The Dog Share. Fiona Gibson

hair being buffeted by the wind. ‘I’m so excited, Paul,’ I added. ‘Look at those mountains! And those little white cottages dotted along the shore …’

      ‘And I think that’s the whisky distillery over there.’ He pointed towards the end of the town.

      ‘Really? It’s tiny!’ I gazed at the purplish hills that scooped down towards the greener lower pastures. A little way along from the town – the only sizeable settlement on the island – lay a wide crescent of beach. It looked deserted. There would be no resort-style entertainment here, no shops crammed with souvenir keyrings and novelty booze that never seems quite so enticing once you cart it home. My heart soared with the anticipation of a whole week together, separated from the rest of the world.

      My mother had been astounded when she’d first heard about our trip. ‘Belinda said you’re off to some island?’ she’d barked down the phone. So she and my sister had been gossiping about Paul and me. Although I didn’t know where my hackles were exactly, I was sure they were raised.

      ‘Yes, we just thought it’d make a nice change,’ I explained.

      ‘A Scottish island?’ she gasped.

      ‘That’s right, Mum. It’s in the Hebrides.’

      ‘The Hebrides! How on earth will you get there?’

      ‘We’ll drive up to Oban on the west coast and take the ferry from there. It looks amazing,’ I added, to stir her up even further.

      Mum paused, obviously figuring out how to fish for more information in a non-blatant way. ‘Isn’t that a bit … different for you two?’

      Ah, the ‘D’ word, a favourite of Mum’s, as in, ‘Oh, is that a new jacket, Suzy? It’s different!’ I.e., ‘If you’re happy to go out in public wearing such a hideous article, then who am I to stop you?’

      ‘We’ve been up to the Highlands plenty of times,’ I reminded her, ‘since Paul’s dad bought that hotel. You know we love it up there.’

      ‘Yes, but that was in proper Scotland, wasn’t it?’ You’d have thought we were talking the Arctic Circle. But then my parents had spent their whole lives living within a few miles of York – where Paul and I also lived – and rarely ventured out of Yorkshire.

      ‘Erm, it was on the mainland, yes,’ I replied. ‘But the islands are proper Scotland too, Mum.’

      ‘That was in a town, though, with things to do.’ Like we were a couple of kids. ‘And obviously,’ she added, ‘now Paul’s dad has, um …’

      Died was what she couldn’t quite bring herself to say. My boyfriend had lost his father the previous summer. Paul had only been ten when his mum had passed away, and apparently he and his dad had been a real team – inseparable really – as he’d been growing up on their Bradford estate. He’d taken his death extremely hard.

      ‘We are still allowed in Scotland,’ I said lightly, ‘even though Ian’s not there anymore.’

      ‘I know that, love,’ Mum said, in a softer tone. ‘But d’you think Paul will enjoy it? I mean, don’t you normally go to Majorca or Spain—’

      ‘I’m sure he’ll love it,’ I said firmly.

      ‘But what will he do there?’

      ‘What everyone does on a Scottish island, I’d imagine,’ I said, sensing a throbbing in my temples. ‘Explore and enjoy the incredible scenery …’

      ‘What if it rains?’

      I couldn’t help smiling at that. ‘You’re talking as if he’s a difficult toddler who I wouldn’t consider taking anywhere if there wasn’t going to be a gigantic soft play centre or a petting zoo.’

      ‘I’m sure there aren’t any petting zoos there!’

      Now I was laughing. ‘Mum, he’s a forty-eight-year-old man. He doesn’t need a petting zoo. And if the weather’s terrible I’m sure there’ll be some jigsaws in the cottage.’

      ‘I wouldn’t have thought he was the jigsaw type,’ she remarked.

      ‘Oh, yes. Let him anywhere near a 2000-piecer and he can’t keep his hands off it.’

      ‘Hmm.’ Mum paused, then added: ‘It’s not a bucket list thing, is it?’

      ‘What, completing a 2000-piece jigsaw?’

      ‘No! I mean Paul wanting to go to that island—’

      ‘You think he’d only want to visit a designated area of outstanding beauty if he were about to cark it?’

      ‘Of course not,’ she blustered. ‘Why are you so defensive? I didn’t mean to upset you, Suzy.’

      ‘I know that,’ I said, impressed by my ability to remain cordial. ‘Anyway, it sounds like there’s plenty to do there. There’s a distillery that does visitor tours, and you know Paul loves whisky …’

      ‘You can say that again.’ Mum never missed an opportunity to imply that my boyfriend was a useless drunk.

      ‘… And then there’s the smokery,’ I added. ‘They do incredible fish, apparently. Buckingham Palace has a regular order for kippers. In fact, the island’s name comes from the Gaelic word for herring – sgadan – so Sgadansay actually means “Isle of herring” …’ A factlet I’m sure you’re fascinated by, I reflected, sensing Mum’s interest dwindling now it had become clear that I would Not Be Riled. ‘And we’re planning to do loads of hiking,’ I breezed on, ‘up and down hills in our anoraks …’

      ‘Do you even have an anorak?’

      ‘I’ll get one. And waterproof trousers. There are these amazing silver sand beaches and we don’t want the weather to hamper us …’ And then there’s shagging, I yearned to add, keen to wrap up our chat now. If it pours down all week – which I fully expect – I’m planning to cram the fridge with wine, draw the curtains and we’ll shag each other senseless, in our anoraks. I might even ask Paul to smack me with one of those artisanal kippers. ‘And there’s probably a church we can visit,’ I added.

      ‘Well, I hope you have fun,’ Mum remarked tartly, and we finished the call.

      In fact, although it pained me to the core, I could understand why she was so perplexed about our trip. As far as Paul was concerned, holiday heaven meant glorious sunshine and music blaring from beach bars – and he always wanted to make friends with everyone. We’d been together six years, and although I’d always enjoyed our jaunts, occasionally I yearned for wide-open spaces and for it just to be the two of us. Frieda, my daughter, had already left home and her brother Isaac would soon be flying the nest too. There was no reason, I kept telling Paul, why we couldn’t have a few days in the country as well as our usual fortnight in the sun.

      However, he’d never really ‘got’ the countryside, and became visibly twitchy if he found himself in it accidentally. We never even went to parks together, unless we were cutting through one to get to somewhere else. And now he’d booked a holiday that would be entirely focused on country walks, and require polo necks?

      I couldn’t ignore the fact that it was completely bizarre. But I was damned if I was going to admit that to Mum.

      Those thoughts soon blew away on the cool breeze as the ferry approached the quayside. We’d have a wonderful time here, I just knew it. It was a beautiful blue-skied April afternoon, and my heart soared like the seagulls squawking overhead.

      We stayed in a tiny whitewashed cottage close to the shore. Whatever the weather, we’d pack up hearty picnics and set off on hikes along the rugged coastline or up into the hills. Eagles soared above us. We saw red deer who stopped and glanced at us briefly as if to say, ‘So, who are you?’ before scampering away. We rolled up our jeans and paddled in crystal clear streams and fell back, laughing,