Highland Fling - A Funny Chick Lit Romance (COMPLETE)

The Pity Party for One

 I stay in Kirsty's house the rest of the day, too scared to go out in case I meet yet another villager who asks me why I wasn't at Jack's party and what an amazing night it was. I can't face telling them I wasn't invited and having to admit how unpopular I am.

Mena seems to sense something and decides I am now her very best friend. She insists on sitting on my lap most of the day, happy to re-watch Outlander series 2 with me as I mutter that Sam Heughan is one hundred times better looking than Jack McAllan and surmising that he, Jamie Fraser stroke Sam Heughan, would never think of holding a party in his home town and not inviting the village's new-comer.

When I risk creeping outside to phone Katya, picking my moment carefully to minimise the risk of people passing by who might hear my moans, she suggests my invite might have got lost in the post.

"Katya," I say, "we're not living in the eighteen hundreds. People don't send invites out. They ask you themselves. I sat in a mini-bus with him for six hours. Don't you think he might have mentioned it then? 'Hey, Gaby! I'm having a little party this weekend. It's the annual do I have to celebrate the tourist season and the first few successful tours. Nothing formal. It would be great if you could come.' But he didn't. Or there's the Lochalshie WhatsApp group. He could have asked me through that."

"Is he on that group?"

"No. But he could have gone on it. Joined it for a minute or so, asked me and then left."

The Lochalshie WhatsApp group is so active, any sane person doesn't stay in it for long. Whenever I'm in Mhari's company, her phone beeps every second or so with a message. How she keeps on top of it is beyond me.

When I moan again about my Norma No Mates status, she loses patience. "Gaby, you're already attending a party—a pity party for one. Let's talk about Dexter, stupid accidents aside. You said he reminded you of Tobias Menzies. Did you notice if he was wearing a wedding ring or not?"

He wasn't, but that doesn't tell you if he is with someone or not. I'm pretty sure that the Dating Guru would recommend I don't date someone I work for. Or at least until after Bespoke Design has finished the contract we have with his company. Anyway, he's used to glamorous people like Caitlin. In any picture I have ever seen of her, she is immaculate. Her hair is smooth and shiny, her skin glossy and made-up and her clothes designer. When I caught a glance of myself in the mirror this morning, I was red-cheeked, my hair was doing its best impression of part finger in an electric socket, part haven't seen a brush in months. And my coat had a hole in it torn out by the wind here. (Feels like.) Like Caitlin, Dexter has American teeth—you know the kind I mean, big, straighter than the line you draw with a ruler and so white they dazzle in the dark. When I was with him, I didn't smile and kept my lips over my mouth when I was speaking as I didn't want him to draw unfavourable comparisons with my unstraightened, undazzle in the dark teeth.

And what if Dexter's personal self is like his work self? "Gaby! You are beyond awesome. I've never had such an amazing girlfriend. If you could just change the way you say 'I love you', and when we go out hold my hand and not my arm, and make sure that you brush your hair at all times..." And so on, a never-ending list of everything I need to do to improve myself before he decides I was okay all along.

I force myself out of the house on Sunday, having spent an hour beforehand practising what I'll say if anyone asks me why I wasn't at Jack's party. "Oh? That. I was too busy working." Hopefully, no-one will try and corroborate that with Jack. Luckily, it 's a beautiful day. The warm temperatures the BBC weather forecaster promised mean it is warm enough to go coat-less, but I wear a long-sleeved top anyway. The wind that blows off the loch here is always present and part of the blame for my permanently messy hair. Plenty of people mill about, but I walk the loch edge and manage to avoid getting close enough to anyone for them to speak to me. The sharp chime of an ice-cream van pierces the peace and quiet, and I decide to cheer myself up with a gigantic cone. The rainbow-wrapped van is parked at the far side of the loch and by the time I get there, with any luck most of the crowd around it will have gone.