Chapter 2: The Bar and the Teasing
The bar was a refuge of polished wood and soft, golden light. The frantic energy of the dance floor faded a few steps away, replaced by the low hum of serious drinkers and the clink of glass. Alasdair kept her hand in his as they approached, his thumb absently stroking the ridge of her knuckles. The gesture was possessive, unconscious, and it made her pulse skip.
“Two more of the same, please,” Alasdair said to the bartender, his voice cutting easily through the murmur. He finally released her hand to pull out his wallet, but his shoulder stayed pressed against hers, a solid line of heat.
“So, you two finally managed to find each other.”
The voice was warm, teasing. Elaine, the bride, appeared beside them, her ivory gown swapped for a shorter, cream silk dress, her cheeks flushed with happiness and champagne. She looped an arm around Roz’s waist, giving her a squeeze. Euan, the groom, was right behind her, his tie loosened, his grin expansive.
“We’ve been taking bets,” Euan said, clapping Alasdair on the back. “I said you’d chicken out. Elaine said you’d wait until the last possible moment, like some tragic romantic hero.”
Alasdair accepted the two glasses of Ardbeg from the barman, handed one to Roz, and raised his own. “No chickening. Just required careful strategic planning. Had to bypass the perimeter guards.”
Elaine laughed, a bright, happy sound. “Fiona and Mo, you mean? God, yes. They’ve been circling you like sharks in lipstick all night, Alasdair. I saw Fiona’s face when you walked right past them. Priceless. She looked like she’d swallowed a wasp.” She turned to Roz, her expression softening into something more knowing. “You okay, hun? They’ve been… a lot.”
Roz took a sip, the whiskey a familiar comfort. “I’m fine. Used to it.”
“You shouldn’t have to be,” Elaine sighed. “We’ve all known each other too long. It’s gone sour with some of them. All they do is compete.” She glanced at Alasdair, then back at Roz, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Though I must say, you’ve won the grand prize tonight without even trying. Which, frankly, is the best way to do it.”
Euan nudged Alasdair. “She’s not wrong. This one,” he jerked his thumb at his best man, “has been asking subtle questions about ‘the quiet painter with the incredible eyes’ since he saw the wedding website photos. I told him, ‘Mate, Roz is out of your league. She thinks about the meaning of soil.’” He did a surprisingly accurate impression of Alasdair’s thoughtful baritone. “‘The texture of the sky in that one, though, Euan…’”
Alasdair didn’t look embarrassed. He took a drink, watching Roz over the rim of his glass, a faint, unapologetic smile on his face. “You shared the website. I observed. It’s what I do.”
“He’s a stalker with a professional excuse,” Euan concluded cheerfully.
The easy teasing, the warmth between the four of them, was a bubble of normality. For a moment, Roz felt included in something genuine, not the performative friendship of the group she’d outgrown. She felt herself relax, a fraction.
“Well, I’m glad you observed,” Elaine said, raising her own glass of champagne. “And I’m glad you two are talking. It’s a nice thing amidst the chaos. Just…” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “Be warned. The knives will be out. Fiona’s pride is publicly wounded. Mo will be her lieutenant. They’ll be dissecting every look, every touch. It’ll be the main topic of brunch tomorrow, I guarantee it.”
Roz felt a familiar, cold knot form in her stomach. The witness was now the subject. The quiet observer was now centre stage in a drama she never wanted.
Alasdair’s expression shifted, the amusement fading into something harder. He looked past Elaine, scanning the room. “Let them talk. It’s noise.”
“It’s nasty noise,” Elaine corrected gently. “And it’s aimed at Roz, not you. Just… be aware of it.” She gave Roz another squeeze. “Ignore them. You genuinely look… alive. For the first time in ages. It’s good to see.”
The comment, so kindly meant, pierced Roz with a sharp ache. Alive. Was that what this was? This buzzing in her veins, this hyper-awareness of the man beside her? It felt more like being expertly dismantled.
“We’re going to steal him for one more photo, Roz,” Euan said, apologetic. “Best man duties. Five minutes. Don’t let anyone else swoop in.”
“I’ll defend the position,” Roz said, and was surprised to hear a thread of dry humour in her own voice.
Alasdair hesitated. He set his glass down, turned to her fully. “Don’t move.”
“I’ll be here.”
He held her gaze for a second longer, a silent promise, then let Euan steer him away towards the photographer’s makeshift studio near the grand fireplace.
The bubble popped. The ambient noise rushed back in. Roz turned, leaning her back against the solid wood of the bar, holding her glass with both hands. She felt exposed. Elaine’s warning echoed. She let her eyes drift, unfocused, over the crowd.
And there they were.
At a small round table not twenty feet away, Fiona and Mo had a perfect line of sight. They weren’t even pretending not to watch. Fiona was speaking rapidly, her mouth a tight, animated line, her eyes fixed on Roz like laser points. Mo was nodding, her face a canvas of wide-eyed scandal. Fiona made a sharp, cutting motion with her hand. Mo’s mouth formed an ‘O’ of exaggerated understanding. Then Fiona leaned back, picked up her wine glass, and took a long, deliberate sip, her stare never wavering. It was a toast, but one dipped in poison.
Roz felt a hot flush climb her neck. It wasn’t embarrassment. It was anger, clean and sharp. She was tired of being their passive subject, the quiet one they could analyse and pity and envy. The stone in the field, tired of being looked at.
She pushed off from the bar. She didn’t walk towards them. She simply took two steps to the side, putting a tall man in a tweed jacket between her and their line of sight. She finished her whiskey, the peat smoke now tasting like fuel.
“All right, you look like you’re planning a murder. Which, fair enough, at a wedding, but maybe not the bride’s.”
Alasdair was back. He’d moved so quietly she hadn’t heard him. He was alone.
“That was fast.”
“I told them I had a structural integrity issue to attend to. They bought it.” He nodded towards her empty glass. “Another? Or are you done with this place?”
The question hung between them, loaded. Done with the place. Done with the noise, the knives, the performance.
“I’m done with this place,” she said, the words definitive.
A slow smile spread across his face. “Good.” He didn’t ask where. He just offered his hand again. This time, she took it without hesitation. His fingers closed around hers, firm and final.
He didn’t lead her back towards the dance floor or the terrace. Instead, he moved towards a shadowed archway opposite the main entrance, one she hadn’t noticed before. A sign beside it read ‘Library’ in faded gilt letters.
“Euan showed me earlier,” Alasdair said, pushing the heavy oak door open. “Said it’s the best room in the house.”
The door swung shut behind them, muting the wedding to a distant, rhythmic throb. The air was cooler, still, and smelled of old paper, beeswax, and dust. It was a large, rectangular room, every wall lined from floor to ceiling with dark, crowded bookshelves. A massive fireplace dominated one end, cold and filled with dried lavender. Two leather chesterfields faced each other across a worn Persian rug, and a bank of mullioned windows looked out into the blackness of the night.
It was utterly, profoundly quiet.
“Oh,” Roz breathed, the sound swallowed by the silence.
Alasdair released her hand, walking over to a small side table where an antique lamp cast a warm, intimate pool of light. He clicked it on. “Told you.”
He shrugged off his kilt jacket, tossing it over the back of a sofa. In his white shirtsleeves, he looked less formal, more approachable, and somehow more formidable. He gestured for her to sit.
She sank into the buttery-soft leather of one chesterfield, setting her empty glass on the floor. He didn’t take the opposite sofa. He sat down on the same one, leaving a respectful foot of space between them, but the intimacy of the empty, silent room made the distance feel negligible.
For a long moment, they just sat in the quiet. The only sound was the faint crackle of the lamp’s old bulb and the distant, ghostly beat of the music.
“The knives,” Roz said finally, staring into the cold fireplace. “Elaine wasn’t joking. They’re sharpening them now. Fiona was giving me the death stare from across the room.”
“Do you care?” His question was direct, not dismissive.
She thought about it. “I care that it’s exhausting. I care that it’s predictable. I don’t care what she thinks.”
“Good.” He mirrored her posture, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Then that’s her problem, not yours. She’s in there, feeding on drama. You’re in here.” He looked around the library, then back at her. “This is better.”
“It is,” she agreed. She felt the tension in her shoulders begin to loosen, molecule by molecule. Here, there were no witnesses. Just them. “You really asked about me? From the wedding photos?”
He didn’t flinch. “Yes. Euan showed me the group shot. You were at the back, slightly blurred, like you were about to leave the frame. Everyone else was grinning. You were just… looking. At something outside the camera. I wanted to know who you were.”
Roz felt a flutter deep in her chest. He’d seen that? The one photo she’d hated, where she’d been caught mid-retreat.
“And the paintings?” she asked.
“A happy accident. I was early for a meeting near Byres Road, saw the gallery sign, went in to kill time. Stood in front of that stone for twenty minutes. Felt like I’d been winded.” He turned his head to look at her fully. “It’s a brutal piece of work. In the best way. It doesn’t ask for love. It doesn’t even ask for understanding. It just is. That’s rare.”
His analysis was more disarming than any compliment about her appearance could ever be. He was speaking her secret language.
“Thank you,” she said, the words inadequate.
“It’s just the truth.” He paused. “Do you want to get out of here?”
The question was so sudden it took her a second to process. “Out of the library?”
“Out of the manor. Out of this wedding. I have my car. We could go… somewhere. A proper pub. A walk.
The suggestion hung in the quiet library air, vast and impossible. It wasn't just a question of location. It was an invitation to tear up the entire script of the evening, of what was expected, of what was safe.
Roz breathed out, a shaky, almost laugh. “I don’t… really? I mean, we’ve literally just met.”
“Oh.” Alasdair said suddenly, running a hand through his dark hair. The confidence she’d seen all night flickered, revealing something more urgent and less polished. “Of course. I wasn’t meaning… I’m sorry, what am I saying? As if I can leave. I’m the bloody best man.”
He looked away, towards the shelves of silent books. The distance between them on the sofa felt cavernous now.
“Well,” he continued, his voice lower, aimed at the floor. “Maybe I’m saying if I could, right now, I would like to be with you somewhere else. Not here.”
Roz looked down at the worn patterns of the Persian rug. The honesty in his fumble was more disarming than any smooth line. It was a flaw in the social surface, a crack of pure, unplanned feeling. She studied the intricate knots of wool, the faded blues and reds. A witness to truth, not a spectacle.
“Okay,” she said, the word simple and clear in the hushed room.
Alasdair’s head snapped up. He searched her face, his dark eyes wide. A slow, relieved smile broke through. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t meaning… don’t get the wrong idea.” He stood up, a restless energy taking over. He offered her his hand again, a gesture that was becoming familiar. “Hey. Come on. Let’s go back in and have another dance.”
She let him pull her to her feet. His hand was warm, his grip sure. They stood for a moment in the lamplight, the decision hovering. The quiet of the library had done its work, stripping away the noise until only this reluctant, magnetic pull remained.
“One dance,” she said, as if setting a boundary for herself.
“One dance,” he agreed, his thumb brushing her wrist.
The roar of the reception hit them like a physical wave as he opened the library door. The band was playing a relentless, cheery folk-pop number. The lights were brighter, the laughter shriller. It felt like stepping into a different, less interesting world.
They were barely three steps onto the periphery of the dance floor when Fiona materialised directly in their path. She held a fresh glass of white wine, her smile a bright, hard thing.
“There you are! We were wondering where you’d vanished to.” Her eyes swept over them, missing nothing—Roz’s lack of a jacket, the intimate quiet that still clung to them like mist. “Getting some air, was it?”
“Something like that,” Alasdair said, his voice pleasant but devoid of warmth. He tried to steer Roz around her.
Fiona sidestepped, blocking them. “It’s just, it’s a bit rude, isn’t it? The best man disappearing for ages. People were looking for you.” Her gaze landed on Roz, the friendly pretence melting away. “You must be monopolising him with all that deep art talk. Save some for the rest of us, darling.”
The word ‘darling’ was a dart, dipped in venom.
Roz felt the old instinct to shrink, to deflect with a mumbled apology. She felt Alasdair’s hand tighten on hers. But then she saw it—the raw, hungry envy in Fiona’s eyes, the sheer effort of the performance. It wasn’t about Alasdair, not really. It was about Roz having something Fiona hadn’t been handed.
“We were talking about grit, actually,” Roz said, her voice calm. She didn’t smile. “Impurities in the surface. Things that won’t integrate. Makes for a more interesting texture.”
Fiona blinked, thrown by the literal, unsmiling response. She had no script for it.
“Right,” Fiona said, her smile freezing solid. “Well. Enjoy your… grit.” She spun on her heel and marched back towards Mo, her back rigid.
Alasdair let out a low, appreciative breath. “That was magnificent.”
“It was just true,” Roz said, but a flicker of something fierce warmed her from within.
He led her into the swirl of dancers. This time, the music was fast, a pulsing, modern beat. There was no chance for talking, for whispered confessions. It was just movement, a release of the tension coiled in the library and sharpened by Fiona’s interruption. Roz let herself go, the whiskey and the adrenaline moving her limbs. Alasdair matched her, his movements loose and sure, his eyes never leaving her face.
She laughed, a real one, surprised out of her by the sheer physical joy of it. He grinned back, a brilliant, unguarded flash.
In the middle of a spin, she saw Elaine watching from the edge of the floor. Her friend gave her a triumphant, double thumbs-up. Euan was beside her, laughing, pointing at Alasdair like he’d won a bet.
The song crashed to its end. They were both breathing hard, a fine sheen of sweat on Alasdair’s temple. The next song began, slower, a soulful, winding melody. The crowd sighed into it, couples closing up.
Without a word, Alasdair drew her in. One hand settled on the small of her back, the other cradled hers against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat through his shirt, a rapid, solid rhythm against her palm. She settled her free hand on his shoulder, the crisp cotton damp beneath her fingers.
They moved, a slow, circling orbit. Her cheek was near his collarbone. She could smell the clean scent of his skin, the faint, lingering peat smoke from their whiskey. The noise of the room folded in around them, becoming a distant sea. Here, in the centre, it was just their shared breath, the syncopated beat of their hearts, the drag of her silk dress against the wool of his kilt.
His lips were close to her ear. “I have to stay until they cut the cake. It’s in the schedule. My name is on the bloody schedule.”
She nodded, her forehead brushing his jaw. The stubble was rough.
“But after,” he murmured, the words a vibration she felt as much as heard. “After the cake, and the speeches, and the throwing of the bouquet, which Fiona will probably tackle someone for… after all that. Can I see you? Properly?”
She leaned back just enough to look up at him. The coloured lights from the disco ball swam across his face, but his expression was deadly serious. No smile. Just a question.
“Yes,” she said. There was no hesitation this time.
A profound relief smoothed the intensity from his features. He pulled her a fraction closer, his chin resting gently on the crown of her head. They swayed like that, locked together, as the song wound its way through the grand, crowded room. The knives were out, the gossip was brewing, the night was ticking down through its prescribed rituals.
But they had an after. And for now, in the warm, dark centre of the dance floor, that was everything.