Chapter 13: Family Matter
The train journey was a study in green. The city’s granite grip loosened, giving way to swollen hills and fields dotted with stubborn sheep. Roz clutched her small bag, inside which the green dress was carefully folded. She felt absurdly nervous, as if she were crossing a border into a foreign country where the customs were unknown.
Ally met her at the tiny station, leaning against his car. He looked softer here, in jeans and a worn navy jumper, his hair still damp from a shower. The sharp, defined tension of the athlete was blurred by the familiar landscape. His smile when he saw her was instant, erasing the lingering worry in his eyes.
“You made it,” he said, folding her into a hug. He smelled of soap and the cold autumn air. “How was the train?”
“Full of people who don’t want to make eye contact. It was perfect.” She breathed him in, the solid reality of him steadying her.
He held her at arm's length, his gaze sweeping over her simple jeans and jumper. “You didn’t wear the dress.”
“For the train? I’d have looked like a lunatic. It’s in the bag.”
“Good. Save the artillery.” He took her bag, tossed it in the back of the modest estate car. “Right. Briefing. Mum will have made enough food for the entire front row. Dad will offer you a drink approximately twelve seconds after you walk in. Accept it. He hates drinking alone. They’re both…” He searched for the word as he navigated the narrow lane. “Observant. In different ways.”
“Noted.” The village unfolded around them, a postcard of stone cottages and a single pub with hanging baskets. It was quiet, profoundly so. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s quiet. Drove me mad when I was sixteen.” He pulled into a gravel drive beside a two-story cottage with a dark thatched roof. Smoke curled from the chimney. “Home.”
The door opened before they reached it.
Ally’s mother, Moira, was a small woman with Ally’s same perceptive grey eyes, set in a face lined with kindness and shrewd intelligence. She wore an apron dusted with flour. “There you are. We heard the car.” Her voice was warm, with a melodic lilt. Her gaze went straight to Roz, not assessing, but simply taking her in. “You must be Roslyn. It’s lovely to meet you. Come in, you’ll catch your death.”
The cottage was a warmth of woodsmoke and baking. The hallway was narrow, every inch of wall space covered in framed photographs. A tiny Ally with missing teeth, clutching a rugby ball almost as big as him. A gangly teen in a school jersey. The imposing figure of the man he was now, covered in mud, eyes fierce. It was a chronological assault of his life.
“Let me take your coat,” Moira said. “Alistair, your father’s in the sitting room.”
The sitting room was low-ceilinged, dominated by a roaring fire. Ally’s father, Donald, unfolded himself from a worn armchair. He was tall, like Ally, but leaner, with a quiet, weathered dignity. His handshake was firm, dry.
“Roslyn. A pleasure. Sherry? Or something stronger?”
“Sherry would be lovely, thank you.” She remembered Ally’s warning.
Donald nodded, a faint glint of approval in his eyes as he poured three small glasses. Moira bustled back in, sans apron. “So, Roslyn. Alistair says you’re an artist. Your show was last week?”
“Yes. At the Degree Show gallery in Edinburgh.”
“And it went well?” Moira settled on the sofa, her posture attentive but not invasive.
“Better than I’d hoped. A gallery owner approached me about representation.”
Donald handed her the sherry. “That’s significant. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” The sherry was sweet, burning a trail down her throat.
“What do you paint?” Moira asked.
“Doors, mostly.” The answer, out loud in this cozy, normal room, sounded absurd.
Moira didn’t blink. “Doors. Now, why doors?”
Roz felt Ally’s quiet presence beside her, a solid support. She took a breath. “I’m interested in thresholds. The moment before you go through. The light around the edges. The promise, or the threat, of what’s on the other side.”
Silence hung for a moment, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Donald took a sip of his sherry. Moira’s head tilted, her gaze softening. “That’s a powerful thing to study. More interesting than rucks and mauls, at any rate.” She shot a fond, teasing look at her son.
“Hey, a well-executed maul is a thing of beauty,” Ally protested, the easy banter a relief.
“It’s a heap of men, Alistair. It’s not art.”
“It’s physics. Brutal, beautiful physics.”
Lunch was a sprawling, delicious affair in the cozy dining room. Roast beef, perfect Yorkshire puddings, vegetables from the garden. The questions continued, but they were woven into the fabric of passing gravy and complimenting the roast potatoes.
“And your family, Roslyn? Are they in Edinburgh?” Moira asked, casually.
Roz set her fork down carefully. “My parents passed away. A car accident, when I was at university.”
The room stilled. Ally’s hand found hers under the table, his thumb stroking her knuckles.
Moira’s expression shifted, the sharp curiosity melting into profound empathy. “Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry.”
Donald cleared his throat. “That’s a heavy burden for such young shoulders.”
“I have good friends,” Roz said, her voice surprisingly steady. “They’ve become family.”
Moira reached over and patted her hand, a quick, warm gesture. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? You build your own.”
The conversation moved on, but the tone had changed. The scrutiny was gone, replaced by a gentle, inclusive warmth. They asked about her course, her flatmates. Donald, an engineer, became intrigued by the practicalities of stretching canvases. Ally mostly watched, a small, proud smile playing on his lips.
After apple crumble and custard, Ally groaned. “I need to move or I’ll solidify. Roz, want to see the garden? It’s Dad’s pride and joy.”
“You’ll need a coat,” Moira said. “It’s fresh.”
The garden was a neat, late-autumn tapestry of fading greens and browns, sloping down to a stone wall. The air was crisp, smelling of damp earth and woodsmoke. At the bottom, tucked against a shed, was a small, glass-paned greenhouse.
“In here,” Ally said, opening the creaking door.
It wasn’t full of plants. It was a shed. And it was filled with rugby trophies.
Dust motes danced in the slanted light. Shelves lining the walls were crammed with cups, shields, and figurines in various poses of athletic triumph. Some were tarnished, some were cracked. They were piled haphazardly, a chaotic museum of forgotten glory.
“This is… all yours?” Roz whispered, moving into the space.
“Every last one.” He leaned against the doorframe, watching her. “From under-eights player of the season, right up to my first professional club award. Mum wanted them in the house. I made her put them out here. It felt… showy.”
Roz ran a finger over a small, silver cup from 2004. ‘Most Promising Player.’ She could see the ghost of the boy in the photographs, eager and unsure. “Why keep them at all?”
He was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know. A reminder, maybe. That it all starts somewhere. That the promising player and the guy on the telly are the same person. It’s easy to forget.”
She turned to look at him, silhouetted in the doorway. The champion, the son, the man who studied doors. Here, amidst the dusty relics of his past, he seemed younger, more fragile. “You’re afraid of forgetting?”
“I’m afraid of the thing they see,” he said, nodding back towards the house, “becoming the only thing that is. The product, not the person. It happens. You get packaged.”
She understood then. The suit at the sponsor dinner. The interview after the match. The performance. This, the greenhouse full of silent, dusty metal, was the unvarnished truth. The striving. The incremental proof of a life built on effort, not just talent.
“This is more real than any of it,” she said softly, touching a tall statue of a player mid-kick. “This is the work.”
He crossed the small space, the dust stirring at his feet. He didn’t touch the trophies. He took her face in his hands. His palms were warm, slightly rough. “You see that. How do you see that?”
“I see you.” It was that simple.
He kissed her then, a deep, slow kiss that tasted of apples and the past and a desperate, grateful kind of love. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers. “I brought you here because I wanted them to know you. But I needed you to see this. The before. The during. Not just the after.”
From the house, a faint call floated down the garden. “Alistair! Kettle’s on!”
He smiled, a real, unguarded smile that reached his eyes. “Tea call. The final ritual.”
As they walked back up the path, hand in hand, Roz felt the last knot of anxiety unravel. She hadn’t passed a test. She’d been shown a secret. The cottage, with its smoke and light, no longer felt like a fortress to be breached, but a place with its own history, its own quiet wounds and joys.
Later, as they said their goodbyes in the hallway amidst the photographs, Moira hugged her tightly. “You come back anytime, Roslyn. You’re always welcome.”
Donald shook her hand again. “Look after him,” he said, his voice low. “He needs someone who sees more than the game.”
In the car, driving away from the village and back towards the city, the silence was comfortable. Roz watched the fields melt back into twilight.
“Well?” Ally finally asked, his eyes on the road. “Was it awful?”
She reached over, her hand resting on his thigh. “I like your mum’s view on mauls. And your dad’s a terrible secret drinker, but I respect his commitment.
He laughed, the sound rich and full in the confined space of the car. “His secret is safe with us.” He glanced at her, his expression softening. “You were amazing in there. You know that, right?”
Before she could answer, a violent crunch of gravel erupted behind them. Headlights flashed in the rearview, blinding them. A battered blue people carrier swerved into the driveway, screeching to a halt beside Ally’s car, blocking them in.
Doors flew open like uncontrolled explosions.
Children’s voices, high and sharp, cut through the quiet evening. A boy of about six tumbled out, brandishing a plastic sword. “We’re here! Nana! Grandad!” A younger girl followed, wailing about a lost glittery shoe.
A harried-looking man with the same build as Ally, but softer around the middle, hauled a giant changing bag from the passenger seat. “I told you the last junction, Sarah! I said it twice!”
“And I said the satnav was outdated, Alasdair! Don’t start!” Ally’s sister emerged from the driver’s side. She was all sharp angles and frazzled energy, her hair piled in a messy bun. She spotted Ally’s car and her face transformed. “Ally! You’re still here! Don’t you dare leave!”
Ally’s head dropped forward onto the steering wheel with a soft thud. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
Roz watched the chaotic tableau, her heart rate spiking. The quiet, profound intimacy of the greenhouse felt galaxies away. “Your sister?”
“And her brood. Brace yourself.” He opened his door as the little boy raced over, sword pointed.
“Uncle Ally! Fight me!”
“In a minute, Jamie.” Ally scooped him up with one arm, the boy shrieking with delight. “Sarah. Alasdair. This is a surprise.”
“Mum said you were bringing your artist!” Sarah called, striding over. Her eyes, Ally’s same perceptive grey, locked onto Roz through the windshield. They were assessing, but without Moira’s calm patience. This was a rapid, tactical scan. “We had to come vet her. Family duty.”
Roz had no choice but to get out. The cold air hit her, laced with the smell of diesel from the people carrier and candy from the children.
“Roz, this is my sister, Sarah, her husband, Alasdair, and the marauders are Jamie and Maisie.” Ally’s voice was tight, a polite veneer over clear annoyance.
“Hello,” Roz managed, feeling like a specimen under a bright, messy light.
“So you’re the painter,” Sarah said, not unkindly, but with a relentless directness. “Mum said something about doors. Sounded a bit daft, to be honest.” She laughed, a short, bright sound.
Roz felt a flush creep up her neck. In the cozy cottage, the door explanation had felt meaningful. Here, in the chaotic gravel drive, it sounded pretentious, silly. “It’s just a theme,” she said, her voice smaller than she wanted.
“She’s being modest,” Ally interjected, his arm slipping around Roz’s waist, a solid band of possession. “Her work is incredible. A gallery in Edinburgh just picked her up.”
“Is that right?” Alasdair said, hefting the bag. “Well, that’s something. Better than this one, who studied sports science and just learned different ways to say ‘run faster.’” He clapped Ally on the shoulder, a gesture that was both affectionate and subtly diminishing.
“It’s a valid field, Dad,” Jamie announced, still in Ally’s arms.
“See? He knows.” Ally set his nephew down. “Look, we were just heading off. It’s a long drive back.”
“Nonsense!” Sarah waved a dismissive hand. “You’ll come in for a proper cuppa. Mum’ll have the good biscuits out now the grandkids are here. Come on, Roz, you can survive us for another hour.”
It wasn’t a question. The children were already stampeding toward the cottage door, which opened to reveal Moira, her earlier serene warmth now edged with flustered surprise. “Sarah! You said tomorrow!”
“Plans changed!”
Ally looked down at Roz, his eyes apologetic and tense. “We can make a run for it,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear.
She looked at the open door, the noise spilling out, the expectant, challenging look on Sarah’s face. This was the other part of his world, not the curated history in the greenhouse, but the loud, messy, overwhelming present. Running would be a statement. A failure.
“No,” she said, squaring her shoulders. She met Sarah’s gaze. “A cup of tea would be good. I’m parched.”
The next hour was a sensory onslaught. The sitting room, once a haven of firelight and sherry, was now a storm of crisp crumbs, wailed disputes over toys, and constant, booming commentary from Alasdair about the weekend’s rugby matches. Jamie demanded Ally demonstrate a tackle on the rug. Maisie climbed onto Roz’s lap without invitation, sticky fingers immediately finding the sleeve of her jumper.
“So, doors,” Sarah said, shouting slightly over her husband’s analysis of a scrum. “What’s the actual point? Are they symbolic, or do you just like painting rectangles?”
Roz, with a child slowly gluing herself to her torso, felt a bizarre clarity. The pretension was gone, burned away by the sheer, undignified reality of family. “I used to think they were symbolic,” she said, adjusting Maisie’s weight. “Now I think I just like the light you get on the wood in the rain. And the fact everyone has one. They’re ordinary. You can project anything onto them, but in the end, they’re just a way in or out.”
Sarah watched her for a long moment, then nodded, once. “Alright. That I get. Ordinary things.” She sipped her tea. “Ally says you’re from Glasgow originally.”
The interrogation continued, but its edge had blunted. It became conversational, woven into the chaos. Roz answered questions about her flatmates, her course, surviving the quiet horror of her parents’ loss. She didn’t try to be profound. She was just herself, a woman with a child asleep in her arms, navigating the friendly fire of a family she’d just met.
Finally, as dusk fully claimed the garden, Ally stood. “Right. We’re actually leaving now. I’ve got training at seven a.m.”
The goodbyes were less intimate but more energetic. Sarah hugged Roz, a quick, hard squeeze. “You’re alright. Don’t let him get away with anything.”
“I’ll try.”
Alasdair shook her hand. “Look after our boy. And come back when you can actually watch a match with us. Properly.”
In the car, the silence was a thick, welcome blanket. Ally drove for five full minutes before speaking. “I am so, so sorry. That was an ambush.”
Roz leaned her head against the cool window. The adrenaline was draining, leaving a strange, hollowed-out peace. “It was fine.”
“It wasn’t. Sarah was a bulldozer. Alasdair’s a… well, he’s Alasdair. And the doors thing…” He winced. “I wanted to throttle her.”
“She wasn’t wrong,” Roz said quietly, watching the dark hedgerows blur. “It did sound daft when she said it. In that context. It made me realize I’ve been hiding behind the idea of it. The symbolism. In there, with the crumbs and the shouting, you just have to be real. There’s no room for the other stuff.”
He reached across, his hand finding hers. “What you said, though. About the ordinary light. That was more real than any artist statement I’ve ever heard.”
She laced her fingers with his. “Your family is…” She searched for the word.
“Loud. Obnoxious. Interfering.”
“Yours,” she finished.
He brought her knuckles to his lips. “Yeah. They are. And they liked you. Sarah doesn’t say ‘you’re alright’ to just anyone. It’s her highest praise.”
The city lights began to glow on the horizon, a muted orange halo. Roz felt stretched thin, emotionally sandpapered by the day, but somehow stronger for it. She had been tested, not by quiet perceptive questions, but by sheer, exuberant, messy reality. She hadn’t just seen his past in a dusty greenhouse. She’d been thrown into his present.
“Next time,” she said, her voice drowsy with exhaustion, “warn me before the cavalry arrives.”
“There won’t be a next time like that,” he promised. “Next time, we’ll barricade the door.”
She smiled, eyes closed. But she knew it was a lie she liked. There would always be another door with him. Another threshold of noise, of scrutiny, of love in its rawest, least dignified forms. The thought no longer terrified her. It felt, in the humming dark of the car speeding towards the city, like a kind of coming home. His hand was warm on hers, a steady anchor in the wake of the storm, and she held on tight.
The warmth of his hand was the only constant as the city’s glow consumed the horizon. Edinburgh rose before them, a jagged silhouette against a bruised plum sky, its ancient stones holding the day’s last light. The calm in the car was porous, filled with the phantom echoes of shouting children and the gentle weight of his father’s handshake.
“You’re quiet,” Ally said, his thumb stroking the back of her hand.
“Just full. Of food. Of… everything.” She watched a neon pub sign blur past. “Your dad called you ‘our boy.’ He really meant it.”
Ally was silent for a beat, the car slowing for a roundabout. “He doesn’t say stuff he doesn’t mean. It’s an engineering thing.” He glanced at her. “You impressed him. The canvas-stretching talk. He’s probably in his workshop right now, designing a better easel.”
A faint smile touched her lips. The idea was comforting. “Your sister thinks I’m daft.”
“My sister thinks anyone who sits still for longer than thirty seconds is daft. You won her over. The Maisie-test is irrefutable.” He navigated the familiar streets towards his building. “She’s a merciless judge of character, that one. Climbed you like a tree and then fell asleep. That’s the highest endorsement.”
The flat felt different when they entered. It was no longer just his sanctuary or their secret meeting place. It felt like a decompression chamber after the dense atmosphere of family. Roz kicked off her shoes, the cool floorboards a shock against her soles. She walked to the large window, looking down at the dark, empty training grounds.
“I need to shower,” Ally said, dropping his keys. “I feel like I’m covered in a fine layer of toddler and interrogation.”
“Go,” she said, not turning.
She heard the shower start, a distant rush. Her mind replayed the day in flickers: the dusty trophies, the sharp clarity in Moira’s eyes, the crushing, sticky hug from Maisie. She wandered into his bedroom, to her small bag. She unfolded the green dress, holding it up. It felt like a costume from a different play now.
The shower stopped. Ally emerged minutes later, a towel around his waist, his hair dark and dripping onto his shoulders. The purple and yellow bloom of bruising across his ribs was livid, a stark map of his other life. He saw the dress in her hands.
“You never got to wear it,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.
“It didn’t fit the day,” she replied, laying it on the bed. “It was the right call.”
He walked over, the damp heat from his body radiating towards her. He didn’t touch her. He just looked at the dress, then at her. “Put it on.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I want to see you in it. Not for them. For me.” His voice was low, a simple request. “I’ve been thinking about it since I left that morning. All through that bloody match. I want to replace the memory of you leaving with one of you here.”
It felt irrational, theatrical. But the entire day had been a stripping away of pretense. This was just another layer. She picked up the dress and went into the bathroom.
The silk whispered over her skin, cool and unfamiliar. She looked at herself in the mirror. The green did something to her eyes, deepened them. She walked back out.
He was still there, the towel gone, pulling on a pair of grey sweatpants. He stopped when he saw her. His breath caught, audibly. He didn’t speak. He just closed the distance, his hands coming to rest on her hips, his touch feather-light, as if afraid to crush the fabric.
“Jesus, Roz,” he finally breathed, his eyes traveling over her. “You look… it’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair?”
“That you don’t see what you are.” He bent his head, his lips brushing the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. A shiver, uncontrollable, raced through her. “All that intelligence. All that perception. And you’re blind to this.”
His mouth traced the line of her collarbone. His hands slid up her back, finding the zipper. He didn’t pull it down. He just rested his fingers on the tab. “This is for me,” he repeated, a murmur against her skin. “This is mine.”
This time, the hunger between them was different. It wasn’t the frantic discovery of the first night, or the solemn claiming after her show. This was a deep, sure consolidation. It was the greenhouse and the chaotic driveway and the quiet understanding in his father’s eyes, all translated into physical language. His touch was possessive, yes, but it was also profoundly grateful. She matched him, kiss for kiss, touch for touch, her shyness burned away in the certainty of his focus.
Later, the dress a green pool on the floor, they lay tangled in the dark. Her head was on his uninjured side, her fingers carefully tracing the edge of the bruise on his ribs.
“Does it hurt?”
“Only when I breathe.” He kissed her hair. “Or laugh. Or move. Worth it.”
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, a harsh intrusion. She reached for it, squinting at the bright screen. It was an email notification. The sender: Mairi Campbell.
Her stomach flipped. She sat up, pulling the sheet around her.
“What is it?” Ally propped himself on an elbow.
“The gallery owner. She said she’d email Monday about a meeting.” Roz’s voice was tight. “It’s Sunday night. This is… proactive.”
“Open it.”
She did. The light from the phone painted her face in pale blues. She read it once, then again, her expression not changing.
“Well?” His hand found her bare back, a steadying presence.
“It’s not about a meeting.” Roz’s voice was detached, clinical. “She’s had an opening. A cancellation for a solo exhibition slot. Eight weeks from now. In the main gallery space.” She looked at him, her eyes wide. “She’s asking if I can be ready. She wants a proposal and sample works by Wednesday.”
The air left the room. The quiet intimacy of a moment before shattered, replaced by a dizzying vacuum. Eight weeks. A solo show. A main gallery.
“Roz.” Ally sat up fully. “That’s… that’s insane. That’s a career, right there.”
“It’s impossible,” she whispered. “I have my final assessments. I’d need… fifteen, twenty new pieces. Coherent pieces. I don’t have a theme. I have doors in the rain. That’s not a solo show, that’s a tic.”
“Stop.” He turned her to face him. His grip was firm. “Listen to me. This is the threshold. Right? This is the light around the edges. You walk through this door, and you’re on the other side. You’re who you’re supposed to be.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know.” He pulled her close, her back against his chest, his arms wrapped around her. He felt her heart hammering. “But you’re not doing it alone. You have until Wednesday. We start tomorrow.”
“We?” She clutched his arms.
“We. I’ll be your… door science consultant. Or just the guy who makes coffee and tells you you’re brilliant.” He nuzzled her hair. “You faced down Sarah and Alasdair and a sugar-crazed Jamie. You can face a blank canvas.”
She stared into the dark, at the faint outline of the Scottish flag beyond the window. The terror was a live wire in her chest. But beneath it, under the layers of doubt, a spark ignited. A reckless, terrifying spark. He was right. This was the door.
“Okay,” she said, the word barely audible.
“Okay,” he echoed, holding her tighter.
They didn’t sleep. They lay in the dark and talked in low tones, the future a suddenly proximate, breathing thing in the room with them. He told her about his own looming contract negotiations, a labyrinth of money and years and performance clauses. She talked about pigment and scale and the terrifying freedom of a blank wall. Their vulnerabilities braided together in the dark, no longer separate burdens but shared weight.
Just before dawn, her phone buzzed again. A different alert. A news notification Ally had set for his own name. He reached over and grabbed it.
His body went rigid behind hers.
“What?” she asked, turning.
He handed her the phone. The screen showed a headline from a popular sports gossip site: MACLEOD’S MYSTERY WOMAN: STAR’S NEW ARTIST DISTRACTION RAISES EYEBROWS AHEAD OF CRUCIAL CONTRACT TALKS.
Below was a blurry, zoomed-in photo. It was them, leaving the cottage yesterday. Her face was partially turned, but it was clearly her. Ally had his arm around her, pulling her close against the chill. The article was a masterpiece of insinuation, questioning his focus, citing “sources close to the team” who wondered if his “new romantic entanglement” was a “distraction from the hard work required at the highest level.”
The warmth drained from the room, replaced by a cold, metallic taste. The private moments—the greenhouse, the dress, the whispered plans—felt violated, smeared into public fodder.
Ally swung his legs out of bed, his back to her, a tense line of muscle and anger. He punched a number into his phone, his voice a low, controlled growl when it connected. “Ham. Have you seen this trash? … I don’t care who the source is. You kill it. … No, she’s not a ‘distraction.’ She’s… just handle it.”
He ended the call and stood there, breathing heavily. Roz sat frozen, the sheet clutched to her chest, the image on the screen burning her retinas. The other side of his world wasn’t just family and dusty trophies. It was this. A flashbulb in the quiet village lane. Her life, their life, reduced to a headline.
Ally turned. His face was a mask of furious apology. “Roz. I’m—”
“Don’t,” she cut him off, her voice strangely calm. “Don’t apologize.” She looked from the phone to him, the artist suddenly clear-eyed. “This is the door, too, isn’t it?”
He nodded, once, a sharp, miserable jerk of his head.
She threw back the sheet and stood, walking to the window. The first grey light of morning was bleeding into the sky, outlining the goalposts on the empty field. She felt his gaze on her back.
“They want a theme for the show?” she said, her voice quiet but clear in the silent room. “I have one now.”