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haven’t had to work with her much but, when I do, she is mostly silent. I had thought that we might become friendly but I can see she doesn’t want that.
    ‘Is this a private convo or can anyone join in?’ she says, sitting beside Struan and looking up into his face; she bites into a piece of toast and talks through it. ‘How are you finding the work, Lillian? Feet still sore?’
    ‘Her name is Lil lis , Sam. I think you’ve been told that about a hundred times already,’ Struan says.
    ‘Lillis, Lillis,’ Sam says, testing my name in a bored way. ‘Is that French?’
    ‘Greek,’ I say.
    ‘Greek indeed,’ Struan says. ‘Go on, Medusa, you have cutlery to polish and breakfasts to serve. Get thee to the bistro.’
    ‘Yes, off you go,’ Sam says, lighting a cigarette and staring at me. She sucks a froth of smoke up her nose then blows it out through her lips.
    ‘I’m gone,’ I say, getting up and squeezing past Sam, who has pushed her chair in front of the door.
    Struan follows me out. ‘Some girl Sam, eh?’
    ‘She can be a bit rude.’
    ‘Complicated love life,’ he says, holding open the kitchen door for me.
    ‘My heart bleeds.’
    ‘Now, now, be nice. Hey, do you fancy a drive later? I got my car fixed and I need to take her out for a run. We could head up north, towards the peaks.’
    ‘Sure,’ I say, delighted at the idea of a spin; an hour or two away from the village, a chance to see what lies beyond Kinlochbrack. ‘Just don’t refer to the car as a she anymore and we’ll be laughing.’
     
    We park above Loch Lurgainn and sit looking at Stac Pollaidh, a lone mountain with a scooped peak. It squats – a huge, immoveable tent – blood-dark against the white sky.
    ‘Totally gorgeous, isn’t it?’ Struan says, stretching his body.
    ‘It’s red,’ I say. ‘The same as Uluru.’
    ‘Sandstone.’
    I take photos through the windscreen, feeling too lazy and warm to get out of the car into the windy afternoon. The lake below us is black and I watch a line of gulls follow each other like sheep along its shore. Inside the car the air smells earthy, like a greenhouse. Struan takes two dream rings from a paper bag and we eat them in silence; the white icing makes my teeth ache. I pull the sweet, bready halves apart and lick at the baker’s cream that is liberally painted on both sides.
    ‘Fucking yum,’ I say. I suck the cream off my fingers. ‘Look at me, I’m a total mess.’
    Struan holds up his sticky hands. ‘Me too; like a wain.’
    I lick the sweetness from my skin and mop at the wet with a tissue. ‘Tell me something interesting, Struan.’
    ‘Em, let me see,’ he says, tapping the steering wheel, ‘something interesting. Oh, I know: my father had webbed fingers.’
    I look at him and laugh. ‘Did he really?’
    ‘Honestly.’ He stretches out both hands and dips his index finger through the valleys of the fingers on his left hand. ‘They were as webbed as any duck’s foot.’
    ‘Jesus, that is interesting.’
    Struan smiles at me. His looks don’t make a great first impression, I think, but they soften as you spend time with him. He is porcine, in ways, with his small eyes and almost bald head, but he is definitely one of those men who, the more you look at him, the more attractive he gets.
    ‘You tell me something now, Lillis. Something entirely fascinating.’ He lights up a cigarette and rolls down the window a crack.
    ‘Oh, God, pressure.’ I think for a moment. ‘Well, when I’m reading a book, I always notice when I’ve reached page one hundred. That page number dances up to my eyes but none of the others do.’
    ‘Hmm. That’s sort of interesting,’ he says. ‘Another thing now.’
    ‘Well…what? Oh, I know, the smell of lavender oil makes my throat close up.’
    Struan frowns. ‘I have one, this is a good one: there are three golf balls on the moon.’
    I laugh. ‘No way! That’s bollox – no way is that true.’
    ‘It is true. I read it in