Chapter 36: Taming Mr. Walker: Chapter 36

Charlie

Three flights, four whiskies, two crying babies, six airline meals, five movies, and not a minute of sleep later, I land in Sumburgh airport. The cold, harsh reality of my knee-jerk decision hits me.

I stare up at the sign. “Welcome to Shetland.”

What am I doing?

This is the stupidest idea I’ve ever had. It was just a short romance, and then it ended. Now I’m travelling halfway around the world like a bunny-boiling crazed stalker?

He’s going to think I’m a nutcase. Who turns up uninvited two days before Christmas? Karl said that the door had closed. What did I think I was going to do? Knock on it and say Santa has a special surprise?

I fucked it up, and I can only blame myself and my damn insecurities. Tristan always teases me about being too hot-headed. The three flights gave me a lot of time to think. I was too caught up in believing Danny the tech tycoon persona and I failed to listen to Danny the man. Danny the boyfriend. I’ve learned my lesson, and I may have paid dearly with my heart.

Ho Ho bloody Ho.

If this backfires, I’ll have to spend Christmas alone in a holiday rental apartment surrounded by sheep, with no turkey, just that weird fish haggis.

Mum, Tristan, and Callie think I’m flying to London tomorrow from New York. I’ll have to make something up like I’ve gone to a retreat in Bali to find myself so I don’t have to tell them the truth.

Maybe it’s not too late to back out? I’m still at the airport so I could book the first flight back to London.

Although they are turning off the lights now … What is going on? I thought airports never closed.

I haven’t ironed out vital details past disembarking. Now I’m standing at a deserted airport twenty miles from the main town and there isn’t a single taxi office in sight.

“Hey,” I greet a man mopping the floor. “What’s the quickest way to get to town now?”

He nods to the exit. “Number six bus goes to Lerwick. Stay on until the end.”

“Great.” I sigh with relief. I’m not walking twenty miles in arctic conditions. “When’s the next one?”

He checks the big clock on the wall. “You’re in luck, about fifty minutes.”

This man has clearly never used a metro system if he thinks a fifty-minute wait is ‘lucky.’

“How long does it take?”

“It’s got a few stops. About an hour.”

“Thanks.”

Damn.

It’s so slow, Karl will beat me to Lerwick at this rate, and he doesn’t depart New York until tomorrow.

It looks like I’m going to have to go straight to the pub, which was not the plan. I wanted to freshen up first. I have that exhausted, dishevelled look you get on long-haul flights. The build-up of dribble stuck to your chin after sitting in a zombie-like state tilted forty-five degrees for hours.

I smell like a zombie too.

Ho Ho bloody Ho.

It’s definitely longer than fifty minutes by the time the bus arrives, and I’m the only person on it. I do my make-up in the dark and apply layers of deodorant to mask the odour of aeroplane sweat.

The closer the lights of Lerwick loom, the sicker I feel. Not only will he reject me, knowing Danny, he’ll also feel obliged to look after me in Shetland until he can send me back to London. That’s all I need; his pity and concern.

Then he’ll message Tristan, who will also become really concerned and will no doubt stage an intervention. My moment of madness will be a point of embarrassment for the next decade until I do something even stupider, of course.

Way to go, Charlie.

“Last stop.” The bus pulls to a halt a few doors down from the location of my demise, ‘The Lounge.’

It’s a small-town bar with live music and open mic nights, one of the only bars in the town. It’s not expecting a guest appearance from a transatlantic visitor.

I haul my two suitcases and guitar case off the bus and hover outside the bar.

“Do you need help?” The guy doing the door stares dubiously at my homeless chic look.

“Is it Open Mic night?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking at the suitcases. “Are you part of a band?”

“No. It’s just me, I’ve come from … New York.” I hesitate. “I’m here to surprise someone.”

He laughs at me like I’m a lunatic. “Holy shit! You’ve literally stepped off the plane?”

I grit my teeth. “I couldn’t risk not getting a slot. So?” I ask. “Can I have a slot?”

“All the way from New York? Sure!” He grins. “You can go on after Timmy has finished.”

Timmy must be the one making the awful sound with bagpipes.

“Five minutes?”

Panic seizes my heart.

“We don’t get too many requests,” he explains, staring at me as if I were an imaginary person. “Timmy and the band from Unst mainly.” He pauses. “Everyone will be shocked at you all the way from New York!”

“Uh-huh,” I rasp. “Look, can you sneak me through the back? It’ll ruin the surprise if I come through the front door.”

He grins. “Follow me.”

He turns suddenly, causing me to collide with him. “You’re not famous, are you?”

“No.” I look around the paint-chipped walls of the pub. Why would I be playing here if I was famous?

I drag the suitcases and the guitar down the alleyway to a back entrance bashing the guitar against the wall as I try to manoeuvre all my baggage.

“Wait here, Timmy will be off in two minutes.”

Nodding, I peer around the door to the bar.

He’s here.

Danny is here.

I try to breathe but it feels like someone is clutching my throat and stopping my airflow.

I rub my throat. My mouth is so dry and tight I can’t speak, never mind sing.

I can’t do this.

I’m going to be sick.

I’m going to pass out.

My heart is going to explode in my chest.

I’m having a full-blown panic attack.

Again, I peek inside. The shock of his life is coming; I just hope it’s not a nasty one.

He looks the picture of serenity as he leans against the bar, perched on a bar stool. Edme sits beside him. He’s got a week’s worth of stubble and is wearing a wool jumper with holes in it. He could pass for a sexy sheep farmer.

For the forty thousandth time since I landed, I wonder how I could be so ridiculous to think this would be a good idea.

They are laughing and drinking scotch together.

Edme is covered in mismatched jewellery like a Christmas tree and claps her hand out of rhythm to the bagpipes.

“Who’s the request for?” the barman asks as Timmy lets out one final painful blow.

“Danny,” I choke, “and Edme.”

He nods. “And your name?”

“Charlie.”

He scurries to the small stage area where Timmy is packing away his bagpipes. “Next up, folks, we have someone all the way from New York! This is a very special request for Eddie and Tammy.”

What!? No, you fool!

“Please give a welcome to Charlie!”

As he claps me out, the twenty or so people in the pub join in half-heartedly.

I take a deep breath and walk out into the light.