Page 63 of Highland Getaway
She licks delicately at the side of her toffee apple, completely oblivious to the horrified stares Ian and I are exchanging over the tatties.
‘Why would Hunter want to “bump off” the Laird?’ I hiss, glancing around to make sure no one overhears me. ‘That’s ridiculous, Yasmin.’
‘Well, probably so he can get his hands on the fortune, I would imagine,’ she replies, her brow wrinkling as she considers this. ‘I mean, there must be a fortune, right? And why else would he keep refusing to let the village people – or Fleetwood Mac, or whoever they are – see the Laird, if he was alive and well? Don’t you think that was a bit suspicious?’
I look helplessly at Ian, hoping he’ll step in and answer this for me, but he just shrugs then continues stirring his stovies, not even bothering to address the Fleetwood Mac comment.
I guess it’s up to me to defend Hunter’s honour, then.
‘Look, Yasmin,’ I say, taking her by the elbow and steering her away from the food stalls. ‘You can’t go around accusing people of stuff like that, OK? It’s not fair. Well, actually, it’s worse than not fair; it’s completely unhinged. Hunter’s a good man; he wouldn’t hurt anyone.’
To my horror, Yasmin’s Bambi-sized brown eyes immediately fill with tears.
‘Sorry,’ she mutters, pulling her sunglasses over them. ‘I just thought .?.?. Well, you don’t really know him, do you? None of us do.’
She turns to walk away, and I have to reach out to grab her to stop her walking into a passer-by.
‘Yasmin, take off the glasses,’ I tell her, turning her around to face me. ‘It’s too dark, you’ll end up hurting yourself. Or someone else. What’s wrong with you?’
She pushes the glasses reluctantly back up.
‘Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m justawkward, OK?’ she says, folding her arms defensively. ‘I get nervous around people I don’t know, and I end up saying something stupid. Like when I blurted out that thing about the massacre earlier, in the hot tub.’
‘What’s that? A massacre in a hot tub?’ says a woman who happens to be walking past, clutching her two children protectively to her side. ‘Where?’
‘Nowhere,’ I tell her, smiling reassuringly as I grab Yasmin again and pull her away from the crowd. ‘Everything’s fine! Enjoy the fair!’
I turn and walk quickly away, still holding onto Yasmin, who follows me meekly, until I find us a quiet-ish spot just next to Izzie’s fortune-telling tent.
‘Yasmin,’ I say gently, turning to face her. ‘Are you .?.?. Do you have anxiety or something? Is that what you’re saying?’
Yasmin’s brow wrinkles again.
‘I don’tthinkso?’ she says. ‘I think I’m just weird. That’s what everyone always says, anyway. I’m really bad with people. I never know what to say. Then, any time I try to force myself to get involved in a conversation, I end up just blurting out something stupid. Like that time I started going on about Hansel and Gretel, and the witch trying to cook children into a stew.’
A young woman who’s just come out of Izzie’s tent with a baby strapped to her chest gives a small gasp, then rushes away.
‘I was just trying to join in,’ Yasmin says. ‘I thought it was interesting. But I always get it wrong. Always.’
Her eyes fill with tears again, and I impulsively reach out and take her hand.
‘Itwasinteresting,’ I tell her firmly. ‘And you’re not weird, Yasmin. Everyone feels a bit shy or awkward sometimes. Everyone says stupid things now and then. I know I do.’
‘You do, don’t you?’ Yasmin says, brightening slightly. ‘I do itallthe time, though,’ she goes on, sniffing. ‘It’s as if I can’t help myself.’
She raises the toffee apple and starts licking it mournfully, which is quite an achievement when you really think about it.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘You always seem so confident. Weren’t you supposed to be doing some kind of reality TV show at one point?’
Yasmin shudders theatrically. ‘God, no,’ she says. ‘I turned that down. Can you imagine me on TV? No, I’m going to just stick to social media. You can hide in front of a camera, you know. People say they never lie, but that’s not true. Cameras lie all the time. They let you pretend to be anyone you like. And, in my case, the camera lets me pretend to be normal. Well, as long as I don’t try to talk in my videos.’
She shrugs, as if this is no big deal.
‘That’s why I try not to talkat all, actually,’ she goes on, examining the shiny surface of the apple like the witch in Snow White. ‘It’s just much easier not to, even though it means I have no friends, and everyone thinks I’m stuck-up.’
I stand there watching her. To me, Yasmin is the epitome of sophistication: someone so beautiful and apparently self-possessed that she appears not to evenneedanyone to be her friend. And, to be totally honest, Ididthink she was a bit stuck-up; that her silence and refusal to get involved with anything meant she thought she was too good for the rest of us – even Bex. And yet, here she is, revealing herself to be totally human after all; and with exactly the same insecurities and anxieties I have myself.
Who would’ve thought it was all just an act?
