Roddy had been a total dick back at Laphroaig, but you couldn’t argue with his results. They were on for joining Molly and her sister in the pub tonight, and the absence of a wedding ring made Adam reassess his chances from zero to almost zero.
His lack of success with women was legendary amongst the gang, Roddy never missing an opportunity to rub it in. He’d never had a relationship lasting more than a few months, which for someone with one eye on forty was pretty worrying. He was plenty interested, but always overcome by a crippling lack of confidence, his psyche riddled with self-doubt. Not the most appealing trait in a boyfriend, he had to admit. In contrast, Roddy was all cock and balls, ploughing his way through the female population of Scotland, it seemed. Ethan had been like Adam at uni, never getting anywhere, but that changed when Debs took him on and quickly moulded him into typical husband material. As for Luke, he never mentioned women, and there was something in that silence which meant the rest of them never asked. Adam couldn’t remember him with a girlfriend since uni, but then he spent all his time these days at his remote farmhouse-cum-studio, doing soundtrack work for television and film, or creating that strange chilled-out electronica of his.
He was the enigma of the group, the one who never really talked about his life. Once or twice Adam had spotted the name Luke Young in the end credits of television shows, original score or sound editor, and wondered how he’d made the leap into that from his maths degree. They’d all wound up doing something pretty removed from their official qualification, but Luke’s career as musician and composer was the furthest out there.
Adam had only ever been to his house a few times, a secluded sprawl of old buildings along a farm track outside Pencaitland. Luke had bought the place, gutted it and transformed it into a studio, using the insurance money he received when his mum and dad died. His parents had been poor and his childhood was much more deprived than the other three, brought up in a poky flat in Tranent as opposed to their smarter houses in Gullane, Haddington and North Berwick — all the more affluent enclaves of East Lothian. But when Mr and Mrs Young were hit by a drunk driver and killed on the way back from the social club one night not long after Luke’s graduation, it emerged they’d had a healthy life-insurance policy stashed away, enough to pay off their mortgage and leave Luke with a big lump sum.
After the painful process of clearing out and selling his folks’ house, he went travelling on his own for a year, trekking round the snowy expanses of the Arctic countries, across Greenland and the northern reaches of Canada, long visits to Iceland and the Faroes, even spending some time on the Svalbard archipelago. Not that Adam and the rest got much out of him about his travels except for the odd postcard. He returned with a noticeable sense of peace over what had happened to his family and a metal plate in the back of his skull thanks to a snowmobile accident in a Swedish blizzard. That’s when the beanie hats started, to cover the extensive scarring to his crown, along with a steady grass habit to combat the occasional migraines. He was quieter and more reserved than he’d been before, but also more comfortable with his new place in the world.
He’d thrown himself into the studio project, transforming it from derelict outhouses to high-tech operation in eighteen months, and had split the time since then between making his own music and building up a reputation for atmospheric soundscapes perfect for edgy dramas and documentaries.
Adam envied the way Luke never got worked up about anything, the way he seemed so assured, confident and happy about everything in his life. He looked at him now, content to sit there tapping along to a song in his head. He noticed the lazy left eye, and underneath the scruffy beard he could make out the pale curve of scar tissue on his chin, the result of a drunken accident with a pint glass years ago that none of them could remember properly.
Luke was his own boss and earned a living doing something he loved. That was what Adam wanted. Luke had partly been the inspiration for Adam’s big idea, the real reason they were on Islay this weekend. He’d planned to spring it on the rest of them tomorrow, but he was suddenly itching to talk about it now.
‘Luke, you know when you built your studio?’
Luke nodded, though maybe he was just nodding to the sounds in his head.
‘Was it a nightmare? I mean logistically?’
Luke played with a leather bracelet on his wrist.
‘Not easy, man. Planning and managing, that’s not my bag. Best thing I ever did, though. Changed my life.’
Adam nodded and smiled. ‘How about being your own boss? Doesn’t that take a lot of organisation?’
Luke gazed into the distance for a while. ‘Worth it, if you love what you do.’
Adam wanted Luke to ask why he was asking, to draw his plans out of him, but Luke was silent. Maybe it could wait till tomorrow. Tonight he had Molly to think about. He felt a trill in his chest at the thought of seeing her later and resisted the urge to check his heart rate.
‘What do you think of Molly?’ he said.
Luke was back to fiddling with the thing on his wrist. ‘Seems cool.’
‘Do you think I should go for it?’
‘Why not?’
‘She’s pretty cute, eh?’
‘Yeah.’
Adam examined Luke for a moment. ‘You know, you don’t talk about your love life at all.’
Luke smiled and shrugged.
‘You got a lady tucked away somewhere we don’t know about?’
‘Not as such.’
‘What does that mean?’
Luke just shrugged again and picked up a menu. ‘Can we eat? I’m starving.’
Adam smiled then shook his head.
‘Fucking lezzer.’ It was Roddy and Ethan approaching the table and laughing.
Ethan nodded towards the redhead tour guide, tidying away tasting glasses across the hall. ‘Roddy struck out and he’s taking it badly.’
‘I’m telling you, I know a carpetmuncher when I see one.’
Ethan shook his head. ‘Maybe she just didn’t fancy you.’
Roddy looked at him as if he’d grown a second head. ‘Don’t ever fucking say that to me again.’
Adam and Luke joined in the laughter as Ethan sat down, making an ‘L’ for ‘loser’ with his thumb and index finger on his forehead.
‘Fuck the lot of you,’ said Roddy, laughing as well now. ‘Shower of cunts.’
He looked around the cafe. ‘What do you have to do to get a fucking drink around here?’
8
The Ardview was busy, a bustle of post-work Friday drinkers creating a growl of noise and laughter. Everyone seemed to know everyone. Each time the door opened, new arrivals were greeted with friendly antagonism and abuse, like Cheers with hard-earned, liver-damaged cynicism instead of one-liners.
Adam stood listening to Roddy chat up the barmaid from earlier, who’d finished her shift. She was slumped on a bar-stool glugging double JD and smiling sarcastically. No sign of Molly. Adam turned at the sound of the door as two thick-armed blokes in mechanics’ overalls came in.
They’d left Ethan and Luke at the B amp;B, Ethan on his mobile to Debs, Luke doing something on a laptop, both promising to head over soon.
Adam looked at Ash. She was cute in a gawky kind of way, but looked exhausted, dark bags under her eyes. The exposed skin on her back, neck and arms was tattooed with flowing interlaced Celtic designs. Adam stared at them, trying to make sense of the swirling patterns.
Ash downed her drink and Roddy offered to get another. How could anyone on Islay drink Jack fucking Daniel’s when they had the best whisky in the world on their doorstep? JD wasn’t even a proper bourbon, made in the wrong American state using the wrong techniques and tasting like a mouthful of iron filings. You might as well drink Whyte and fucking Mackay.
Roddy waved a fifty-pound note at the big bear of a barman, who ignored him. Ash turned to Adam.
