"Good morning Gaby! Are ye off to Jack's to do your design-y stuff?"

After only a few days of making my way along the main street to Jack's house, all and sundry now know my routine. As they do my name and occupation. This morning's questioner is the guy I saw in the Lochside Welcome's beer garden the first day arrived, the one who told me to go to Dr McLatchie's and get myself anti-histamines to deal with the cat allergy. He walks his dog along by the water twice a day and has decided our shared pet care responsibilities make us the best of buddies.

"Yes," I say, and he falls in step beside me. Scottie, the imaginatively named West Highland white terrier, barks enthusiastically and runs round my legs, trapping me with his lead.

"Er..." Everyone knows who I am, but I've noticed the villagers have a weird habit of never introducing themselves, so I've no idea what the once-allergic pint-drinking dog owner is called.

"Oh, aye. Wait there a sec and I'll de-tangle ye."

He gets down on his hands and knees and crawls around me to free my legs. It would be one hundred percent more efficient if he just released the lead and unwound the dog, and I dread to think what this looks like to anyone who is watching—a shaggy-haired, long-bearded bear of a man whose head is level with my crotch at the moment moving around in front of me. Jamal from the General Store is putting out his baskets full of buckets, spades and sun hats (optimistic), and he stops what's he's doing to stare, hands on hips and eyes squinting in disbelief.

"Um." I draw back and only manage to get myself more tightly tied up. My neighbour appears—the ninety-year-old Tinder user—opening his back gate and stopping abruptly next to us.

He does an abrupt U-turn, heading back the way he came. "Ah can see youse are busy. Must be one o' they new ways folks hae to—

"No!" I yelp. My neighbour's Scottish accent is stronger than most of the people here, but I can make out the gist of what he says. "The dog's lead has got itself tangled up around my legs."

"Och, aye well here's whit tae dae." My neighbour does what was obvious all along, neatly un-clipping Scottie's lead from his collar. The dog continues running his wild circles around me, tail wagging furiously. When his owner tries to unwind the lead from my legs, I tap his hand smartly. I'll manage that bit myself thank you very much.

Lead handed back, and hasty goodbyes muttered, I head towards Jack's house, hood pulled up against the rain. Yes, the rain hasn't let up since I arrived at Lochalshie. Every evening, the BBC weather woman smiles at me from her warm, cosy studio, her arm moving behind her as she points out that yet again the north-west of Scotland will experience wind and rain. She promises that it's unusual for this time of year. May is often the best month for sunshine and warm temperatures in this part of the world. I'm tempted to take to Twitter or Instagram with all the photos that prove her wrong. Hashtag BBClies.

Dr McLatchie adds her good wishes as her Volvo bumps onto the kerb on the pavement next to the surgery as it does every morning and she throws open the door, complaining about cows on the road.

In comparison, Jack's house is a haven of peace and calm. I let myself in, shut the door, lock it, and lean back on it taking deep breaths. The carpet, paintings and wallpaper work their soothing magic. I can't see much of the loch thanks to the grey skies, but the lack of cars around here makes the distant lapping of the water just audible. I've established my working routine—four hours in the morning, home for lunch and to feed Little Ms Mena who has decided twice a day is nowhere near as good as four times, then another four hours in the afternoon. Now I no longer have office colleagues,, my productivity has soared. I rattle through cut-outs, templates and more. Who knew? I always thought I was a hard worker, but it turns out I used to spend a lot of my day chatting with my colleagues and offering to do the coffee and tea runs. When you make coffee just for yourself, and you take it black without sugar, it only takes a minute.

I've yet to meet Jack again. I asked the doctor if I should phone him to double check if it is okay for me to use his house, but she promised it was fine. He's away on business this week, she says, and won't be home until tomorrow.

This morning, there's an email from Melissa. I'm to catch up with her in Glasgow on Monday to meet with Dexter Carlton, Blissful Beauty's head of marketing. He needs to discuss their product-page templates and other ideas he has for the big launch. Can I get there for 9am? Yes, I type back and decide to worry about it later. I have a car. It won't be a problem though it will mean an early start.

As I scroll through Blissful Beauty's picture library for suitable images, I remember the woman upstairs, and my curiosity resurfaces. If you're a man you don't keep such a stunning picture of a woman in your house unless she means something to you, do you? Kirsty said she'd dated him, but would he still have her portrait up if he'd finished with her? I've no idea what Kirsty looks like. On the cat sitter website, her avatar was a picture of Mena. A far too flattering one if you ask me. My professional experience told me she'd used filters to make Mena slimmer and her fur appear glossier than it really is.

I send the picture of the woman to Katya, who is up to date with all the latest happenings in my life. After the phone call from Kirsty the other day during which she asked me to stay on beyond three months, I phoned Katya immediately afterwards. "This place is so awful!" I sobbed. "How am I going to last that long? And I miss you. I hate not being able to see you every day." Katya went into full buck up mode, her voice artificially bright. She'd visit as soon as, though when I tried to pin her down on a date, she wouldn't commit. She'd just landed a job as a ghost-writer where she was to write some celebrity's self-help book for them. "Who?" I asked, diverted enough to wonder at all the possibilities.

"It's hush-hush," she said. "I've had to sign a very scary non-disclosure agreement promising never to reveal I've written a book for someone who passed it off as all their own words."

"But-but," I protested. "Everyone knows the truth of NDAs. They have two sentences buried down the bottom in tiny print that say, 'We expect you'll tell your best friend. Just make sure she keeps her gob shut.'"

What was the definition of best friendship after all? It's where you have someone who knows your every secret. A poncy legal document can't get in the way of that.

"Gaby," Katya's voice was sorrowful. "You're right about the sentences they bury in the legalese. But what about the second one?"

Huh. Harsh but fair, if I'm honest.

"We'll speak every day," she promised. "And think what all the fresh air will do for your complexion. You've no need to worry about future wrinkles because there's no sun up there. Brilliant, eh?" Katya was also working on the Blissful Beauty account writing copy about the golden rules of skin care. She'd now added SPF30 to the Vitamin C promise as the cure for everything.

Ten minutes after sending the woman in the painting pic, my phone vibrates. Katya.

"Do you know who that is?" Her tone is one of awe and wonder.

"No?"

"That's Christina the Dating Guru. Haven't you heard of her?"

Well, no. But then I haven't needed dating advice for a long time. Ryan and I got together while we were still at school and we were together ten years so I'm bound not to be familiar with a dating guru. And what does that even mean?

"Have you used her advice, then?" I ask, "and if so, does it work?"

"Nope. I've just heard of her. An influencer and all that, and you're not going to believe the weird co-inci... Oh, never mind. Her website address is datemate dot com. Look it up."

And with that she hangs up. I tap out the name on my keyboard. Wow. This woman is all over the internet. She's got a blog, podcasts, YouTube tutorials and everything. Curiosity piqued, I read through some of them. They include guides to using dating apps, what to do the first time you go out with someone so that they ring you back (guaranteed), the best profile pics to use and what make-up you should wear for a first date. There's nothing she doesn't cover. I'm half-way through an article about what will make you a sparkling conversationalist capable of capturing his attention and keeping it when someone clears their throat behind me.

"Ahem. Not interrupting anything am I?"

I whirl around on my chair so quickly, I fall off and land in an undignified heap at his feet. I had no time to minimise the screen either, and the site's header—a riot of hearts and stars complete with the tag line, How to Go from Dating Loser to Loved Up, flashes there. I'm about to get up when another thought strikes me—he's got the Dating Guru's portrait upstairs, and he's caught me looking at her website! I've just signalled loud and clear that I sneaked upstairs and had a good nosey. I might stay here, face down on the floor and praying the ground will swallow me until he goes away.

"Do you want a hand up?"

"No, no!" I straighten up slowly, keeping my eyes on that calming moss-green carpet until the last minute. Heavens, I'd forgotten just how... divine Jack is. Last week, his hair was army buzz cut, and now it's grown in a little. Still short enough to show off those eyes and cheekbones but the extra millimetre of length emphasises its bright copper colour. The eyes regard me with amusement. Or perhaps it's irritation. I'd better check with him that it's okay for me to use his office.

"Er... I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow. Doctor McLatchie said I could use your house as the broadband connection is much better here," I say, dismayed when he rolls his eyes and says, "She would". Oh heck, didn't the blasted woman warn him? And what right does she have to offer strangers the use of someone else's home? I should have asked her to find me somewhere else to work.

He heads for the kitchen, asking me if I want another coffee.

"Yes please," I follow him through. "Though I can make them, least I can do..." I trail off. He hasn't actually confirmed I can use his house as my office.

In the kitchen, sunlight makes a brave attempt at cutting through the grey clouds to bounce off the redness of his hair. He leans against the kitchen counter, one foot up and his arms folded—one of those guys whose face gives nothing away. Does he ever crack a smile? I remember that photo Katya and I saw of him online when he'd worn this wide grin, the upturned mouth creating a dimple on one cheek, and how lush the smile made him seem. Now though, those dark eyes remind me of the stand-offs I have with Little Ms Mena when she and I argue over how much smoked salmon she's going to eat. Who will blink first? My wretched imagination peels clothes off him. He lifts his arms above his head and the tee shirt disappears. Before I know it he's in front of me wearing only that white towel, neatly knotted over a perfect six-pack torso. I blink twice to dislodge the image.

The face in front of me cracks, a tiny upturn to the corners of the mouth signalling amusement. The change in expression is welcome but (ye gods) did he just read my mind? Flippin' heck, I hope not...

"It's fine," he says. "She told me she'd given my spare keys to the new-comer. So, apart from researching what to do on a first date what do you do?"

I curse Christina the Dating Guru and Katya. My current toe-curlingly awful predicament is all their fault.

"I'm a graphic designer," emphasis on the words so I sound like the consummate professional. "I persuaded my boss I'd be able to work remotely when I came here, but when I turned up, I realised the signal doesn't work in Kirsty's house."

"No," he says, turning away to fill the cafetière with boiling water. I don't bother with the fancy stuff myself. It's instant all the way. "She used to do a lot of work here too."

Curiouser and curiouser. And thanks for the heads-up Kirsty. Not.

"Why did you come here, Gaby?" All we need now is a too bright light overhead to reinforce the interrogation-style questions, but something about those dark, flashing eyes compels me to answer. And if I do, doesn't that entitle me to a few questions of my own?

"I split up from someone," I say and regret the words as soon as they're out of my mouth. That's going to make what I was doing earlier seem even sadder. "Plus, I've always wanted to be a cat sitter! Yes. The perfect job, isn't it, travelling up and down the country looking after delightful pussies? What could be better?"

Gaby! Be quiet. Katya's voice this time. You are making a total fool of yourself.

Jack's expression signals agreement with Katya loud and clear. He pushes down the cafetiere's plunger and pours coffee into two mugs, one of which he hands to me.

"How do you take it?" he asks, the eyebrow waggling. "Sugar? Cream?"

Crrreammm. Oh heck, again. Are we in double entendre territory?

"Black, no sugar," I bleat, then fret that my coffee choices signal I'm no fun loud and clear. Personal questions about Jack feel like a better idea.

"And you? What do you do?"

"I run mini-bus tours," he says. "American and Asian tourists in the main. That's why I'm not here often."

"Yoo-hoo! Jack? Gaby? You in?"

Jack gives another eye roll and shouts back, "In the kitchen," and Dr McLatchie sticks her head around the door, waving a hello to me.

"Ah good! I'll have a coffee too. And have ye any shortbread on the go?"

Good lord, she's familiar, isn't she? Bursting into someone's home without knocking and ordering the occupant to make her a coffee and get her some biscuits to go along with it.

Jack pulls a tin out of a cupboard, takes the lid off and holds it out to me first. I help myself to two bits, seeing as breakfast these days is one slice of toast so I can afford to feed Ms Mena her smoked salmon and poached organic, free-range chicken breast.

"I've got to do a Skype consultation in ten minutes time," the doctor says. "Can ye both stay out of the way while I do it? People prefer not to have strangers listening in when I do my consultations, though Jonah Ross's got nothing to hide, apart from the occasional trouble with his piles, which is mair the pity because—"

"Okay, okay Mum. I'll stop you right there before you break the Hippocratic oath."

That makes my head swivel between the two of them. Dr McLatchie said nothing about Jack being her son. They don't share the same surname, and the resemblance isn't clear though as I study them both, I can see Dr McLatchie's got her son's eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones. Jack notices me doing the checking them both out thing, and he smirks. Neither seems inclined to offer me any further explanation, such as the reason behind their different names or why the doctor couldn't have said right at the beginning she was Jack's mum. It explains the familiarity.

Jack finishes his coffee in record time—does he have an asbestos mouth, that stuff was boiling hot—and tells us he needs to go. As he leaves, keys jangling in his left hand, he brushes close past me, and unwittingly I take a deep breath in—washing powder, pine needles and warm skin. It's intoxicating, and the temptation to fall on him and sniff harder than a police drugs dog seeking out illegal stuff is overwhelming. When he shuts the door behind him, I'm left hanging in mid-air, face and nose forward inhaling an empty space.

In the kitchen, Dr McLatchie helps herself to five pieces of shortbread, telling me she can only tackle Jonah Ross when she's overloaded with sugar and heads back to the living room.

"Knock on the door hard when ten minutes are up, will ye Gaby? Then I can pretend there's an emergency car crash. Good lass."

And I'm alone once more. I bite the shortbread and realise it must be home-made. It's crisp, buttery and melt-on-the-tongue delicious. No wonder the doctor eats so much of it. I'm left with plenty of food for thought. (Katya would hate me using that analogy so close to musings about actual food.) To add to my stock of information about Jamie stroke Jack, I can confirm his mum's a doctor, he drinks his coffee the way I do, he runs coach tours and...

And that's the meagre amount of it.

*****

Later that afternoon once I've finished my work for the day, I can't resist the temptation to look at the Dating Guru's website again. Maybe there will be clues there why Jack has her picture in his house, as that seems weird. Does he know her? Before I look this time, I check the window to ensure no-one walking past can see my screen and that there's no sign of Jack. A new post has gone up since this morning, an article titled How to Find Love After a Long-Term Relationship Ends, which seems apt.

I was with Ryan for ten years. We got together when we were in high school just before my sixteenth birthday. He's the reason I didn't go further afield to university. Katya and I had grand ideas about going to London. St Martin's College for me and the London School of Economics for her, but Ryan begged me not to. He went straight from school into his parents' garage and car sales company, and when I mentioned London, he freaked out. He knew all about students, he said. They spent their weekends boozing and... At that, he shook his head, and I was left to come up with the rest of the sentence. Did he mean having fun? When I ended up with an acceptance for the Norwich University of the Arts, I begged Katya to go to the University of East Anglia in the same city so at least there would be the two of us trying to recreate the full student experience even though we were only sixteen miles from home.

Katya never liked Ryan that much though she didn't go on about it. Heroic really, when you consider how frank my friend is about everything else in my life. From time to time if she'd had one Red Bull and vodka too many, she would say something. "Ryan's not the only man out there." Or, "Gaby, have you ever wondered if Ryan appreciates how wonderful you are?" When I told her we were engaged, she swallowed hard, took a deep breath and plastered a huge smile on her face. "That's brilliant, Gaby." Then, two seconds later. "Are you sure?"

I wasn't sure at all. No-one else my age was getting engaged. Other Millennials were too busy having portfolio careers (and again, I'd gone straight from graduation to Bespoke Design. I couldn't do that social media profile thing where I added in endless slashes to show that I wasn't just a designer), leading activist campaigns, doing micro-brewing or creating YouTube channels where they promoted plant-based lifestyles and slagged off anyone who wasn't a vegan. Those Millennials were far too busy to get engaged and then married.

But Ryan had done the whole romantic thing. I suspected he'd relied on Google to tell him how to propose and then copied the advice. It wasn't personalised to me. We headed out for a meal to a fine dining restaurant in Norwich where they served small portions on slates and charged you a fortune. After we'd eaten our mains, a waiter appeared with a trio of chocolate desserts. I tucked in with gusto. That main course had been nowhere near filling enough and Ryan was forced to tell me to slow down. When I got to the third bit of dessert, I bit down on the honeycomb mousse and cracked my front tooth.

"Yeowch!"

A tiny object flew across the room, and Ryan leapt from his seat and flew after it. The other diners watched us, astonished. Having retrieved the object, Ryan dashed back and fell onto his hands and knees in front of me. He pushed himself up onto one knee. I got it at that point and my heart sank to the floor. Oh heck no...

"Gabrielle Amelia Richardson, will you make me the happiest man in the world?"

Our audience stared at us. I heard the collective intake of breath. There was only one answer I could give.

"Er... yes?"

Cheers erupted around us. Waiters materialised, bearing champagne, two glasses and mobile phones asking us if they could take our photos and put it on the restaurant's Twitter and Instagram accounts. Hashtags #CafeFrancaise #love! #idealplacetogetengaged.

A week later, we held the engagement party. And at that point, everything imploded.