow city centre hotel. “I get that, but we need to make changes now if we want to compete with the influx of private holiday rentals on the island.”

“I love your enthusiam, Juney, Dad would be so proud.” But no – she didn’t need to say it.

This was pointless. I knew before I’d got on the damn ferry from Skye that the conference was useless and, like a fool, I’d come anyway.I scrubbed a tired hand over my face. “Maybe we should talk about this when I get home.”

“If that’s what you want, love.” It wasn’t. But I acquiesced. As I always did. “Do you have any big plans tonight? You haven’t visited Glasgow in so long.”

“A mountain of room service and that lame wedding movie, you know the one where the guy falls in his in-laws’ pool,” I lied, already headed for the door.

“Father of the Bride? A classic. They don’t make love stories like that anymore.”

“If you say so.” My adoptive mother had always been overly romantic.

“You’re not meeting up with Alistair?”

“No, why would I?”

“I’m just saying, after so many years together it’s a shame to let things—”

“Fiona.” I issued her name like a warning.

“—it would be nice if you could be friends at the very least. Hewasyour fiancé.”

“Call me crazy, but I wouldn’t put a fiancé who abandons you the second your father gets sick in thegreat future friendcategory,” I snapped.

Silence.Shit.“Fiona, I’m sorry—”

“I know.” Her voice wobbled. “It’s just hard to remember him sometimes.” I started to apologise again but she cut me off, sniffling in that way she always did while composing herself.

“It’s hard for me too.” My voice was quiet. Homesick not for a place, but a person. “Look … I’ll see you tomorrow. My bus is early so I should get to bed.”

“Tomorrow.” Did I imagine the disappointment in her tone? “Love you, Juney.”

My chest ached when I couldn’t offer it back.

Out on the street, the familiarity of Glasgow’s Victorian architecture moulded around me and I fuelled my frustration into each beat of my heels on stone that screamedHome, home, home. Instead of taking a left that would carry me toward the River Clyde and the gleaming towerof city apartments, I turned right, circumventing arm-in-arm couples to the string of upscale restaurants lining Hope Street.

That neighborhood belonged to a younger Juniper. A little more wild, monumentally less jaded and owner of one too many band t-shirts. By some miracle I’d put my journalism degree to good use and wrangled an entry level position at the Glasgow Herald only a year out of Uni. I always left out the part where I worked for the Gossip column, the ancient editor had taken one look at my septum piercing and declared, “You’ll bring a littleedge” whatever that meant. I hadn’t cared that the stories were trashy. I’d loved the endless bustle of the Cube Farm office and the smell of shit coffee from myWorld’s Sexiest Journalistmug (a gift from my best friend Heather). I’d loved that when I got really into a story, my fingers refused to type as quickly as the words flowed through my brain because it felt like I had my finger right on the pulse of something great. I’d loved that every Friday, Alistair took the subway from Hillend to Buchanan Street to take me out for lunch.

Almost a year since I’d set foot in the city.

Almost a year since my engagement party that changed everything.

The memory of my father, Alexander, collapsed on the dance floor clutching his chest, left me cold. A heart attack. Overnight, the strongest man I’d ever known became so frail he’d almost appeared childlike as he recuperated in a hospital bed. I’d dropped everything. Rushed home to help take care of him. Put my life and my relationship on hold. And then he’d died not even four months later. And every dream I’d had for myself died with him.

You’re better off alone anyway, wean. Who’d want to stay with you anyway?The phantom voice slid throughme like a white-hot poker. The voice of a nameless, faceless woman who’d abandoned her one-year-old daughter in a hospital toilet.

Brushing off the urge to glance down at my empty ring finger, I careened into the first bar I came across. Thirteen months – I’d been without it longer than I’d worn it – and yet I still felt the weight of it like a missing limb.

A young man greeted me at the door, head tilted back to meet my eyes. His widened ever so slightly and my lips tipped with wicked delight.Oh, I really enjoyed that. Shame he was a little short for my taste. Call me old-fashioned, but when a man fucked me against a wall, I preferred when my toes didn’t drag on the floor.

Height was the very least I required when searching for a companion for the night. Not that Iwaslooking, exactly. All I wanted was to drink and eat my own weight until I forgot the little fact I was back in Glasgow, the ghost of my old life haunting my every step.

Taking a seat in a small booth in the back, I paused the waiter before he could leave, ordering two martinis and a small feast of carbs from the bar menu. The food was with me in minutes: two bowls of skinny fries, whisky-battered onion rings, those little balls with veggie haggis in the middle, and a bowl of olives. I popped one into my mouth, savouring the salty flavour as a shadow fell over me. A hand gripped the back of the booth. I tracked it up to its owner.

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