@Lumilind thanks for the suggestions re graphic designers, meetings, equipment and coding. Now incorporated. 

Beneath the last thing I posted is a poster, the words Gaby! I love you taking up most of the space.

It's been designed, not professionally the graphic artist in me notes, but well enough to grab attention. It features a picture of Ryan and me grinning at the camera, and a line underneath—Help me get my girlfriend back. I dumped her too quickly. Ryan's poster has been shared on the Ryan Reynolds official account. As a result, it is all over Facebook and Twitter. Some three million (it feels like) people are now screaming at me to get back at Ryan. Someone filmed Louise when she first saw my list of reasons for not getting engaged on the garage Twitter feed, her mouth pursing and her forehead wrinkling in fury, and they've turned it into a meme—the line, 'Louise would be the mother-in-law from hell' popping up endlessly as she reads it again and again.

In the broad light of social media day, none of this reflects well on me. A lot of people have seen it as their mission to tell me what a cow I am. That's not the word they use. And they add I do not deserve someone as magnificently chivalrous as Ryan. I click out before I read any other nasty comments about me, my appearance and my life choices.

Should I phone Ryan? In a fit of pique—and commanded to do so by Katya—I deleted his number from my phone after he sent me ten texts making his feelings crystal clear. I could email him, I suppose but...

...do I want him back? Um... no?

Jack sticks his head around the door. "I hear you're off to Glasgow on Monday morning?" he asks, and I nod wondering which villager told him that before narrowing it down to Scottie's owner or Mhari.

"I need to head there on Monday," he said. "Got to pick my next load of tourists up at Glasgow airport." He jangles the keys to the mini-bus in his right hand and I sense a man wondering whether to take the plunge. He takes a deep breath and appears to make up his mind.

"I can give you a lift...?"

I stare at him, what a lift, what you're offering me is... a lot of hours in your company. Rude git and all, the idea of it shimmers, a tantalising prospect banishing Ryan and his poster from my mind.

"I need to get there for nine am as I'm meeting my boss there so we can talk to our client," I say, crossing my fingers underneath the desk the flight he is going to meet is an early one.

"No problem. The flight I'm picking up gets in at eight am. I could drop you at the airport and there's a bus you can get into the city centre from there. The first day of the trip ends in Glasgow too, so if you don't mind kicking your heels there until five o'clock I can give you a lift back too."

Melissa had scheduled the meeting with Dexter Carlton of Blissful Beauty for nine till twelve. But I could have lunch with Melissa afterwards and then wander around Glasgow until five looking at all the big shops and getting myself reacquainted with fashion. Besides, nothing is going to stop me from accompanying Jack on a journey I've worked out takes five hours there and back.

The daft bit of me fast-forwards to fantasy mode. Goodness me, imagine how friendly it might get. Perhaps I can persuade him to call me Sassenach? I fit the criteria for the name, and on a good day with the help of subdued lighting and if I put in a few hours wrapping strands of my hair around curling tongs, I reckon I could pass for Claire, Jamie Fraser's big love...

I spend the weekend working to ensure I can present Dexter with an impressive amount of work, but also to avoid thinking about Ryan and that Facebook post. Thankfully, the heat had died down a little. It wasn't getting the shares and comments it had been receiving; yet another one-second viral wonder. But still my friends and family commented, and most people appeared to take Ryan's side.

Weirdly, he hadn't sent me any direct, private messages either by email or through social media. I composed and discarded endless replies. Hey Ryan, hope you are okay. The poster was sweet. But nothing said what I wanted it to, and I couldn't work out what my ideal scenario was. Even if he came up with a reasonable explanation for Kayleigh and he promised me a Louise-interference-free wedding (life), did I want him back? No, yes, no, yes, no. My brain skipped left-side, right-side and back again too many times.

When Monday arrives, I greet it with relief. I'm also nervous, so much so I can't face breakfast. Mena has decided she likes scrambled eggs. A blessing, seeing as they cost a lot less than smoked salmon, and she's the lucky recipient of the meal I can't eat at five o'clock in the morning.. Instead, I spend half an hour on the Dating Guru's website where I read up on everything from make up to sparkling conversation topics on a first date and how to make him want you. Christina the Dating Guru promises me you need a light touch with make-up for a first date. Men, she says, don't like women plastered in make-up. The delicate souls find it intimidating. Although I curl up my lip as I listen to this on YouTube, perhaps she could be on to something. A light pink lip gloss makes your lips seem kiss-able the advice goes, whereas if you opt for red or dark lipstick a guy draws back, frightened he will end up covered in the stuff.

In the end, I settle for an impression I hope screams 'not trying too hard'. I am going to a business meeting, so I choose a pencil skirt with a velour hoodie and slogan tee shirt. As a graphic designer we're allowed to subvert the suit when it comes to attending meetings. As per Christina's make-up instructions, I use foundation that promises it is invisible, dust on bronzer and apply a slick of the least gloopy lip gloss I own.

I do the tong thing with my hair, cursing when I have to leave off half-way when a horn sounds outside at five thirty bang on time. I grab my phone and the old laptop I've loaded with all the Blissful Beauty design work I've done, and head out the door, emerging with a head of hair that is half curly and half poker straight.

Blast it. Jack isn't the mini-bus's only occupant and the excitement I'd allowed to build up trickles away. Next to him in the front seat is Scottie's owner, the man whose name I've yet to get. He waves enthusiastically at me. My return wave isn't quite as energetic.

He throws open the door and budges up so he's in the middle and I'm left with the outside seat. The mini-bus is dark grey on the outside, the decals on the side feature a big sign saying Highland Tours: Your Authentic Scottish Experience. Inside, it's luxurious, dark grey seats, little curtains at the windows, and small table trays so people can eat their sandwiches comfortably.

"Aye, aye Gaby! I telt Jack ye were going to Glasgow and suggested he could take the two of us wi' him."

Great. So it wasn't even Jack's idea. I tell myself it doesn't matter. This bloke is tres rude, and it is not healthy to fancy someone when you're still recovering from a break-up.

"I'm going on a day course," Scottie's owner adds, "at Glasgow Caledonian. By the way, you havenae finished brushing your hair. It looks funny."

"What is the course?" I ask, fastening my seatbelt and preparing for a long morning. My lift fixer is a nice chap, but if boring people was an Olympic sport, he would qualify for the national team. During the next two hours, we are going to hear a lot of details about subjects as fascinating as how to make excellent porridge and the number of midges expected to hit the village this year.

Jack puts the mini-bus in reverse, turns it around in Kirsty's drive way—a piece of manoeuvring so precise and professional I would swoon if that kind of thing impressed me—and tilts his face slightly so that only I can see. Was that the ghost of a wink?

At least I get Scottie's owner's name. Jack says it when he reminds him to fasten his seatbelt as we leave the village and Stewart continues his explanation of the course he's off to do. Unlikely as it sounds, he talks about it non-stop for an hour. He's off to learn about coding, meaning he'll be able to start work developing websites for local businesses. In theory, this might be an interesting subject but by the time Stewart has told us all about the differences between JavaScript, Binary, MySQL and HTML, my head keeps dropping sharply as I struggle to stay awake. Goodness only knows how Jack is staying alert enough to drive.

When I see the sign that says Glasgow is thirty miles away, I butt in.

"Amazing Stewart," I say. "You will learn so much. So, Jack how many people are you picking up today?"

"But I haven't told you yet about CSS and jQuery!" Stewart bursts out, and I mutter 'perhaps later' and that I deal with CSS every day in the desperate hope that between now and five o'clock he loses his voice.

"Ten," Jack says, and I swear there's that ghost of a wink again. "Americans. All of them claim Scottish ancestry that dates back to at least the fifteenth century despite record-keeping not being that great in those days, so I'm taking them to the People's Palace in the morning and Loch Lomond for the afternoon."

I jump in with another question before Stewart can start up again. The scenery's changed. For the first hour, we travelled through stunning countryside. All high hills topped with swirling mists that gradually revealed themselves as the rising sun burnt them off, lochs and fields full of russet-red cows with wide horned-heads. Now though, the traffic has intensified as we head further into the concrete jungle of three-carriage roads, high-rises and large warehouses.

I long to ask Jack personal questions but even if I thought he'd answer them, I can hardly do so in front of Stewart. I settle for the practicalities of ferrying tourists around. What does he do with himself while they explore. Does he know a lot about the places they visit and is he expected to answer all their questions. Jack's answers are short, and he gives me no openings to ask for more details. I feel as if I'm having a conversation with a small child. It's all 'yes' 'no' and the occasional, 'I'm not sure'. So much for my Sassenach fantasies.

You are such a wa—my inner censor draws the line. 'Terrible person', it adds instead. Why do I bother liking/lusting after you?

We get to the airport five minutes ahead of time and Jack jumps out to show us where we need to go to get the bus. He's wearing that kilt again, as you might expect a Scottish tour guide to do. It falls just above his knees, and what fantastic knees they are too. Bear with me on this one. Some knees are knobbly and almost repellent. Jack's are smooth and big, hinting at an impressive set of quads above them. My mind does that half-naked towel imagery again and I have to shake my head so I can focus on what he's saying. He says goodbye, and repeats the directions I'll need to get to where he is to pick me up later.

Stewart starts up the coding conversation once more when we get on the bus that will take us to Glasgow city centre. Thankfully, the trip only takes twenty minutes. Stewart's coding chat is still ongoing when I get off outside the main train station, the one Jack promised was nearest to West Nile Street where Blissful Beauty has its office.

The streets are busy with people making their way to nine to five jobs. I'd forgotten what 'busy' streets are like, the sea of people you get waiting at traffic lights, the honk of horns when cars and people dodge red lights and the courier and Deliveroo bikes that weave in and out of the crowds. Glaswegians sound different too. I've grown used to the Lochalshie accent. It's still indecipherable at times, but the snatches of conversation I hear now are voices that are harder and edgier.

West Nile Street is off Buchanan Street, and Blissful Beauty has taken over all three storeys of the part of the street where the road curves around a large church, the company's logo and branding plastered on the front. I stare up at the building and the logo, the Bs a swirly mass of silver stars. Melissa is there already, left wrist held up so she can glare at her watch even though I am bang on time. Suddenly, the nerves ramp up. Usually when I meet with clients, they do not understand design. Farmers are grateful for anything you do, but Blissful Beauty are a well-established brand. I won't be able to palm off half-baked ideas on these people. I wish I'd put more thought into this.

"Gaby!" Melissa nods, as I juggle the laptop so I can give her a clumsy hug.

She steps back quickly. "Country life appears to suit you. Leave the talking to me, okay? You just show him the stuff and promise him you've followed every directive in the Blissful Beauty brand bible, okay?"

Phew. My role is to appear hard-working and serious. Say nothing, Gaby, I repeat to myself.

"Hi!" a voice behind me makes me jump and then start once more. Am I fated to meet only men who remind me my favourite TV programmes? The guy behind me is the spitting image of Tobias Menzies, aka 'Black Jack' Randall in Outlander. A younger version of him, I decide as I stare more closely. He's all dark hair, pointy chin and serious eyes that fix on a person. 'Black Jack' Randall was not a nice chap, but Katya and I often had the snog-marry-avoid conversation about all the male characters in Outlander and he always turned up on the snog list, despite being one hundred percent bad.

"We're meeting someone," I say, and curse as my voice comes out helium style. Already I've broken the say nothing edict, and Melissa sighs, introducing herself and me.

"I'm Dexter Carlton, Blissful Beauty's UK marketing manager? We're meeting to discuss the website and what we need for the launch, right?" he asks, the accent taking me by surprise as it isn't English, a lilting American one I pin down to the south of the US. It's another reminder that the guy in front of me is not Jack Randall and I'm not in an episode of Outlander. He shakes hands with Melissa then sticks his hand out for me.

I stick my hand and promptly drop my laptop. "Nooooooo," I scream. The next bit takes place in slow motion, the three of us watching in powerless horror as it bounces on the kerb, flies into the air, lands on the road and is driven over by a double-decker bus and the two black cabs following it.

Melissa has closed her eyes, mouth blowing out deep breaths while Dexter tips his head and looks at the remains of the laptop which had been advertised as the lightest, flattest one money could buy. Not as flat as this, though, I suspect.

"Wow, that's..." Dexter starts, then shakes his head.

Gaby Richardson, professionalism personified. If blushing turns you red, I match the nearby traffic lights for shiny brightness.

Melissa opens her eyes. "Gaby here," she says through gritted teeth, "is much better at design than she is at life. Luckily, I've always taken out the best public liability insurance I can afford, which includes damage to leased equipment."

As the traffic has halted, I pick up the laptop. I don't want to be landed with a litter charge too. It's paper-thin, thanks to seven and a half tonnes of double decker rolling over the top of it. I throw up prayers to the universe that thankfully, I'd backed up everything on that laptop on the iMac back at Jack's. Melissa tells me I can find some way of disposing of it. I put it in my bag and try to rearrange my features so I look professional and capable of mind-blowing design work once more.

"Um, shall we?" he points at the door, and I offer prayers begging any deity who will listen that it is true everyone exaggerates wildly when they talk about the importance of first impressions.

Tobias stroke Dexter grins widely, the upturned mouth spreading so wide it threatens to split his face in two. It's nice, I decide, a man smiling at me so much when I've grown used to Jack and his taciturn ways.

"Come in," he says, sweeping an arm before him. "Do you think you'll manage the journey to the office with no more accidents?"

Melissa smiles. "Just keep her miles away from any electronic equipment in your office and we'll be fine," and he grins at me once more. I return the gesture sheepishly. At least I'll be able to entertain Katya later when I tell her what happened.

Thankfully, Dexter doesn't seem to have taken against me for being an idiot. I like his accent, I decide. Scottish accents have hard consonants in the main and his are silky smooth. The best way to describe it is as speech like melted dark chocolate.

Inside, the Blissful Beauty branding is everywhere—silver stars and blown-up pictures of the reality TV star who founded the company wearing what looks like every one of their products at once. The reception features a huge cut out of her doing her best duck pout and blowing a kiss to the camera. The tag line underneath reads, Make Up and Skincare so Good You Won't Need to Cover Up. Dexter sees me gawping at her and he nudges me. "Maybe you'll get to meet Caitlin at some point. She's awesome. It's hard to believe she's created this multi-billion-dollar company, and she's only twenty one years old."

"Mmm," I mutter, while the voice in my head argues that it doesn't hurt when your family are already millionaires anyway and you can employ all the experts you need to launch a successful business and brand. She spends all her time on Instagram promoting her products. "You guys!!!!!!!! I'm super-excited for this new eyeshadow you're gonna LOVE!!!!!" Does that leave much time for doing business type stuff?

Dexter's office is at the top of the building and the bay window looks out over roof tops. To my right, I see the big shopping mall I plan to spend too much time in later and to the left are spires, the golden dome of a Mosque and high-rise offices. He invites us to sit down at a table in front of the window and asks if we want coffees. After this morning's little incident, I'm too nervous to add caffeine to the mix, and Melissa's nod tells me I've made the right decision in her eyes. Dexter pushes a button on his phone and orders two espressos. Coffees delivered, Melissa takes out her laptop, finds the pages I've created and turns it so Dexter can see them.

"I used--"

"As you can see, Gaby followed the brand bible religiously," Melissa cuts in.

"I'll print them out," he says, pointing at the top of the range laser-jet printer in the corner of his office. He studies every idea I've come up with, rotating the papers and bending his head to look at them closely. I'm just running through my speech for Melissa, "Sorry. I tried so hard, and I'm sorry he hates everything and I accidentally ruined more than £1,000 worth of kit," when he sits up straight once more and pushes the papers away.

"These are amazing. You've done just what we wanted."

The glow starts in my belly and spreads its warmth through my body..

"Seriously. These are amazing. Blissful Beauty will take the UK by storm and you're going to be part of our exciting journey... That's fantastic, isn't it? Like a dream come true."

I'm still nodding along, enjoying the glow. I might qualify the dream come true bit. I don't like working as a designer that much. But at least I've got one satisfied customer. Again, I take a few seconds to realise he's still talking.

"What you want to do now," he says, pointing at the print-outs one by one, "is go back to our brand bible and then you'll be able to adjust the colour palette on this one, this one and this one to ensure it meets our standards. Then, if you take the website template, move the menus here and arrange for the pictures to appear in this side bar. Here, I'll show you."

He takes a pen out and scribbles all over my designs. When he hands them back, they are unrecognisable. 'You did just what we wanted' and 'these are amazing' must mean different things in US English. My designs are nowhere to be seen and yet that super-watt smile is still in place and the words coming out of his mouth continue to wax lyrical about my design genius.

The main point is, however, that Blissful Beauty still want Bespoke Design to carry out the work for them. Melissa's expression is no longer tense. My odds of hanging onto my job are once more fifty-fifty.

I leave the office in a daze, Dexter calling out after me he'd like to see more of the Scottish countryside, and why not arrange our follow-up meeting nearer to where I live? It's hard to imagine the ultra-urban Dexter in an ultra-rural setting, but I plaster my best 'great idea' look in place, and wander out.

Out on the street, I turn to Melissa.

"I'm so sorry," I squawk. "I'll pay for the laptop if the insurance doesn't cover it." No idea how. "And I followed the brand bible instructions exactly."

"Yes, the insurance will cover it, though please never, ever do that again. And as for the designs, welcome to the corporate world, Gaby. Go off and re-do everything as he specified. Then, he'll ask you to re-do it again right back to what you presented him with originally. After that, we'll change it back to his first request. Other people will see your designs. They will prefer you to give them your first ideas. You change it and after that, we go back to Dexter's requests. Multiply this by ten and eventually we get to the end."

"What is the end?" I ask, curiosity piqued.

"Your original designs," she says. "Let's talk tomorrow when you've re-done them the first time. Send me the originals just in case and I'll make sure they're backed up in our office too."

My stomach, unfilled since last night's dinner, rumbles so loudly we can hear it above the traffic. Melissa raises her eyebrows. This is my day for mortification.

"Um, do you want to go for lunch?" I say. "My treat." It's the least I can do.

Melissa shakes her head. "No, if I go now I can get the earlier flight to Stansted."

She sticks her hand out, stopping one of the black cabs passing us. "Goodbye, Gaby. Treat the rest of the equipment I've sent up to Scotland with you as if it is your new-born child."

I've five hours till the pickup point. Time for some food and a little retail therapy.