"I've stocked up on pickled onions if ye want some, Gaby?" Jamal unfolded from his habitual leaning on the counter pose and pointed at one of the shelves in front of him when I popped in the next morning to stock up. As his shop was the only one for miles around, he jam-packed every available space with food, drink, toiletries, sun hats, welly boots and midge repellent.

"No thanks," I said, dumping a packet of organic venison for Mildred (I know, I know...) on the counter. "But if you've got any pickled onion monster munch, I'll take those."

He reached behind him and put a six-pack on the counter. "Or what about these?" A packet of potato scones was dangled in front of me. "Wi' fried bacon and a dollop o' ice-cream on top? I got some Irn-Bru flavoured stuff in 'specially."

What?

"For your cravings? When Enisa was pregnant wi' her last yin, she swore by gherkin and jam sandwiches. Hud to be raspberry. The one 'afore that was the Irn-Bru ice cream on fried chicken."

Cravings for bonkers food combinations... How did he know?

Duh, Gaby.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Sure enough, the Lochalshie WhatsApp group had 26 notifications unspotted by me as I'd turned off the alerts months ago to save my sanity. Obvious what the subject was—me and my pregnancy. I flashed back to the night before and cursed. Why on earth had I thought Mhari would not notice me admitting to feeling hormonal and put two and two together? stop her taking in a piece of gossip and being the first to spread it around?

I fired off a hasty message to her, Thanks very much for telling everyone my news, punctuated by several angry-face emojis.

The reply: No bother! You're welcome.

Cheeky cow. Oh well. I was more than 12 weeks pregnant and any second now, my boobs and belly would make the announcement for me. Up until a week ago, I was congratulating myself for having a celebrity pregnancy—i.e. one where it doesn't show for months and then ends up a small, neat bump. I was now wearing yet another new bra and all my jeans and tops refused point-blank to fasten.

"You've heard I'm pregnant then?" I asked, and Jamal nodded. Enisa appeared from behind him, a smile lighting up her face. She wore a short-sleeve tunic over her sari, the logo Enisa's Mobile Beauty emblazoned on her chest.

"Congratulations, Gaby. Have ye heard I do this mum-to-be pampering package where I come to your home and massage ye from top to bottom? I also offer a wee deal on waxing so that when ye go to the hospital, your bush is as neat as—"

Argh. Make it stop.

"I don't have any cravings," I burst out. Jamal looked crushed. "Apart from pickled onion monster munch, which is definitely not hormone-related. I've been mainlining those things forever."

Thanks to my hen party last year, the glamorous superstar Caitlin Cartier adored them too. She had to order from a specialist Brit food supplies website, StewNDumplings, to get them delivered to her in LA. I kept telling her monster munch was the gateway drug to Marmite. She refused to believe me, screwing her nose up in disgust.

"What's your accumulated score on the pub quiz now," Jamal asked with a sly grin as I paid for my food, adding in a packet of Rennies to help with the ghastly indigestion Baba McAllan had foisted on me.

"I'm not sure."

The accumulated score was a sore point. Ashley's weekly pub quiz kept a running total and every six months, the team with the highest score got their photo on the Lochside Welcome's website and Facebook page. There was no prize except for the acclaim, where people congratulated you/wished they were that brainy. Thanks to the massive deduction in our points, we were now at the bottom of the list.

Jamal's team—these days Caroline, her husband Ranald and their secret weapon Laney Haggerty who knew everything—were current quiz champs. We'd taken the title from them the odd week, mainly thanks to Google help. Not any more now we'd been rumbled.

He put all my shopping in the bag for life I'd brought with me. "I'm a bit worried about Ashley, mind." Enisa nodded.

"Oh?"

"He doesnae seem well these days. Awfy grey and wiped out lookin'."

"Yeah!" A voice piped up behind me. "I just walked past the pub earlier and he hasn't put the sign out about today's specials yet? Congratulations, by the way, Gaby. Maybe your kid will end up dating mine, and we'll end up in-laws."

Jolene. And very forward thinking. I nodded acknowledgement. Her smile told me she'd known my news an age ago. Thank heavens some people knew the value of discretion. She dumped pots of baby food on the counter and pulled a canvas shopping tote out of her handbag.

"He's got that sign out way before lunchtime usually? Build anticipation and attract new customers?"

"D'you think we should drop by?" I asked.

Jolene agreed readily. Stewart was busy coding for a business client and far too eager to share every riveting second of his work in progress. We set off for the Lochside Welcome, Jolene asking me when I was due and how I was.

"Fine," I said. "Well, flat-out exhausted, weepy and throwing up most of the time. But other than that, tickety-boo."

She shook her head. "Y'know, when I rule the world, men will be the ones who get pregnant."

"I second that."

Outside the Lochside Welcome, there was no chalk board sign promising flavour of the month pizza (rocket and ham seeing as it was the summer) or pulled pork macaroni cheese (lush). Snatches of noisy conversations from the beer garden reached us. Nothing much could be wrong if the hotel had customers.

Inside, every table was taken up. Ashley's two hired for the summer waiters dashed between them delivering trays of drinks and pizzas. Xavier, amid pouring what looked like an epic round of craft lagers, caught sight of us and mouthed, "Help!"

"You alright, mate?" Jolene asked once we pushed our way through the too crowded tables to the bar.

"Rushed off my feet! Ashley est malade, I mean not feeling well. Er... could either of you help out? Gaby, you've worked behind this bar before, n'est ce pas? Congratulations, by the way."

The pregnancy was public knowledge for sure then. Two of the regulars who parked themselves at the bar and drank their way slowly and steadily through pints every day echoed him, raising their glasses to me.

One of them, Terry, shook his head. "Dinnae let her anywhere near plates and glasses, son. She's awfy clumsy. Ye'll lose all your glasses!"

One blasted time. I'd offered to help Ashley clear tables on a Friday night when he was short of staff. One hour later, he begged me to stop.

"What's wrong with Ashley?" Jolene asked.

In all my time in Lochalshie, I'd never known him take a day off during peak tourist season. From the look of the crowds around me, people had flocked here fresh from a day's walking. The twin hills behind the loch—affectionately christened Maggie Broon's Boobs by the locals—were popular. Corbetts rather than munros and therefore not as high, they presented enough of an achievement for people to feel they deserved a giant pizza, chocolate cake and a glass of wine to wash it down afterwards. The place reeked of waxed jackets, Kendall mint cake and the faint undertone of sweat.

Xavier gave an elaborate shrug, shoulders touching the lobes of his ears. "He sleeps. Exhausted."

"I'll help," Jolene said, handing me her canvas tote bag and pulling her dark hair up in a high ponytail. "Can you take the baby food to Stewart, Gaby?" She rummaged in the bag, removing one jar, baby oatmeal, and tucking it in her handbag. Wise. Stewart had a thing about porridge. He'd take the hump if I handed over pre-made stuff, whereas Jolene could sneak it in later and feed it to Tamar without him realising.

Back in our house—baby food delivered and me managing to escape after only half-an-hour of cording/benefits of sobriety/congratulations on being pregnant and I should tell Jack to talk to him for expert knowledge of fatherhood chat—I sent Jack a quick message. "Ashley ill this afternoon."

Jack was taking tourists to Inverary. (Loch, castle and decent fish and chip shop—what more could they want?) A cryptic reply pinged back. "He said something to me last week. Asked me a wee favour."

The after-pub quiz disappearance where I had to help cart Mhari back to her flat. I'd forgotten that Ashley asked Jack for a word, and Jack hadn't mentioned it when he let himself back into the house last night. Neither had I passed on that I'd seen Les Putains.

Had Ashley confided in Jack and told him about—gulp—a life-threatening illness? About to hit a Google search for what does sleeping in the afternoon mean, I changed my mind. As much as my mother-in-law was often the voice of gloom and doom when it came to a person's health and the many things that threaten it, she counselled against googling symptoms. If I looked up exhaustion online, I'd end up convinced I was the one with a terminal condition. It would just have to wait.

"When will you be home?" I pinged Jack a message via WhatsApp.

"5pm. Promise. Plenty of time to talk. X"