Jack only raises an eyebrow when he picks me up at the front of Glasgow Central Station loaded down with bags. Fortune had smiled on me and it was the start of summer sales. I picked up some serious bargains. The shops were selling off their winter stuff, and as Lochalshie hasn't proved warm enough for tee shirts and short skirts, I loaded up on sweaters, scarves and boots.

"Where's Stewart?" I ask, fingers crossed behind my back.

"He decided to stay in Glasgow. He met someone on the course who's just as... keen on coding and the guy offered him a bed for the night so they could continue their chat."

I throw up silent prayers to the Gods of Entertainment who have stepped in to save me from death by boredom. The mini-bus's inhabitants, those he picked up from the airport earlier in the day, stare at me, and I wave. It's not ideal—having Jack to myself would have been the perfect situation—but chatting to a group of Americans will be fun.

"Hey everyone!" I say as I get in.

"Gaby! Darcy here! I thought I recognised you. How awesome to see you again."

The woman at the front of the bus leans forward so she can grasp my hand. I bumped into her when I stopped at Glencoe on my way up to Lochalshie all those weeks ago. Hadn't she been doing a Scottish tour at the time? Surely she saw everything she wanted to then?

Something must show in my face as she grins at me. "I love Scotland," she says. "And now I'm retired me and John Junior here can spend our time just as we like. This is our third tour this year." She lowers her voice. "And what do you think of our tour guide? Ain't he the spit of Jamie Fraser? When he picked us up, I couldn't believe it. I said to John Junior, will you lookie here! We've got our own private Outlander experience. You must have been over the moon when you met him, what with you being such a super fan too."

Unfortunately, Darcy's idea of lowering her voice means that only everyone in the mini-bus and surrounding 100 metres can hear her, instead of just people within the entire city of Glasgow. Perhaps this is what comes of living in a huge country where you have far more space around you.

The smile I wear is decidedly fixed as I turn from her and take my place beside Jack, who I swear is smirking.

We drop the mini-bus tourers at a hotel half an hour from Lochalshie. It is fairytale-like, and I hear all the guests coo-ing behind me as we drive up. It sits on the edge of a loch and had been built centuries ago, according to Jack who delivers a thrillingly knowledgable running commentary as we head back, the ancient seat of the McGilmours of Lochalshie. When they fell out of favour for picking the wrong side in the Jacobite uprising, the castle fell into disrepair, but was bought many years later by a wealthy banker who eventually sold it to a property trust that turned it into a luxury hotel.

The sight of the turreted towers, the sweeping driveway and the stairs to the main entrance hushes even Darcy who'd kept us all up to date on her tours of Scotland and thorough knowledge of everything Outlander. By the time we drop her off, I am back to bargaining with the Gods of Entertainment. Come back Stewart. All is forgiven.

She winks at me as she left the mini-bus. "Now, you kids have fun this evening! Someone told me what true Scotsmen wear under their kilts, and I'll be wanting to know if it's true when I see you tomorrow."

John Junior, a large, silent bear of a man rolls his eyes at us as he lumbers behind her out of the bus. It must be my day for blushing, I decide. What with the laptop accident and encounters with women who don't know the word shame, my skin has taken on every shade of pink, from a delicate flush to the full-blown scarlet face. Thankfully, the sun is setting, lending the cover of subdued lighting to the mini-bus's interior. I get back into my seat and pull on my seatbelt. My heart races as the door opens beside me and Jack gets back in. He grips the steering wheel in both hands and tips his head forward so it rests there. The seconds tick by and I am just about to prod him when he pushes himself back again. To my astonishment, the dimples have returned to Jack's face. I suspected he is trying desperately not to burst into hysterical laughter.

"What a day," he says, and I nod fervently. If only he knew the extent of mine.

He puts the bus into reverse, performed yet another textbook manoeuvre and drives away, adding a jaunty honk of the horn aimed at the American visitors who still stand outside admiring the loch.

As my heart continues its yammering, I decide silence is the best policy. Katya, a fan of police dramas, once told me the best way to get people to talk was to say nothing and wait for them to become uncomfortable enough to want to fill the silence. Excellent mode of attack is silence. You just sit there and wait and...

"I'm not that big a fan of Outlander," I burst out. It turns out only being able to hear an engine was more than I could bear. "And you don't look that much like Jamie Fras—I mean, the actor Sam Heughan."

"Don't I?" he says. "I am his cousin."

"Gosh, are you? That explains it then. You're the spitting image of the—"

I stop, aware that I've contradicted myself in three sentences. "Well, your skin's a bit different and your knees don't look the same, and your hair isn't the exact shade—"

Katya's face swims in front of me, appearing on the windscreen, her head in her hands. "Shut up, Gaby! Stop now before he decides you are a total fool." And works out that I've paid a lot of attention to what he looks like.

"I'm not," Jack says. "But ever since that programme came out, I keep getting mistaken for him. Or his far better looking younger brother anyway."

And at that, he winks at me. Earlier that day, I've seen ghosts of winks but nothing I could claim as definite. This is, a bold sweep of an eyelid and lashes that makes his nose and mouth move at the same time. It is so heady I gulp and then have to hide it with a bout of fake coughing.

"You could capitalise on it," I volunteer, determined to seem semi-intelligent in front of him for once. "Um, run Outlander tours dressed as Jamie Fraser and take people to the places in the books and on the TV."

"There are a few of them already," he says, his tone regretful. "Don't want to over-crowd the market. And if people like Darcy turn up to a tour like mine and discover the guide looks a tiny bit like Jamie Fraser and she does her word-of-mouth thing that might make me popular, anyway."

He flicks his gaze to the mirror, and I catch his eye. He is back to being nice again. Heck.

"I'm sure Darcy's mouth can do all sorts of things," I add, and cringe as soon as I've finished the sentence. What is it about me that I can't help saying stupid things in front of this man? I've been tempted to share my laptop story, but silence on that subject seems wise else he think I'm a total klutz. "Er, you're right. Word of mouth. Best way. Darcy. Lots of friends." Short sentences, I decide, are the way forward. They allow less room for mistakes and stupidity.

The sign for Lochalshie appears all too quickly. I have three minutes left to say something so mind-bogglingly brilliant, it blasts away all previous impressions Jack might have had of me.

"Kirsty's house is so nice, isn't it?"

"Genius, Gaby." Katya is back and unimpressed.

The mini-bus has come to a halt, and Jack stares at the place. "If you say so. I prefer places that don't look as if they've been decorated by interior designers. Goodnight, Gaby."

He drives off so quickly he didn't hear my thanks for the lift.

Back in the house, I decide Katya needs an update which means a phone call outside in the right-hand corner of the front garden I've figured out is the only place I can get a signal.

"You were with me today," I tell Katya, and go on to explain the whole windscreen appearance thing when she prevented me making too much of an idiot of myself. "I let you down, Gaby," she says solemnly. "If I was supposed to stop you making an idiot of yourself I failed spectacularly."

Oof. "So!" I say brightly. "You coming up to visit me? Commit."

There's an awkward silence the other end.

"You know I love you, right?"

"Katya!"

"It's just this ruddy book I'm writing, the self-help one. The publishers have moved the release date forward. They're aiming for the Christmas market. And I'm doing work for Blissful Beauty too, remember?"

True. At Bespoke Design, it's all hands on deck and Katya writes for us from time to time so we can offer clients everything they need for a website.

"I sent Dexter all the stuff I'd written so far the other week. He phoned me up, told me it was beyond awesome and then sent it back with tracked changes all over it. He'd rewritten every second word."

She asks me if I'd done anything about the post Ryan had put on Facebook where he declared his undying love and begged for my forgiveness. To my surprise, I realise I haven't thought that much about it or done anything. How strange that Ryan, the guy I was with for ten years, should feature so seldom in my thoughts now. I guess that answers the do I want him back question.

"I almost feel sorry for him," Katya muses, and I ask her if she's sure. Katya was never Ryan's number one fan and after the engagement party, she didn't miss a chance to tell me how right I was, and that my life was about to become a million times better. "I saw him the other day," she adds, "and he asked after you. I thought he'd lost weight—though not enough to look like he'd got some nasty illness. Shame. But when I told him how far away Lochalshie is, he slumped."

Guilt threatens, but I think of Kayleigh and wonder what the end of Ryan's sentence would have been if Josh hadn't interrupted. If I'm honest too, Kayleigh did me a favour. I'm the woman who said 'yes' to a proposal because my intended asked in front of an audience and I didn't want to let them down. That's not a solid reason for deciding to stay with someone the rest of your life, is it? It's up there with getting married because your surname is Pratt and you're sick and tired of hearing people in customer services snigger when they ask you to repeat your name, so tying yourself to someone called Smith or Brown makes sense.

"You will visit me as soon as you can?" I ask, hating how needy I sound. I settle for an 'I'll do my best!' and hang up.

The rest of the week flies by. As Melissa predicted, Dexter and I exchange a lot of emails. His ones start the same way every time. "Gaby, you are A WONDER. The page you have designed where people can upload pictures of themselves and try out the different make-up shades is beyond awesome. Seriously, I looked at it and knew Caitlin will jump up and down in excitement when she sees it. If you could just change the colour, shift the text box to the right, use this font instead, swap the stars for glitter dust... Etcetera, etcetera."

By day three, I'm beginning to wish he'd start his emails saying, no this isn't good enough. Do something else. Or sack me as the head designer. He's terrible to work for. Katya sends me the odd message and her experience is exactly the same. Melissa tells me to be patient. At the end of the day, he'll go back to the original designs and words. Our job for the moment is to make him feel he earns his fat marketing manager salary.

I've seen little of Jack, apart from the bus passing Kirsty's house early in the morning and late at night. He'd said the average tour is five days/four nights and the bus that passes me on the high street on Friday evening is empty of tourists. He gives me a cheery wave. I can't see clearly enough, but I think he smiled too. My heart dances. Small victories, eh? In the shop, Jamal un-props himself from the counter when I come in and ambles to the fridge. "Chicken or smoked salmon? We've got some venison in too, if you're interested. Very lean meat is venison, so better for the cat's heart."

"Is it cheaper than the chicken?" I ask, taking the packet from him. The label promises me that venison is the best health and ethical choice for the modern-minded shopper. It features a picture of a stag with enormous antlers glaring at presumably whoever is about to shoot him.

"No," Jamal shakes his head. "A wee bit more expensive, but you cannae put a price on Mena's well-being can you?"

I leave the shop wondering why I fell for that line. Now that Ms Mena doesn't make me sneeze, I admit a growing fondness for her. This morning I woke up and found her curled at the bottom of the bed in between my legs. And when I open the door at night, she runs towards me tail up. Mostly to do with me bearing packets of smoked salmon, I suspect, but it is sweet. I've got in the habit of posting pictures of her on Instagram and they get a lot of likes. Still, does my newfound liking of her justify spending £8.50 on a packet of venison?

My neighbour is coming out of his house as I open the gate to Kirsty's and he raises a hand.

"How're ye? How're ye?" he says, the usual form of greeting. I don't know if it's because he's so ancient or if his accent is much stronger than everyone else's in the village but I struggle to understand him. I go by body language most of the time, and 'how're ye' is a general inquiry after my health, I think. Now, I say it back to him, hoping that whatever he answers, he's not saying he has only six months left to live seeing as I only reply 'Good, good!' every time.

He moves to his side of the hedge that divides his and Kirsty's property.

"Tonicht," he adds, and I smile along nodding my head like a marionette wishing we could use sign language to make this easier.

"Perty tonicht. An' McCollin's telt me tae ask't ye. Big perty."

I nod some more. I have no idea what he means. He smiles and waves his phone.

"Aye, got wan' of they speshull ladies cummin' tae!" and at that he winks at me, his wrinkled pixie-like face creasing up with mischief. Again, I'm none the wiser but take it to mean he is going out, and he's over the moon about it.

I gesture towards the front door where I can hear Mena howling furiously. "Well, I'd better get in and feed the cat. See you later."

My neighbour smiles. "Aye, aye! Shud be a great perty."

At that, he's gone hobbling up the street much faster than I would have expected a man of his age to move. As I search for the keys in my handbag, I note he's stopped to talk to Mhari who asks him a question and then looks in my direction. She shouts something at the same time as Mena lets out another angry yowl. I'm taking far too long to get in the house and sort out her dinner. I wave a vague reply and she nods, heading off in the same direction as my neighbour. I let myself in the house and apologise to Mena for keeping her waiting. But if she can just hang on a minute or so, I'll make it worth her while. And then the two of us can curl up on the sofa and binge-watch episodes of Outlander series one on the TV. Again.

Lochalshie seems unnaturally quiet the following morning. Usually, I spot at least two or three dog walkers taking their pets on a stroll along the water's edge and the odd car or van making its way along the high street. Every house facing me has its curtains shut too. Odd. Mena adored the venison. I'm now on a cat owners' forum and several of them suggested I feed Mena raw meat from time to time as cats love it and it does wonders for their teeth and bones, so £8.50 a packet or not I'm off to buy yet more of the stuff.

To my astonishment, the general store is closed when I get there. On a Saturday, it's usually open at six am to take delivery of rolls and loaves from the local bakery. The closure added to the street's desertion makes me uneasy. Where is everyone and why does my mind leap to horrible theories, such as worrying that the zombie apocalypse is finally upon us and I should have taken up jogging when I moved here to enable me to flee from them when they appear on the streets?

I'm on the point of leaving when Jamal's van pulls up. The door opens, and he stumbles out, his face pasty and his eyes bloodshot. He takes a bottle of water from the seat next to him and drinks the whole thing in one go, leaning back against the van to do so.

"Are you okay?" I ask. And, er, don't zombies have bloodshot eyes? I take a few precautionary steps back from him and grip my bag firmly so I can bolt if necessary.

"Hung over," he mumbles. "That last whisky was a mistake."

"Dear oh dear," I say. "Um..."

Jamal's a Muslim. I'm not one hundred percent up on Islam and its do's and don'ts but I'm pretty sure they're not supposed to drink.

He shakes his head sorrowfully. "Allah is not pleased with me today. And he makes his displeasure known."

Water drunk and van locked up, he opens the shop and invites me to enter. I pick up another packet of venison, wincing when I notice it's a pound more expensive than the last one, and hand it over.

"Special occasion, was it?"

"The annual party," he says, eyes squinting against the overhead lights. "It started out a few years ago. Just a few people and now it's the village's biggest event." At that, he opens one eye.

"I didnae see you there. Mind, there was an awfy lot of people there so I might have missed you."

"A party," I say stiffly. "I didn't know."

Jamal's face changes from tiredness to dismay. "Oh? Eh. I suppose it's not really the biggest event. That would be the Highland Games in August. No, not that much of party. You didn't miss anything."

The bell above the front door jangles and Mhari walks in and heads straight for the fridge, helping herself to a bottle of Lucozade, not bothering to wait until she's paid for it before gulping the lot down.

"That last Aperol spritzer was a mistake!"

She finally spots me. "Gaby! Didnae see you last night at Jack's party. You missed yourself. More folk than ever before, don't you reckon Jamal? And when Jack did that thing with his kilt and that Purple Disco Machine song, I swore I died and went to heaven."

"NFI," I mutter, and leave them to work it out for themselves as I walk out without bothering to pay for the venison. I'm half-way down the street when I realise and have to shame-facedly walk back into the shop, interrupting Jamal and Mhari's conversation which no doubt was about me.

As I let myself back into the house, I feel tears starting and I brush them away angry with myself for caring that much. But if ever there was a reminder of how much of an outsider I am, it is this. The village's biggest event and I don't even get an invitation. Thank you, Lochalshie. And Jack. Message received loud and clear.  

AUTHOR'S NOTE - everyone loves Sam Heughan, right?!!! Fun fact - the actor grew up in a wee place called New Galloway, which is near to where I was born.