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She pulls out and I grip the sides of her jacket, look over her shoulder at the shiny black road. We wobble a bit to start with, but she takes it slowly enough and the bike steadies as we climb to the bend. I feel my bum slip as she leans for the corner, tighten my hold on her jacket to pull myself back to centre when the road straightens. She puts the brakes on to descend into Lochgillan and I slide into her, my body pressing against hers as she slows to a halt at the lights. I try to wriggle myself back into position while she plants her feet on the ground.
‘Stay still until we move!’ she shouts. ‘Use your feet to brace yourself. Relax!’
I freeze, embarrassed at being like rammed up against her, with the lights seeming to be on red forever. At last we move, and I can push down on the footrests and pull my arse back on the seat.
Through the town and I concentrate on the sack of potatoes thing, manage not to slide so badly at the next corner. Then we’re speeding up on the road out and I feel the rush of cold air round my neck. The sea glints at the corner of my vision, the rising land on the other side flashing green, yellow, purple. The bike throbs between my legs, my bare hands literally frozen to the sides of her jacket. I’m suspended in the moment. Go with it!
We’re there in no time and I hang on like fuck as she bumps over the rutted road to the reception. She pulls up and gestures for me to get off.
I slide my left foot down to the ground and try to pull my right leg over the panniers, grabbing her shoulder to steady myself and landing in a heap on a patch of scrubby grass. I pull myself to stand, steaming up inside the helmet. I can’t get it off, as in my hands are frozen solid. She parks the bike and comes to my rescue, unbuckling the helmet.
‘Still in one piece?’ Her squashed face filling the space.
‘Just need to work on my getting off technique?’ I grin.
‘All in good time, right?’ A bit flirty, is it? ‘Whereabouts are you camped?’
I walk down the track through the dunes with her riding behind. The bike skitters on the loose chippings and she curses as she steadies it with her feet on the ground. I point to my tent on the bank and she rides up the grass to it.
‘Nice spot.’ She unzips her jacket, looks out across the dunes to the sea. The storm clouds have settled over the dark mountains to the south and the view of Skye is sharpened by the high sun. The wind rustles through the pale dune grasses. She takes a deep breath and shakes her head, flipping her dark ponytail.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’m guessing there are worse places.’
I watch the play of cloud shadows on the sea, the black shape of a bird bobbing on the waves. The awesome vastness punches the guts out of me with the loneliness of being here.
Jez crouches by the tent to light a fag, cursing the wind. I get down beside her to provide more windbreak and she leans into my body. I glimpse her full cleavage, her leather clad hips, catch her scent again and feel that twinge of arousal. Shit, no, concentrate. She lights the fag, then hands me one, lit from hers. I get up and focus on the sea.
She stands and smokes beside me, saying nothing. The wind takes literally half my fag as I inhale deeply, hooked straight back into the ache of being excluded by Don, like it’s built into the landscape. I can’t stay here. I finish the fag in a couple of minutes, building resolve as I turn to the tent.
I feel the bulk of her behind me as I pull at the pegs.
‘You off already?’
‘I need to get a move on so I can get a bus out.’ There’s a little bird hopping about on the grass, moving closer like it’s expecting some pickings.
She bends to look quizzically at me.
‘At the museum? That was my father.’
‘He didn’t seem keen on having you around, that’s for sure.’ Her body’s like foreshortened as I look up at her, her face looming large.
‘I met him a couple of days ago, as in for the first time. He invited me in, started telling about his life, all that. Then suddenly he doesn’t want to know.’
She nods.
‘I only want to talk to him, I’m just curious, is all.’
She nods again, says nothing.
‘He might have known I’d turn up sometime. Do I look like such a liability?’ I pull more pegs as the tent starts to subside. The bird is joined by another, pecking at the daisies.
‘Well, he needs time, I guess,’ she says.
‘Fuck that, he’s had eighteen years. He doesn’t want the locals gossiping. Pathetic.’
‘And you need another parent right now, do you?’
I pick up the tent and shake out the sleeping bag and assorted empties onto the grass. The birds fly up with a frantic flapping, then land to pick amongst the stuff.
