Chapter 4: Unexpected Support
The sequin dress lay across her bed like a spilled pot of molten gold. Roz stood in her bathrobe, a toothbrush hanging from her mouth, staring at it. The memory of the alley was a cold finger tracing her spine. The feel of the tacky bar booth, the predator’s smile, the shame afterwards. But then, layered over it, was the warm solidity of the café, the quiet understanding in Alasdair’s eyes, the two words he’d texted days later when she’d tentatively mentioned the outreach program’s funding report: Good work.
She rinsed her mouth, spat. Stared at her reflection—wide blue eyes, a faint line of tension between her brows. Catriona was picking her up in an hour. The plan was neutral territory: a busy pub with a quiz night, safety in numbers, absolutely no alleyways.
Her phone buzzed on the sink. A notification lit up the screen.
Alasdair: Evenin’, Roz. Just got off the pitch—still got that post-match soreness, but the lads are keen for the session. You’ll fit right in, though. The kids’ll love your energy. And if they’re anything like the fans, they’ll be asking for your autograph by the end.
A laugh bubbled out of her, surprising her. The grand, gallant silliness of it. He was referring to a joke from weeks ago, about a fan mistaking her for a player’s WAG and asking for a signature. She dried her hands, picked up the phone. Her thumbs hovered.
She could say Thanks, you too, and leave it. A professional, polite full stop.
Instead, a different impulse took over. A testing one. She typed slowly, her heart doing a clumsy thump against her ribs.
Roz: Thinking of giving that night out another try tonight. Different venue. Lower stakes.
She sent it. Put the phone face down. It buzzed almost instantly.
Alasdair: Good.
A single word. Then another buzz.
Alasdair: You deserve to sparkle.
She read it once, twice. The warmth started in her chest and radiated outwards, flushing her skin. She looked from the phone to the dress on the bed. The sequins seemed less like a target now, more like an choice. Her choice.
When Cat arrived, Roz was dressed. The gold fabric was just as short, just as revealing, but she stood differently in it. She’d paired it with chunky ankle boots, not heels, and a leather jacket slung over her shoulders like armour she could choose to remove.
“Whoa,” Cat said, leaning in the doorway. “The phoenix rises from the ashes of the shitty alley. You look fierce.”
“I feel… determined,” Roz said, grabbing her small black bag. “And mildly nauseous.”
“That’s the spirit.”
The pub was a vast, Victorian-era place with high ceilings, stained glass, and a bustling, shouting crowd clustered around numbered tables. A quizmaster with a magnificent handlebar moustache was calling out questions over a crackly PA. It was loud, but a communal, focused loud. No throbbing bass, no predatory darkness. Just the collective groan over a missed Sports question and the triumphant cheer of a team scoring on General Knowledge.
They found Meera, Viv, and Paul at a table near the back, under a print of a mournful stag. Answer sheets were already covered in furious scribbles.
“You made it!” Viv yelled over the din. “Right, you’re on Science. I’m useless after Newton.”
Roz slid in, shrugging off her jacket. The sequins glittered under the warm pub lights. A few heads turned at nearby tables, but the glances were curious, appreciative, not leering. The quiz demanded attention.
She slipped into the rhythm of it, the competitive focus a balm. She knew the atomic number of carbon, the name of Jupiter’s largest moon. Paul argued for ‘Ganymede’ over ‘Callisto’ and she held her ground, citing a documentary she’d watched with Jamie. They got the point.
During the music round, as they collectively butchered a 90s Britpop lyric, her phone buzzed on the table. A text lit up the screen.
Alasdair: Sparkling yet?
She smiled, tilting the screen away slightly.
Roz: More like mentally calculating the speed of a falling object in a vacuum. Quiz night.
Alasdair: Ah, the highbrow alternative to a dance floor. What’s your team name?
She looked at their answer sheet. At the top, Viv had scrawled The Quizlamic State.
Roz: ‘The Quizlamic State.’ I’m told it’s ironic.
Three dots appeared. Then his reply.
Alasdair: Horrific. I love it. We’re doing a charity golf thing tomorrow. My team name is ‘Fore! Play.’ Ewan’s idea.
She snorted a laugh. Meera glanced over. “Secret admirer?”
“Just a friend,” Roz said, too quickly. She typed back.
Roz: Also horrific. Also weirdly proud of Ewan.
Alasdair: Don’t be. He thinks a bogey is a golf term and a ghost. How’s the post-match soreness?
The question was casual, but it felt intimate. He was in his world, she in hers, and they were texting across the divide.
Roz: Manageable. How’s yours?
Alasdair: A hot bath and a grim acceptance of my mortality. The usual.
The quizmaster announced the final round. It was a picture round, blown-up pixelated images of famous faces on the big screen. The pub erupted in shouts and groans.
Roz’s phone buzzed again as they debated whether a blurry blob was Mary Shelley or Queen Victoria.
Alasdair: This sounds chaotic. Good chaotic?
She looked around. At Viv’s intense concentration, at Paul dramatically head-desking, at Catriona scribbling furious notes. The warm, beer-scented air was thick with camaraderie. No one was scanning the room for prey. They were all hunting for answers.
Roz: Yes. Good chaotic.
She paused, then added.
Roz: Safe.
The word sat there. Sent. It was more vulnerable than she’d intended. It acknowledged the before. It marked the after.
His reply came a minute later, as their table was declared the winners by a single point and their corner of the pub erupted in victorious screaming.
Alasdair: That’s the main thing.
The quiz prize was a round of shots and a £50 bar tab. They celebrated with sticky, sweet liqueurs that tasted of synthetic peaches. Roz felt a giddy, uncomplicated joy. The dress felt like part of the fun now, not a costume.
The dress felt like part of the fun now, not a costume. The synthetic peach taste still on her tongue, Roz laughed as Paul attempted a victory dance, knocking a stool over. This was the version of a night out she’d almost forgotten could exist.
“Right!” shouted Catriona, slamming her empty shot glass down. “Who’s up for a club? This tab’s got another forty quid on it and I’m not letting it go to waste!”
Shouts of ‘Yes!’ erupted from Viv and Paul. Meera groaned, checking her phone. “I’ve got a tutorial at nine tomorrow, you animals. I’m out.” She hugged Roz. “You look amazing, by the way. Really.”
The word ‘club’ landed in Roz’s stomach like a lead weight. The giddy warmth from the quiz win seeped away, replaced by that familiar, cold tightening in her shoulders. The memory of bass throbbing in her ribs, of disorienting darkness and trapped air, surfaced unbidden.
Catriona read her face instantly. She linked her arm through Roz’s, leaning in close so her words were just for her. “Not that kind of club. I promise. The one on George Street, with the massive windows and the stupidly expensive gin. It’s all suits and posh twats, zero atmosphere, but it’s bright as a surgery. We’ll get a booth by the door. You can leave anytime.”
“Bright as a surgery?” Roz repeated, a weak smile touching her lips.
“Clinically lit. You could perform an appendectomy on the dance floor. It’s the antithesis of a vibe. Perfect.”
Roz took a breath, feeling the sequins scratch lightly against her skin. She thought of the alley, the crushing fear. Then she thought of the text on her phone, the word ‘safe’ she’d sent him. This was a different equation. A bright room, an exit in sight, her best friend’s arm looped firmly in hers.
“Okay,” she said, the word quiet but decisive.
“Come on, lovely,” Catriona said, pulling her gently towards the pub door. “It’ll all be good.”
The chilly night air hit them, a shock after the pub’s warmth. They piled into two taxis, Roz, Cat, and Viv in one. The streets of New Town slid by, orderly and elegant, a world away from the grimy closes of the Old Town. Roz watched the streetlights blur, her phone a dark rectangle in her hand.
It buzzed just as their taxi pulled up outside a towering, columned building emitting a soft, golden glow. She glanced at the screen.
Alasdair: Been roped into going out.You still out? Some of the lads want to go clubbing.
The coincidence felt like a static shock. She stood on the pavement, staring at the message. The grand doors of the club were held open by a doorman in a coat with gold braid. Inside, she could see crystal chandeliers and white marble, just as Cat had promised. It was a cathedral of commerce, not a den of predators.
Her thumbs moved quickly, the cold air making her fingers clumsy.
Roz: Standing outside one right now.George Street. The stupidly bright one.
She hit send before she could overthink it. Catriona took her hand, giving it a squeeze. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Roz said, and this time she almost believed it. “Let’s go spend that tab.”
They were shown to a plush booth near the entrance, the seat a deep crimson velvet. Roz slid in, deliberately facing the room, the door, the whole sprawling, well-lit scene. It was just a room, she told herself. A very loud, expensive room full of people shouting over a terrible house remix of an 80s pop song.
Here and hos mayes phone lit up again.
Alasdair: No.A pause. Three dots pulsed.
Alasdair: Not there. The lads are heading to the Picasso.Underground. No windows. You should be nowhere near that place.
The conviction in his text was a splash of cold water. He knew. He knew exactly the kind of place that would coil the fear back into her gut. The Picasso was a legend, a sweatbox in the foundations of the city where things got lost.
Before she could reply, another message.
Alasdair: Which one on George St?She told him. The reply was instantaneous.
Alasdair: Stay. I’ll get rid of them and come to you. Ten minutes.He was coming. The simple statement unspooled a new, entirely different kind of tension in her chest. This wasn’t the cold dread of memory. This was a live wire, buzzing and present. She looked down at her dress, the gold sequins reflecting the chandelier light in a hundred tiny, sharp points. She had worn it for herself, to feel strong. Now, the thought of him seeing her in it made her skin feel too tight, too aware.
“Who’s got you grinning at your phone like that?” Viv yelled, pushing a cold, condensation-dripping glass into her hand. “Is it the rugby god? It’s the rugby god, isn’t it?”
Roz took a long sip, the gin and tonic bracingly bitter. “He might be coming here,” she shouted back over the music.
Catriona’s eyebrows shot up. She leaned in, her voice a stage whisper in Roz’s ear. “To this temple of blandness? He must really want to see you.”
Roz didn’t answer. She just watched the door, the gin glass cool in her suddenly warm palm, each second stretching thin and taut as a wire.
She just watched the door, the gin glass cool in her suddenly warm palm, each second stretching thin and taut as a wire. The music was a pulsing, irrelevant thing. Her focus was a tunnel aimed at the entrance, at the shifting shapes of coats and laughter that weren’t him. Then he was there.
Alasdair walked in and looked around. His eyes, scanning the bright, crowded room, found her instantly and his face lit up when he saw her. He wove through the tables with an athlete’s easy grace, a dark jumper stretched across his shoulders, his hair still slightly damp from a shower.
“Hey,” he said, arriving at their booth. His gaze swept over her, from the ankle boots up to the sequins shimmering under the clinical light. “Wow, love the dress.” He smiled a big friendly smile at her friends, acknowledging Catriona, Viv, and Paul with a nod. “It’s probably my round. What’s everyone having?”
He didn’t hover awkwardly. He slid into the booth beside Roz, his solid presence pressing against the shared velvet, and turned his attention to the others. He sat and chatted with them, asking Paul about his work, laughing genuinely at Viv’s impression of their quizmaster. The group warmth expanded, pulled him in.
Catriona leaned forward, her voice cutting through the music. “So where’s your entourage, then? I thought you’d have a pack of forwards in tow.”
Alasdair took a sip of the pint he’d brought back for himself. “The Picasso,” he said, with a slight roll of his eyes. “They wanted proper darkness. And questionable decisions.”
“We should go shout the others,” Cat said, half-rising, already looking toward the bar where a work colleague of Viv’s had just waved.
“You lot go on,” Alasdair said, his tone easy. He didn’t move. His attention, a subtle but complete shift, settled back on Roz as their friends extricated themselves from the booth. The space around them didn’t empty, but it changed, the noise receding to a backdrop.
Alasdair looked at Roz, his expression softening from its social ease into something quieter, more specific. “Your choice, sweetheart,” he whispered, the word spoken so only she could catch it over the din. His knee brushed hers under the table. “Stay, go home, go somewhere else entirely. I’ll look after you.”
His words, I’ll look after you, settled in the space between them. They weren’t possessive. They were an offer, laid flat on the table next to the damp coasters. The noise of the club, all polished surfaces and shouting financiers, seemed to recede further. In its place, a buzzing warmth spread up from where his knee rested against hers, a point of quiet contact amidst the glare.
She looked at her hands, at the sequins on her thigh shimmering with each breath. The synthetic peach shot and the crisp gin twisted in her stomach. She felt a huge shyness engulfing her, a sudden, overwhelming awareness of her own body in this ridiculous, sparkling dress under his calm blue gaze. It wasn’t the fear from the alley. This was different, a vulnerability that made her throat tight.
“I don’t know,” she said, the words almost lost beneath a synth beat. She gestured vaguely at the room, the light. “This is… a lot. Still.”
He nodded, not pushing. He simply waited, his attention complete. It made the shyness swell again, but beneath it, something else prickled. A rebellion. She had put on the dress to feel desirable, not just safe. She wanted to enjoy herself, not just endure.
“You look incredible,” he said, his voice low. “You should be enjoying yourself. Not just tolerating it.” He saw right through her. He drained his pint and placed the glass down with a soft tap. “Let’s go somewhere. Anywhere you like.A walk. A ridiculously overpriced hotel bar for one quiet drink. My flat’s ten minutes away and I have genuinely good whisky and zero house music.”
The options hung in the air. The safe, known path was a taxi home, alone. The whisky at his flat was a door, slightly ajar. She felt the weight of the decision, the thrill of it.
“Whisky,” she heard herself say. “The good stuff. But just one. I have a funding report to edit tomorrow.”
A slow, genuine smile broke across his face, softening the sharp lines of his jaw. “Just one,” he agreed, standing and offering his hand. It wasn’t a romantic gesture, but a practical one, helping her slide out from the deep booth. His palm was warm and slightly rough against hers, a rugby player’s hand.
He guided her through the crowd, a gentle hand at the small of her back, insulating her from the jostle. The cold night air on George Street was a shock, a cleansing blast. She breathed it in, the shyness beginning to ebb, replaced by a sharp, clean nervousness.
“Sorry for hijacking your night,” she said as they walked, the click of her boots echoing on the pavement.
“You didn’t,” he said, his hands buried in his jacket pockets. “I was looking for an exit strategy. Ewan was about to start a debate on the best deep-fried Mars bar in Leith. You were my rescue.”
She laughed, the sound bouncing off the sandstone buildings. The tension in her shoulders unlocked a fraction. They walked in comfortable silence for a block, the city’s old heart beating around them.
“The quiet is nice,” she offered, glancing at him.
“Aye,” he said. “It is.”
His flat was in a converted warehouse just off Leith Walk, all exposed brick and steel beams, surprisingly tidy. A giant, worn leather sofa dominated the living room, facing floor-to-ceiling windows that showed a grid of darkened city windows. The silence here was profound, just the distant hum of a refrigerator.
“Make yourself at home,” he said, heading to a kitchenette. “The throne awaits.” He gestured to the vast sofa.
She slipped off her jacket, the sequins now catching the soft light from a single steel floor lamp. She felt his gaze again, but it was careful, appreciative. He brought two crystal tumblers and a bottle with a simple label, pouring two fingers of amber liquid.
“Here,” he said, sitting not right next to her, but a respectful space away, turning to face her. He clinked his glass gently against hers. “To safe chaos. And good whisky.”
The first sip was fire and smoke and honey, spreading through her chest. She sighed, letting her head fall back against the soft leather. The last of the club’s frantic energy drained away.
“This is better,” she said quietly.
“Infinitely.”
They drank in silence for a moment. It wasn’t awkward. It was a mutual decompression.
“So,” he said eventually, swirling the whisky in his glass. “The other night. The alley.” He stated it plainly, no sugarcoating. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? The reason for the big bright pub.”
She looked into her glass, watching the liquid coat the sides. “Yeah. That’s the thing.” Saying it aloud to him, here in the quiet, felt less like a confession and more like sharing a fact. “It made me feel… stupid. For not seeing it coming. And small.”
He listened, completely still.
“Wearing this tonight,” she said, plucking at the sequinned fabric on her thigh, “it was a test. To see if I could still feel like…” She trailed off, searching for the word.
“Like yourself?” he offered.
“Like I hadn’t been permanently shrunk,” she finished, meeting his eyes.
He nodded slowly. “And did it work?”
She considered it. The stares in the pub, the clinical lights of the club, the weight of his gaze now. “I’m not sure yet.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The movement brought him slightly closer. “Can I tell you what I see?”
Her pulse jumped. “Okay.”
“I see a woman who paints delicate watercolors and runs a center for people who need extra care.” His voice was low, steady. “I see someone who organised an outreach program that my daftest teammates are actually excited about. I see someone who faced a nasty bit of fear tonight and walked into a loud room anyway.” He paused, his eyes tracing the line of her shoulder, the fall of her hair. “And I see a woman in a dazzling dress, drinking my best whisky, who has absolutely no idea how completely she puts everyone else in the room to shame.”
The words landed not like a pickup line, but like a simple, devastating truth. The shyness swelled up again, but this time it was mixed with a heat that had nothing to do with the alcohol. She had no barrier against this, against his specific, quiet observation.
She looked away, her cheeks burning. “That’s the whisky talking.”
“It’s not.” He said it with such finality she had to look back. His expression was open, serious. “The whisky is just courage in a glass. For me, anyway.”
The space between them on the sofa felt charged, thinner. The memory of the alley was a ghost in the corner of the room, but here, now, it was overpowered by the scent of him—soap and clean wool and peat smoke—and the intense, focused calm of his presence.
He didn’t move to close the gap. He simply watched her, letting his words settle, letting her decide what happened in this quiet they had chosen.
Roz placed her glass, half-finished, on the low steel table with a soft click. The sound was enormous in the silence. She turned her body toward him, tucking one foot beneath her on the vast leather. The sequins sighed.
“Alasdair,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Aye?”
The momentum of the night, of every text, every glance, every shared quiet, gathered in her chest. It was a precipice. She could pull back, thank him for the drink, call a cab. She could preserve the safe distance.
She didn’t.
Instead, she leaned forward, bridging the space he’d left for her. She moved slowly, giving him every chance to turn away. He didn’t. He met her halfway.
The kiss wasn’t a collision. It was a discovery. Soft at first, a question. His lips were warm from the whisky, gentle. His hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheekbone, and the touch unleashed something. The kiss deepened, a release of all the unspoken tension, the shared looks, the careful understanding. It was heat and sweetness and a profound, thrilling rightness.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead rested against hers. His blue eyes were dark, searching hers.
“Okay?” he murmured, his thumb still stroking her cheek.
A laugh, shaky with relief and wonder, escaped her. “More than okay.”
He smiled, then kissed her again, quicker this time, a promise. “Good,” he whispered against her lips. “Because I’ve wanted to do that since you walked into that café smelling of rain and acrylic paint.”
She slid her fingers into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him back to her. The shyness was gone, burned away by a swift, rising certainty. The gold dress suddenly felt exactly right, not a test anymore, but an answer.