Part 33 (2/2)

'I suppose,' said Stevie. Her heart was thumping so loud she thought it might even deafen Adam. 'But you still haven't answered the question.'

'Stevie.' Adam looked her squarely in the eyes so she could read the truth in them for herself. 'I don't know if I ever was in love with Jo. I was besotted, but I don't even know if there is a real Jo MacLean. I think she just borrows personalities aff a peg and wears them like a suit. The trouble with that is that none of them ever quite fit properly. I certainly didn't know herI realized that at Will's barbecue.' He didn't say he could trace that moment back to when she shoved little Danny away and he saw the hurt in the wee boy's eyes. He knew then she wasn't the woman she had presented herself to be. She wasn't the woman he had waited for all his life.

'So how come you left me a note saying we both needed s.p.a.ce?'

'Because even though I knew I wanted you more than anything, I needed to give you some time to find out what you felt for Matthew once he was free. I mean, I'm no' exactly your archetypal romantic hero, am I noo? You like handsome men who whisper and I'm a big, ugly, noisy b.u.g.g.e.r.'

'I don't want Matthew. I'm from Venus. I'm not like you Mars lot, that sod off into caves and play with elastic bands or whatever it is.'

'No, you're not like anyone I've ever met, Stevie Pollen b.u.mble Bee Nectar or whatever your name is.'

She blurted out a big pocket of laughter that pulled out a few bonus tears with it.

'Stop crying, woman,' he said gruffly. 'Okay, I admit it. I saw how quickly you jumped when Matty Boy called and I judged you on that. I thought you'd gone back to him. After all, it's what we planned for all along.'

'He was suffering, Adam. Jo stuffed him too. I couldn't have walked away and see him branded a violent s.e.x pest.'

'Aye, well, I know that noo.' He took the ice-pack away and bowed his head. 'But, stupid man that I am, I thought I'd lost you just when I was on the brink of getting you. And Danny, of course. Ba' Christ, I've missed the wee laddie.'

'You stupid, stupid man,' said Stevie, for Danny and herself.

'Hang on a wee minuteyou loved Matt, you didnae even like me!'

'Oh, Adam MacLean, you've got a nerve, considering how marvellous you thought I was in the beginning!'

Adam laughed, remembering the flour and the cocoa and that snotty 'I hate you' look on her face and her friend with the mad pink hair. How very deceiving those first impressions had been. On both sides too, for at the same time, Stevie was thinking of the wild, red man pus.h.i.+ng a holiday reservation up her nose in Matthew's front room. Who would have ever thought she could have loved him to the same degree that she hated him then?

'And all the time I was thinking that now Jo was available, you'd be straight off back to her.'

'Naw,' he smiled. 'How could she compete with you?'

'Yeah right,' said Stevie.

Adam looked at her sweet, disbelieving face and realized she would never know how lovely she was, which was a shame. He wanted to tell her how very deeply he had fallen for her, how she seemed to have flooded every chamber of his heart as only the right person could. But there was time, lots of it to come. For now, a kiss would suffice. He put down the ice pack, took her face in his great hands and carried on where he'd left off that night of the fillet steaks and her home-made cake and the raspberry-truffle coffees and the interrupting knock on the door.

Her lips were sweeter than honey.

Epilogue.

They married at the beginning of the next summera day full of balmy May suns.h.i.+ne. There were Scottish pipers and the bonny bride carried an armful of wild wooded bluebells and heather instead of a formal pink rose bouquet. Adam took his vows in the tartan-trimmed church with a heart that was truly satisfied and content. There was no feeling that a part of him was pleading to an inaccessible part of his lady; he knew she was all his. For Stevie it was better than any ending she could have written. Like her alter ego Evie Sweetwell, she had found her Damme MacQueen. And he was even better in the flesh than he was on the page.

Matthew sent the happy couple a silver-plated bluebirds of happinesshe paid for it in cashand a building society cheque for three thousand pounds, made out to Mrs Stevie MacLean. It was the first time she had seen her new name in print and it made her insides as runny as the waters of the Clyde.

They had a Ceilidh at the reception and a Scottish band, and wore kilts and danced jigs and reels such as Blue Bonnets and The Birds and the Bees well into the night. Things went awry as the champagne flowed, and some of the dancers ended up with different partners from the ones they started out with. But that seems to have turned out all right.

The newlyweds compromised on some of the Scottish traditionsthe groom didn't drink whisky and wore very nice Calvin Klein boxers under his kilt. He did, however, eat a Sa.s.senach alive for breakfast the next morning. And by all accounts, she rather enjoyed it too. They honeymooned for five days in an old castle by a beautiful loch, then they picked up Danny from Catherine's and whisked him away to EuroDisney for a week.

Highland Fling became the best-selling Midnight Moon ever. The critics panned it as romantic claptrap, of course, but the readers loved it so much that a film was made with a gorgeously rough American actor who could actually manage quite a good Scots accent. Apparently, the top girls of Hollywood clawed each other to death for the part of Evie. The enormous cheque for the film rights arrived with Stevie exactly eighteen months after Adam MacLean first kissed her.

Adam discovered the increasing turn-on of women with soft curves, freckly noses and absolutely no ability whatsoever to control flour. Stevie was to wonder how she had ever lived without large crus.h.i.+ng Highland thighs, red stubble and thunderous, unintelligible endearments.

Adam bought Humbleby Cottage for himself and his bride, his wee adopted laddie and their auburn-haired newborn daughter, Rona, and they all still live happily there today with a huge sloppy dog, a mad ginger kitten and an enormous black rabbit called McBatman.

Life, for the MacLean clan, is braw.

Acknowledgements.

A very sweet part about writing a book is being able to say a very public thank you to a swarm of wonderful people.

To the totally fabulous guys at the agencyDarley Anderson, Julia Churchill, Emma White, Ella Andrews, Madeleine Buston and Zoe King. And at Hive HQSimon and Schusterto Queen Suzanne Baboneau, Libby Vernon, Nigel Stoneman, Joe Pickering, Amanda s.h.i.+pp, Caroline Turner, and the lovely Grainne Reidy who always make me feel so welcome when I fly down there and, of course, to my gallant chaperone Paul Evans. And to the ultimate Worker, Joan Deitch, for combing out all the c.r.a.ppy bits from my ma.n.u.script.

To the nectar in my lifemy friends: Alec Sillifant for allowing me to refer to his smas.h.i.+ng children's story 'The Useless Troll' (published by Meadowside Children's Books) and the best male mate in the world Paul Sear. To Ged and Kaely Backland, Cath Marklew, Maggie Birkin, Sue Welfare, Debra Mitch.e.l.l, Sue Mahomet, Rachel Hobson, Tracy Harwood, Judy Sedgewick, the enviably artistic Chris Sedgewick, the gorgeous and superbly talented Lucie Whitehouse and my S.U.N. sistersKaren Baker, Helen Clapham and Pam Oliverall friends in the greatest sense of the word.

To Sara Atkinson at haworthcatrescue.org who is an absolute honey!

To the decidedly 'uncrusty' Dr Peter O'Dwyer and my solicitor David Gordon and the Attey gangBev Stacey and Mary Smith who have got me through a B of a year with kindness, support, expert expertise and very strong coffee.

To the smas.h.i.+ng Steph Johnson and Steph Daley at the Barnsley Chronicle, the delightful Jo Davison at the Sheffield Star and the magnificent Jayne Dowle at the Yorks.h.i.+re Post for all the nice things they've said about my book, my hair and my house!

To our man in the HighlandsIain MacLennan atfor his Mcexcellent Gaelic Translation services.

To Miss Kate Taylor at Barnsley Sixth Form College who made me see Jane Austen as she was meant to be seen and turned English into my favourite subject.

To my beautiful 'pupae'Terence and George for not telling me to 'buzz aff' when I ask them if I've told them recently that I'm a novelist.

To my very special parents Jenny and Terry Hubbard for babysitting, making me huge Sunday dinners then listening to me drone on about my weight.

And last but by no means leastto the inspirational clan of Glasgow both past and presentall those wonderful warm, big-hearted, generous, funny, crazy aunts, uncles, cousins and friends who coloured my childhood days with bright tartan and flavoured my memories with square sausage, steak pie and Jocks' Loaf.

Tapadh leibh-you're the Bee's Knees, every single one of you.

Also by Milly Johnson.

The Yorks.h.i.+re Pudding Club.

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