The champagne is too warm.
I stand beside the buffet at the George Hotel, hemmed in by suits and strings of pearls, and watch a woman in a designer dress set down her glass without taking a single sip. The candles on the tables aren’t lit—they’re LED, flickerless, sterile. The flower arrangements cost more than some people’s monthly rent. Someone has programmed a light installation to pulse in time with the background music.
I’ve poured three months into this event.
And I feel nothing.
My tablet vibrates. I scroll through the running order. 19:45: Canapés served. 20:00: CEO welcome address. 20:15: Product presentation with light show. Everything is on schedule. No detail left to chance. The guests smile. The sponsors nod. The CEO will be pleased.
But when I close my eyes, all I see are numbers. Budget. Invoices. Running orders.
Not people.
‘Ms. Gallagher?’
One of the waiting staff appears at my elbow. Young, nervous, a stain on her white blouse.
‘The tech team are asking if they should test the sound for the presentation again.’
I breathe in. Focus. Function. This I can do.
‘Yes. Tell them to lower the volume by five per cent. The room’s fuller than expected.’
She nods and disappears.
I lean against the wall, feel the cool glass behind me. Outside, beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, Edinburgh lies in darkness. Lights sparkle along Princes Street. Cars inch through the traffic. Life.
But in here? Everything is calculated. Perfect. Empty.
A man laughs too loudly. A woman taps at her phone without looking up. Nobody is really speaking to anyone. It’s a dance of business cards and strategic small talk. I know the steps by heart.
And I never want to dance them again.
***
The next morning I sit in a café in the New Town. Outside it rains, and the street gleams wetly. My coffee has gone cold, but I’ve hardly touched it.
In front of me lies a letter.
Not just any letter. Official paper, heavy watermark, sender: Campbell & MacLeod, Solicitors, Glencoe.
I opened it last night after I got home from the event. Read it. Read it again. Then laid it on the kitchen table as though it might dissolve into air.
It hasn’t.
‘… we are pleased to inform you that you have been named as sole beneficiary in the will of your great-aunt, Mrs Isla Gallagher.’
Sole beneficiary.
I barely knew her. Isla Gallagher. My great-aunt who vanished from the family years ago. Nobody talked about her much. Only that she lived in the Highlands, alone, far away. I maybe saw her twice in my life.
And now she’s dead.
I swallow. Guilt creeps through my chest. I should have called. Visited. Something.
But I didn’t.
‘The estate comprises a sum of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds and the cottage in Glencoe. Payment is conditional upon your assuming care of the cat Tripod, who is currently lodged with the local vet.’
One hundred and fifty thousand pounds.
I stare at the number. Read it three times. Four.
This is… this is enough to change everything.
I could give notice on my flat. Leave Edinburgh. Go self-employed. Open a café. Something real. Something that belongs to me.
But first I have to go to Glencoe.
And collect a cat.
***
Two days later I sign my resignation.
My boss—a man in his mid-fifties who says ‘synergies’ when he means ‘money’—leans back in his chair and regards me with a mixture of disappointment and indifference.
‘You were good, Emma.’
Were. Past tense. As though I’m already gone.
‘Thank you.’
‘Do you have something else lined up?’
I hesitate. ‘Not exactly. But I… I have plans.’
He nods as though he understands. He doesn’t. ‘I see. Then I wish you all the best.’
We shake hands. No hug, no regret. Just professionalism. Clean, cold, efficient.
Outside on the street the wind tugs at my coat. It’s late February, and Edinburgh smells of wet tarmac and exhaust fumes. I walk to the bus stop, sit on the bench and stare at my phone.
I’ve sent a message to my landlady. Notice. Three months.
It feels surreal. As though I’m stepping out of my own life and watching from the outside.
But at the same time it feels right.
For the first time in years.
***
The drive to Glencoe takes three hours.
The road winds out of the city, past suburbs, industrial estates, then finally into the open. The landscape unfolds. Hills rise left and right, cloaked in remnants of snow melting in the mild February sun. At the roadside meltwater drips, forms small streams that run across the tarmac.
Winter is beginning to crumble.
The further I drive, the quieter it becomes. The motorway turns into a single carriageway. The cars thin out. Eventually I’m alone.
Just me, the road and the mountains.
I crack the window open. Cold air streams in, smells of earth, pine and something I can’t name. Freedom, maybe.
My satnav tells me I’ll arrive in ten minutes.
Glencoe.
I’ve seen it in photos. Postcard scenes. Dramatic hillsides, narrow valleys, cottages with smoke rising from chimneys.
But in real life it’s… different.
Quieter. Bigger. More real.
The road leads me into the village. A few scattered houses. A small shop. A sign: Mrs MacBride’s Shop. A hotel further back: Glenview Inn. Everything looks worn but cared for. Lived in.
I drive slowly, follow the satnav’s instructions. Turn onto a narrow gravel track. Trees stand close to the road, their branches bare, but buds are beginning to swell.
And then I see it.
The cottage.
It’s small. Grey stone, a steep roof, a chimney with no smoke rising from it. The windows are dark. In front stands a weathered wooden gate that creaks as I open it.
I stop outside the door. The key sits heavy in my pocket. Morag Campbell, the solicitor, sent it by post, along with a brief note: ‘Take your time. Isla would have wanted you to feel at home.’
I breathe deeply. Then I fit the key into the lock.
The door opens.
And I step inside.
It smells of lavender.
And old wood. And something I can’t quite place—dust, perhaps, mixed with memories.
I stand in the hallway and let my gaze wander.
Left, a small kitchen. Right, a sitting room. Straight ahead, a door, probably to the bedroom. Everything is clean, but untouched. As though someone froze the house before my great-aunt left.
I walk into the sitting room.
And stop.
Cats everywhere.
Not real cats—not yet. But cat toys. A scratching post in the corner, tall, with platforms and cubbyholes. Feather wands on strings. Little stuffed mice. A basket full of balls. On the wall hang framed photos—my great-aunt, younger, smiling, with a grey cat on her lap.
Tripod.
I step closer. On the mantelpiece stand more photos. Isla with the cat. Isla with a man I don’t recognise. A life I never saw.
And everywhere—really everywhere—are traces of an animal who lived here. Scratch marks on the sofa. A blanket scattered with cat hair. A food bowl in the kitchen, still half full.
My great-aunt was a crazy cat lady.
The thought comes unbidden, and I’m ashamed of it immediately.
She was alone. And Tripod was her family.
I sit on the sofa, feel the springs give beneath me. My gaze falls on a bookshelf. Novels, non-fiction, a few photo albums about the Highlands. Beside them, a notebook, left open.
I reach for it.
The handwriting is shaky, but readable.
‘Tripod had a good day today. He spent all morning in the garden. I think he likes spring.’
I swallow. Read on.
‘Sometimes I wonder what will happen when I’m gone. Who will look after him then? He’s so special. He deserves someone who loves him.’
My eyes sting.
She thought of me. Left me money. Entrusted me with Tripod.
And I never visited.
I close the notebook, put it back on the shelf.
Then I stand and look around.
The cottage is small. But there’s something about it. Something warm. Something real.
Maybe I can stay here. For a while.
Maybe I can build something here.
But first I have to collect Tripod.
***
The vet’s practice is only five minutes away.
A small stone building, practical, unassuming. Out front, a handwritten sign: Veterinary Practice – Dr A. Burnett.
I park, get out. The air is colder here, bites at my cheeks. I tug my scarf tighter and walk to the door.
Inside it smells of disinfectant and hay. A young woman behind the reception desk looks up. She smiles, friendly, open.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m Emma Gallagher. I… it’s about Tripod. My great-aunt’s cat.’
Her face brightens. ‘Ah, yes! One moment, I’ll fetch Dr Burnett.’
She disappears through a door.
I stand, hands buried in the pockets of my jacket, and try not to look nervous.
Then the door opens again.
And he’s there.
Tall.
That’s the first thing I think.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, fills the doorway without trying. Dark hair, a bit too long, as though he’s forgotten to visit the barber. A striking face—high cheekbones, three days’ stubble, serious features. His eyes are grey-brown, calm, and they assess me with an intensity that makes me take a step back.
He’s wearing jeans and a rough jumper, the sleeves rolled up. On his forearms I see scars—fine lines, old, healed.
His hands are large. Steady. Capable.
‘Ms Gallagher.’
His voice is deep. Not unfriendly, but not warm either. Neutral. Professional.
I hold out my hand. ‘Emma. Just Emma.’
He shakes it. Brief. His hand is rough, warm, and I feel the warmth travel through my fingers and up my arm.
Then he lets go and steps back.
‘Aiden Burnett.’ A pause. ‘You’re here about Tripod.’
‘Yes.’
He nods. Says nothing. Just that look—assessing, weighing, as though making a diagnosis.
‘Come with me.’
He turns, and I follow him down a narrow corridor. The walls are papered with posters of animals—dogs, cats, horses. Everything is clean, tidy, functional.
We enter a treatment room.
And there, on the table, sits a cat.
Grey, tabby, with only three legs. The front left is missing.
Tripod.
He looks at me, blinks slowly, and purrs.
My heart contracts.
‘He’s healthy,’ Aiden says behind me. ‘I checked him over last week. No problems. Eating well, mobility’s fine despite the leg. He’s… robust.’
I move closer to the table. Tripod sniffs at my hand, then rubs his head against it.
‘He likes you,’ Aiden remarks.
I glance up at him. He stands with folded arms, watching me.
‘That was quick,’ I say.
‘Cats know who they like. And who they don’t.’
His voice is neutral, but there’s something in his look. Something watchful. As though he’s weighing whether I deserve Tripod’s approval.
I clear my throat. ‘I’ve never had a cat before.’
‘That’s not a problem. Tripod’s straightforward. Food, water, clean litter tray. He’ll manage.’ He pauses. ‘The question is: will you?’
I blink. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You live in Edinburgh?’
‘I did live there. I’m moving to Glencoe.’
His eyebrow lifts. Only slightly, but I see it.
‘Here.’
‘Yes.’
‘I see.’ He tilts his head. ‘There are no galas here.’
I stare at him. ‘How do you know I…?’
‘Morag mentioned it. Your great-aunt talked about you a lot.’
That stings. Harder than it should.
‘You never visited her,’ he says. Not a question. A statement.
I swallow. ‘No. I… I should have.’
‘Should have.’ He repeats the words as though weighing them. Then he turns and takes a cat carrier from a shelf. ‘Tripod mattered to her. She stipulated in her will that he’d be well looked after. I assume you’re taking that seriously.’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. I’ve made a list, with recommended food and so on.’ He sets the carrier on the table, opens the door. Tripod jumps inside as though he’s done it a thousand times. Aiden closes the door, then hands me the box.
Our fingers touch. For a fraction of a second.
Again, that warmth.
I pull my hand back, too quickly.
‘I’ll come by for a follow-up,’ he says. ‘In three days.’
I stare at him. ‘Is that… usual?’
‘With Tripod, yes.’ He holds my gaze. ‘He’s a special cat. And I make sure he’s well.’
No negotiation. No smile.
I nod. ‘All right.’
‘Your great-aunt’s cottage is empty. Morag gave you the keys?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll see you there.’ He steps aside, opens the door. ‘Good luck, Ms Gallagher.’
I want to say something—that he should call me Emma, that I mean this, that I’m not who he thinks I am.
But the words stick.
So I leave.
The door falls shut behind me.
And I carry Tripod out into the cold Highland air, my heart beating faster than it should.
In three days he’s coming round.
Aiden Burnett.
To check whether I deserve to be here.
