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“It’s Ben. It’s got to be Ben. There’s no other explanation. Who else would have a reason to hate Jack enough to want to warn you off him, other than your most recent ex-boyfriend?”
It’s two days after The Perfect Proposal. Me, Frankie, and our friend McTavish are sitting in a row on the harbor wall, eating three rapidly melting ice creams, and Frankie thinks she’s solved the mystery already.
“Dylan Fraser hates Jack,” says McTavish, who’s still in his work clothes, having been plowing a field — or whatever it is farmers do all day — when Frankie and I called in to tell him my big news. “He says he’s a terrible driver.”
“Dylan Fraser’s a police officer,” points out Frankie, slurping at her cone. “He’s hardly going to risk his job by sending Emerald weird messages, just because he’s had to pull Jack over for speeding a couple of times, is he? I suppose it could be Scarlett, though,” she adds thoughtfully. “Didn’t she troll that influencer, Ada Whatshername, for a bit?”
“Scarlett did that under her own name,” I reply. “Being anonymous isn’t her style. Although Ididimpersonate her that time. I guess she could be getting back at me for that?”
Frankie and McTavish both shrug doubtfully, and I stare gloomily at my ice cream, as if it’s going to pipe up with a suggestion of its own.
It’s not Scarlett; I know that. I mean, it’s been two years now since I accidentally (and it reallywasan accident, Iswear…) made Jack, who I’d just met at the time, think I was her, and we all… well, we don’tlaughabout it, exactly, but we don’tdwellon it, either.
Scarlett and I get along just fine these days; and even if we didn’t, she’s got enough on her mind right now without wanting to try to split up me and Jack. Which just leaves Ben, out of all the suggestions I’ve had so far.
“He might be mymostrecentex, but he’s not exactlyrecent, is he?” I say, fully aware that I’m grasping at straws here. “It’s been ages since we split up, and I haven’t heard from him since. Why would he care who I’m marrying, after all this time? And how would he even know?”
“You didn’t ‘split up’,” Frankie says, wiping ice cream off her chin. “He dumped you. Brutally, as I recall.”
“And stole all your money,” adds McTavish, helpfully.
“And your credit cards,” says Frankie, warming to the theme.
“Then flew to L.A. with them, never to be seen or heard of ever again,” finishes McTavish, with a level of drama I wouldn’t have suspected of him.
“As for how he would know,” says Frankie, “Well, that’s easy.”
“Shona,” we all say in unison.
I hand my cone to McTavish, my appetite suddenly gone.
Shona McLaren is Heather Bay’s biggest gossip, and the face behind the @heatherbaygossip account on Instagram. (Or so everyone assumes, anyway. Shona’s always rigorously denied having anything to do with it, but who else would know about everything that happens here, almost before it actually happens?)
“Shona hasn’t posted about the engagement yet, though,” says Frankie. “She must have been too busy with that business with Jimmy and the pigs.”
“McTavish and I exchange glances over her head, but wisely opt not to ask about this.
“She’s posted loads of stuff about you and Jack before this, though,” Frankie goes on. “So it would be easy enough for anyone watching to figure out you’re together.”
I nod reluctantly, trying not to think about all the unflattering angles Shona — or whoever the mystery GossipLass is — has managed to capture of me lately. If Benhasbeen looking at her account, then I’m pretty sure we can rule him out as a suspect. There’s no way he’d want me back after seeing that photo of me with what looked like seven separate chins.
“I dinnae ken who’s behind this,” McTavish says seriously, “But whoever it is, ye need to tell Jack, and show him that message. That’s the most important thing.”
Frankie nods firmly. I stare down at my feet, pretending not to have heard.
“Emerald,” Frankie says, elbowing me sharply in the ribs. “Pleasetell me you’re going to tell Jack about this? Honestly, I don’t know why you didn’t just tell him when you got the message? Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because he’d just asked me to marry him,” I reply, amazed this isn’t obvious. “In the most beautiful, romantic way imaginable.”
“I thought ye said ye stood in cow shit?” interjects McTavish.
“It was the perfect moment,” I go on, ignoring him. “What was I supposed to do? Totally ruin it by going, ‘Yes, Jack I’ll marry you, but, by the way, I’ve just had a message telling me not to trust you. Anything you’d like to tell me, before we go and break the news to my parents?’ Is that seriously what you think I should have done?”
There’s a single beat of silence.
“Aye,” say Frankie and McTavish simultaneously.
“Or words to that effect, anyway,” says Frankie.
