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‘Not that it’s any of my concern who he’s pals with,’ Laura mutters, moving out to the back with some empty glasses.
I drink my beer, smiling as I’m betting Laura had something going with Don, catching Robbie’s eye.
‘Och, your ma will tell you he’s nae such a bad soul,’ he leans closer. ‘In my opinion, he’s his own worst enemy.’
I want to ask what he means. But Laura comes back into the bar just as two serious cycle-types come in, hauling a pile of panniers, and Robbie retreats to the bay window.
I finish my pint while the cyclists ask Laura about a room for the night. She takes them out through a side door and I’m about to try talking to Robbie again, when a different barmaid appears.
‘Can I get you another?’ she asks.
I meet her glance and her face lights with the most rosy-cheeked full-lipped smile. I study my empty glass to cover the rising flush I’m feeling.
‘Ah, that so didn’t touch the sides,’ I say. ‘All your bracing Highland air and the Mighty Battle with your Scottish midges.’ I look up with what I hope is a winning smile.
She rewards me with a throaty chuckle. ‘I’m not Scottish, am I?’ She moves to pull me another pint, her sleek dark ponytail brushing the neckline of her skimpy black top.
‘Oh, no. Actually, you don’t sound it?’ Foolish grin now, and literally aching with the relief of someone nice to talk to.
She pushes the drink towards me, and I take a sip, scratching for the next thing to say.
‘So, what brought you here?’ Lame, but it’ll do.
Her dark grey eyes meet mine as she thinks about this, sending a shiver through me.
‘The wind?’ she says.
Aw, sweet answer. I raise my glass to her, drink more.
Laura pokes her face round the door behind her. ‘Can I borrow you for a moment, Rosa?’
Sweet name as well, I muse as Rosa asks if she can get me anything else before she goes.
‘I’ll have a whisky chaser as well.’
‘As we’re in Scotland.’ We both laugh in unison.
The whisky hits the spot, numbing the emptiness I’ve been fighting, aided by the glow of Rosa’s attentions. I shift position to take in the public bar with its dark wood panelling, sepia pictures of old crofters and fishing boats. The cyclists are back, talking to Robbie. I stare out of the window and slip into a fantasy walk on the beach with Rosa, talking, laughing, waiting until it’s pretty much unbearable before brushing her hair away from her face, her lips finding mine, soft and slow. I feel myself stirring and shift on the barstool, forcing myself to listen to the cyclists boring Robbie with tales of their trip.
‘We’ve done three hundred miles so far,’ one of them says, after a long-winded explanation of their route.
‘That’s in less than four days,’ says the other.
‘Which when you consider the terrain?’ says the first. ‘I mean, it’s not quite the Bradley Wiggins….’
‘No,’ says Robbie.
‘I’ve been counting the referendum posters,’ the first guy says. ‘So far it’s two to one in favour of independence.’
‘Aye,’ says the other. ‘That’ll be because the No people are scared to show.’
Robbie shakes his head. ‘It’s the Westminster politicians with their Project Fear stories about economic collapse if we go it alone. But as soon as folk challenge this they’re accused of intimidation. Och, it’s time we stood on our own two feet.’
‘Well, it’s a worthy ideal, but it is a risky business. There’ll be a run on the banks, so they say.’
‘All bluster,’ Robbie spits his disgust. ‘We’re one of the richest countries in the world, don’t you know? We can more than afford to go it alone.’
I’m just finishing my second pint when Rosa makes a welcome reappearance. I order a refill with another chaser and ask if she’ll qualify for a vote in the referendum.
