Today's 'to-do' list included 1) Stop Fancying Unavailable Men and 2) Throw Yourself Into Your New Job.

If only Jack hadn't sent me a text the morning after our night out. "Enjoyed sharing a pizza with you. Gotta love a greedy girl. Have a nice weekend." He'd added emojis after the greedy girl bit in case I took offence and I decided not to. I wished he hadn't put the 'love' in there. The logical bit of me tells me that taken in context the word means nothing. The illogical bit, and often I wonder if I'm far more governed by weirdness than most, screams he loves me, loves me!

Kirsty phoned on Sunday and asked if I'd spoken with Jack. She sounded tearful, and the sound of her choking back tears as she reiterated how dreadful the split with Jack had been guilt-tripped me into telling her about Big Donnie's offer for the painting.

"And he said no!" The cheerfulness level cranked up one hundred percent on one side of the conversation and plummeted by the same on the other. "Goodness me! He was always telling me that five grand would help him enormously with the marketing of the tours."

I concentrate on throwing myself into the new job. On Saturday, Dexter sent me an email asking if he could meet me in Ardlui on Monday morning. He was there doing a four-day mindfulness and yoga retreat, so if I could drive there we could discuss the design work I'm doing for Blissful Beauty in detail. Not much of a retreat, I thought, if you're sneaking out to send work emails. But Ardlui is only a fifty minute drive from Lochalshie, so much easier to get to than Glasgow. And meet-ups with our biggest client were Melissa's number one reason for letting me work away from the office.

Relaxed Dexter, I decide when I meet him later, has a hypnotic trance-like state to him I find slightly terrifying. Ardlui sits at the top of Loch Lomond and there is not much to it, apart from a few houses and a lot of wooden lodges that nestle behind lush green trees. I dump my car in the park outside the reception. The woman at the desk directs me to chalet number four, which happens to be the biggest one in the place—three floors, a porch big enough to hold a table for ten and chairs, and a garage. It's here that Zen-like Dexter greets me.

"Gaby!" he says, the exuberance dialled down three or four twists. He plants his hands in prayer position and bows. I do the same back and then hate myself. I am an idiot.

"Come in, come in!" he waves me through the door. "We have so much to discuss."

"How was your retreat?" I ask. He looks the part—dressed in baggy linen trousers and a loose white tee shirt, no shoes and his hair tied back in a ponytail at the crown of his head. Thankfully, his bare feet hold no horrors such as dirty toenails, freakishly long toes or hobbit hairiness. When I plonk myself on the armchair in the chalet's living room, he drops to the floor and crosses his legs into the lotus position. Show-off.

"Beyond awesome, Gaby. And what I needed. Modern life is stressful. You need to come on these weekends so you can appreciate life at a much slower pace, do you know what I mean?"

I nod, and he pulls his laptop towards him, fires it up and glares at it, his expression performing an 180-degree turn from placid to furious in a second. The next few words are not Zen. Quite the opposite in fact and not repeatable. The gist of it is he is sick and tired of the backwardness of Scotland and the inability to get decent Wi-Fi anywhere outside the central belt. I pull out the print-outs of my designs I had the foresight to bring with me and talk through the changes I've made in what I hope are soothing tones.

The changes, just as has been the case with all the changes I've made so far, involve one tiny tweak here, one miniscule tweak there, and make the pages closer than ever to the original designs I presented Dexter with. It's a mark of his distraction that he only glances at them and when he does, says "Fine, fine." I heave a sigh of relief. If I'd had to change them yet again, I might have added to the blue turn to the air myself and that wouldn't have been professional.

Dexter thumps his keyboard in a move a yoga teacher would disapprove of, and it bleeps at him in response.

"At last. My emails have come through. I don't think they understand here how crucial it is for me to be contactable at all times."

I watch his face change as he reads the screen in front of him. It turns white. People always use that to describe someone receiving bad news, but I can honestly say I've never seen it in real life before. The colour drains from his face, making his eyes stand out as tiny muscle twitches at his jaw. I scan the room, searching for a bottle of brandy convinced I'm going to have to pour it down his throat.

"This can't be happening, this can't be happening..." Dexter reaches for his phone, then flings it across the room when he realises he can't get a signal. He has started to rock back and forth, a lotus position variant that looks the opposite of relaxed. "No, no, noooooo."

I stand up and get down on the floor myself, scooting across the floor to join him. Working with clients has given me some background in dealing with melt-downs, though none as full-scale as this. I go with a back-patting and 'there, there' said in soothe the tantruming child tones. Nevertheless, when he turns to me I'm shocked to see his eyes well up. Oh heck. Has he received news of someone's death? I'm not sure I'm qualified for this.

"The launch, Gaby," he says, the words croaky. "The venue's gone bust. We can't do it there. And my assistant has been ringing everywhere in London. There's nowhere else, and it has to be that date. Caitlin's schedule doesn't allow for anything else. It's the beginning of July. We'll find nowhere in London at such short notice."

"When is the launch meant to be?" I ask.

"August the fifteenth."

The date rings a bell, then it hits me. A glimmer of an idea starts and gathers pace, growing bigger and more outlandish as I carry on thinking.

"Dexter," I say, "why don't you make the launch of Blissful Beauty so different from any other make-up launch there has ever been journalists and influencers talk about it for years to come?"

He went with it. I leave the chalet dazed, astonished at what I've just pulled off. Jolene wanted something different and more exciting for this year's Lochalshie Highland Games. She's got it. The 2018 Lochalshie High Games will feature not only carnival rides, £1,000 for the best tosser of the caber and Psychic Josie to add to the thrills, but the unveiling of a brand new beauty brand and the first ever visit to Scotland by an internationally renowned reality TV star who has more followers on her social media accounts than the population of the country. They will set up a marquee in the village, in-house beauticians and make-up artists will offer free make-overs and samples, and there will be goodie bags a-plenty meaning we are bound to attract people who'd never usually go near a Highland Game.

I rabbited on and on about how difference was the key here. Journalists and influencers were bored with your bog-standard launch, I said, marvelling at how confident and knowledgeable I sounded. They didn't want to go to yet another glitzy hotel in London where women handed out goodie bags and hashtags, and someone stood up and gave a talk about this amazing skin cream or that revolutionary mascara. No, no we Millennials needed our hyper experiences. An event wasn't special unless it was standout bonkers. And what could be madder than a venue and an event three million miles away from your usual location for such things? That it would be a challenge to get to was part of the deal. Blissful Beauty would provide tickets, flights and overnight stays for the top beauty writers, but everyone else would flock there anyway, desperate not to miss out on this one-off occasion. And everyone wanted to meet Caitlin, right? When I first mooted the idea, Dexter had kept up his 'can't be happenings' and no, nos. But after a while, he'd quietened and his face did that rapid change thing again. I made suggestions, and he kept adding to them, telling me how he'd run the social media campaign for it. Caitlin, he promised me, loved difference. She'd be overjoyed.

I tried, and failed, to imagine one of the world's most glamorous women in the middle of Lochalshie.

This would mean a lot of work for the games committee, but I knew Jolene was up to the task. I pulled my phone out to text her, deciding I'd keep the exact nature of the new attraction for this year's Highland games quiet until I'd spoken to her in person.

"Gaby!" Dexter comes out of his chalet, the smart business suit back in place and shoes on his feet. "Take me to Lochalshie. I must see the place."

He insists I drive, claiming the narrow roads and death-wish of the local drivers and motorcyclists terrify him and that he'll get a taxi back afterwards. In the car, he continues to run ideas by me. In one, Caitlin roars up the village in a Blissful Beauty branded speed boat and in another, she does make-overs of all the winning competitors in the games, women and men. The 21st century skincare and make-up company, Dexter tells me solemnly, is open to all and you ignore the trans community and its desire to spend money on make-up at your peril. I nod along and wonder just what I've done. Still, when I ask how many people he thinks the launch will attract, the reply should mollify any objections the committee might raise. Caitlin usually goes everywhere with an entourage of thirty-odd. The list of essential journalists and influencers totals more than seventy, the hangers on who come along to any event where PR agencies seek bulk numbers to make a launch look more important add up to one hundred, and Caitlin's loyalist fans who will travel anywhere to see her number one hundred. Factor in another three or four hundred people in the surrounding who won't be able to resist such glamour and we're looking at an extra seven hundred or so people. Blimey. The village will need to do some serious preparation.

"I'll need to draw up confidential clauses," Dexter says, and my heart sinks. The whole point was making the games seem much more exciting so people put it in their diaries. If we're not allowed to tell, how can we foster anticipation? Dexter catches my eye in the overhead mirror. "Don't worry," he says. "The awesomeness of the event will mean people will come at short notice. Believe me, Gaby. I've seen the Caitlin effect many times. It's magical."

As we get nearer to Lochalshie, I find myself oddly nervous. I'm eager for Dexter to see the place at its best, and I squirm in my seat willing the sun to break out from the cloud cover and scatter glitter dust on the surface of the loch and the houses that surround it. I have to force myself to concentrate on the road as I keep sending beseeching glances upwards, begging it to come out. We pass the village sign and the miracle I wanted happens—the sun emerges. Dexter turns his face up to stare out of the window, abandoning the series of email messages he's been battering out on his phone. This isn't the usual pale sun I'm by now used to in this part of the world. It's a proper golden globe and the blue skies marked only by one or two clouds. The water sparkles and gleams in the sunlight and the mismatch paint on the houses along the front adds to the colour. You can even see the top of the hills and mountains that surround the loch. I park in the village square and offer to give Dexter a tour of the place, show him where the games take place so he can visualise his marquee. He gets out of the car and I hear a curse as bad as the language he used earlier. I dash around to his side and see he's just stepped into a pile of horse manure. Oops. Lochalshie being a small place, taking your pony for a trot up and down the high street on a Monday morning is do-able.

"Sorry about that," I yelp, and hurry him to the side of the road and the grass. "Wipe it back and forth a few times. It'll be fine!"

Equilibrium recovered, we set off in the direction of Jack's house. It's right in front of the field they use for the games every year. I've never looked at it that closely before but as we draw nearer, I realise it's smaller than I remembered. It's hard to imagine how another marquee will fit it in here along with the beer tent and the essential fiercely contested home bakes sale marquee. Dexter marches up and down it a few times, stopping from time to time to put his hands over his eyes, stare into the distance and wipe his feet on the grass vigorously.

"Is it okay?" I ask. "Do you think you'll be able to do it here?"

His eyes shine when he turns to look at me. "Oh yes! The whole point will be exclusivity. And we'll put pop-up stalls all over the place, along with a mobile beauty van. That hotel back there—do you think they could host a reception?"

"Yes," I say, answering on their behalf. Let's hope the owner has the sense to charge the company five times his usual rate.

"Take me to the place," he says, and we set off back in the direction we came. Just as Jack's house comes into view, the minibus pulls up and he gets out. The bus is empty and I expect he's about to head off and pick up the latest group from either Edinburgh or Glasgow airport. The front door opens, and he jumps down, cat-like on his feet.

"Hello Gaby," he says, the eyes doing one of those up and down confrontational things with Dexter.

Ooh.

"This is Dexter. Dexter, Jack. He runs minibus tours of Scotland for visitors. Dexter's the marketing manager for one of the clients I work for."

A half-hearted handshake follows. It crosses my mind that if these two really resemble Jamie Fraser and Jack Randall, it is only fitting that any meeting lacks enthusiasm. I think about commenting on it, then decide if Jack already hates those comparisons, he won't welcome this one.

"Dexter's here to scope the place for—ouch!"

Ah yes. The stamp on my foot there was no doubt as a reminder of the confidentiality clause.

All of a sudden, Jack grabs Dexter by the lapels of his expensive suit jacket so that the two of them are eyeball to eyeball.

"Did you hurt Gaby?" he growls, and the unworthy part of me cheers. Yes! I shouldn't react this way, but it's thrilling when two men appear to fight over you.

Dexter plants his hands on Jack's and throws them off, brushing off his lapels as thoroughly as possible. I jump in with a "no, no I'm fine" before this turns nasty. Plus, I can't have Dexter rejecting Lochalshie as his venue of choice for the launch of Blissful Beauty in the UK, if he only remembers it as the place where he was beaten up. "We're going to the Lochside Welcome, Jack!" I say, my voice artificially bright. "To see if they'll take a booking. Would you like to come?"

"No." He closes his eyes for a second or so. "Sorry about that. I'm a bit sensitive to men assaulting women. Something that happened years ago."

My mind boggles, trying to fill in all the blanks. As explanations go, it's typical male—lacking detail. Nosey and crass as I often am, I do know now is not the time to ask all the questions what Jack has just said has  stirred up. I'm trying not to stare too hard at him, conscious that it was big of him to admit what he did in front of Dexter and I. Dexter reaches out a hand. "Hey, man. No harm done. As Gaby says, I'm looking to do something here in the summer. Something big. You do tours, right?"

Jack nods, thought I note he does it warily.

"Great!" Dexter does a back slap which I suspect took their newfound friendship too far down the familiarity pathway. "I'll be in touch! Hey, has anyone ever told you you look like that guy," he turns to me snapping his fingers. "You know, Gaby. I bet you watch it. The one who plays... I can't remember his name."

As one, Jack and I exchange an eye meet. I snap my fingers. "You're so right, Dexter! He's the spit of Jon Snow, isn't he?"

I watch Dexter's face wrinkle in confusion before finally deciding I must be right. "Jon Snow! Kit Harington! Totally. Love that show. Season seven was epic."

As we wander off, Lochside Welcome bound, I sense a man smiling as he watches us leave, and when I lift a hand behind my back to give him a thumbs-up, I know he does it back.