A-CHOO!

One's a wish, two's a kiss, three's a disappointment...

And twelve, or is it twenty by now? My nanna used to tell me what the number of sneezes meant when I was a child. I can't remember what she said for twenty, but surely it can't mean anything good? Death, perhaps. Sneezing on this scale is not fun.

It started precisely three minutes after Jamie Fraser stroke Jack McAllan left me to unpack all by myself. I heaved the first lot of bags and rucksacks into the house and felt my nose tingle and my eyes water before the sneeze exploded out of me and I dropped the box of food I was holding as a result. Food packets, tins and boxes rolled everywhere. "Must be a summer cold," I said to myself as I sneezed again two seconds later. By the fourth time, I knew it wasn't. The itchy eyes gave it away and the guilty culprit herself wandered into the room—Little Ms Mena. It appears I'm badly allergic to cats. I've just accepted a two-month job as a cat sitter, having lied about my years of experience of cat sitting and the wretched little beast turns me into a snivelling, snottery mess just by walking into the same room.

Ms Mena watches me coolly as I attempt to blow my nose. She jumps onto the coffee table and begin to lick a paw, her tongue delicate and precise as it flicks back and forth. I can't help feeling she's doing a ya boo sucks to you human gesture at me. Certainly, her furry little body radiates nothing in the way of apology or sympathy. Having completed a thorough cleaning job that covered ears, paws, tail, stomach and...urgh, bottom, she yowls at me—the weirdest sound I've ever heard. I thought cats miaowed. This one cries like a baby.

Kirsty's instructions said the food bowl was in the kitchen area. My mother sent me up to Lochalsh with a tray of Asda's own brand cat food she told me she'd got at a bargain basement price. I open a tin of it, try not to retch (the smell is overwhelming) and shovel out half of it as quickly as possible. Little Ms Mena sniffs it, lifts her head and yowls once more, which I take to indicate disapproval. I back away anyway. The closer I get to her, the itchier my eyes get and the more I sneeze, and I feel the beginnings of headache tightening in my temples. 

As an experiment, I try going upstairs to see if the effects would lessen the further away I got from her. No such luck. Mena follows me up, the yowling still at full pitch. I begin to worry one of Kirsty's neighbours might hear and think her new cat sitter is a psycho cat killer in disguise. Distracted as I am, I can't help noticing the house's upper interior is as sumptuous as the bottom half. The master bedroom, as I'd guessed, shares that same full-length window and the view is even better up here, thanks to the extra four metres of height. Light shimmers on the gently rippling waves and a boat makes its slow way across the loch. Kirsty's bed looks so soft, comfortable and inviting I'm almost tempted to dive straight on it until I notice the light covering of cream and brown fur on the pillow on the right-hand side. Great. She shared the bed with the cat. I'll need to sleep in the spare room.

Naturally, the master bedroom has an en suite bathroom, complete with a sunken bath, a marble sink and a toilet I wonder if I dare sit on it was so luxurious looking. And still the sneezing goes on, my A-choos punctuated by Mena's yowls. What am I going to do? Fair enough, I'd not looked after cats before but an allergy to them? Why hadn't I noticed it before, surely I'd have realised when I went round to visit friends who had cats, the sneezing when one of them came near me would have given it—

Oh, right enough. None of my friends has cats. I haven't encountered that many of them in my life. I whip out my phone, deciding that when it came to one to ten emergencies, this comes out at the top end and I need to talk to the fifth emergency service—Katya. I hold the phone to my ear and will my friend to pick up ASAP. When the time between dialling and the phone make the connection stretches out too long, the screen tells me that I am not getting a signal. As Katya promised, Lochalshie doesn't seem to have the same number of phone masts as we have down south. Again, what am I going to do? Panic mounts, making my breaths come in short gasps, and I bolt outside holding the phone in front of me watching as the bars move from one to two. Poor, but better than nothing and enough to get me through to my friend.

"So, what's it like?" she answers, her words coming in bits and pieces. Katya always has her phone close to hand so I guess I've caught her at her spin class. It's one of my best friend's most marvellous achievements that she can talk during a spin class. I tried the class with her once and panted so hard you could hear me above the hard-core rave music they played at eardrum-bursting volume. "Is-he-as-dreamy-as-the-real-Jamie-Fraser?"

I hold the phone away so she wouldn't hear me do yet another explosive sneeze, enhanced by my snort at her remark about Jamie stroke Jack. 

"No," I said. "He's the rudest man I've ever met. He didn't even offer to help me carry my stuff in and you saw how much was loaded in the Yaris. And he didn't even say 'hello'. Just told me off for being late."

"How-late-where-you?"

"Two and a half hours," I announce airily, or as airily as you can do when you're trying to hold back what feels like your millionth sneeze. Seriously, I'm in danger of stealing that woman from Guinness Book of Records award for the highest number of sneezes in one day. Katya's reply is indistinct, partly because the class instructor in the background yells at her that she can't be working hard enough if she can manage a phone conversation with her best friend. She says sorry to him, but doesn't hang up.

"I've got this problem," I say, and this time don't bother covering the phone while I let out yet another a-choo. 

"OMG! Are you allergic to cats?"

In response I flick my phone to Face Time mode so she can see me, red-faced and eyed, and a thin line of snot running down my face. It's a good job we are such close friends. Other people might shriek in fright if they saw me now.

And she laughs. (Yet another amazing achievement—being able to laugh while some Lycra-clad sadist walks around a spin class and tightens the resistance on bikes of participants he doesn't think are working hard enough.)

"Only you, Gaby. Only you."

"But what am I going to do?" I hiss. "I feel terrible, hot and sweaty and horrible. I've promised I'm going to do this job for two months and I've got nowhere else to live!"

The last few words are more like a wail. Now, I sound like Mena—a tantrum-like two-year-old stamping her feet and screaming.

On the plus side, Katya stops laughing. "Soon as I'm out of this class, I'll research it," she says. "Maybe you can take Vitamin C or something, and that'll help?" A few years ago, Katya wrote the content for a health store's website and now believes that Vitamin C is the cure for everything. I rack my brains to try to remember if my mum's food packages included any orange juice.  

"Okay," I say. "And phone me back as soon as, promise?"

She does, but it's only when I step back inside the house I remember that there's no signal inside. I'll have to keep popping out every ten minutes to check if she's tried to ring me. Great, great, double great.

Little Ms Mena hasn't let up on the yowling either. When I open the door, she sashays her way towards me, plonks herself in front of me and starts afresh. I gather up some of the food items that spilled from the box earlier and find a tin of tuna—one of the posh ones in olive oil too, and I open it. 

"Try this, you thoroughly spoiled moggie," I say, as I scoop it out into her newly emptied dish. No, not good enough either. She bends her head, takes one cautionary lick and glares at me. That blasted tuna is three times the price of the bog-standard stuff in brine.

Another thought occurs to me which once again sends me hurtling outdoors. I retrieve my Mac from the back of the car and carry it into the house, attaching it as quickly as I can and firing it up. Kirsty's left the Wi-Fi password in her instructions, and I type it in as fast as I can. Nada. No connection. I stare at the screen in disbelief, tempted for a few seconds to bang my head on the table in front of me. No Wi-Fi means I can't work. Did I say that loudly enough? No Wi-Fi MEANS I CAN'T DO ANY WORK. 

Melissa my boss took some persuading when I approached her with my idea. "Melissa," I said, "I've thought this all through. You don't need me in the office. I can be one of those digital nomads, can't I? Have internet connection, will travel! And what about those new clients you've just landed in Glasgow? I can be your on-the-ground girl there."

That sold the idea to Melissa. Last year, she decided she wanted to make her graphic design company UK-wide instead of just county-wide. Her employees were relieved. Truth to tell, we were bored with doing fliers for the Norfolk show and websites for farmers. We wanted exciting jobs—online fashion sites, say, or just anything that didn't involve agriculture and top of show awards. In January, Melissa landed what felt to us like her most exciting client. An American make-up and skincare brand decided it was time to conquer Britain, and they needed a UK-specific website, animated videos, materials for a Facebook page and more to make their presence felt. Trouble was, they'd made Glasgow their base, reasoning it was a lot cheaper to headquarter their staff and warehouse there than anywhere down south. And now here I was, about to move to Scotland albeit temporarily. Their demands had grown steadily since January. If I was close by, I could liaise and ensure our biggest payers to date stayed happy and, more importantly, stayed with Bespoke Design. 

Except... except... And this was another thing. I'd spotted the signs to Glasgow on my way up here and then felt alarm mount as the sign disappeared behind the car, zooming away at a terrific rate. When I'd looked at it on Google Maps, the city hadn't seemed that far. An inch or so, give or take. Now I was here, I realised the truth of Katya's words. Lochalshie was a gazillion miles away from anything. I'd imagined myself hopping on the local bus, chatting and laughing with the locals as it took us to Glasgow in... oh, twenty minutes. I'd now worked out that journey was probably three hours or so. 

Mena hasn't given up the plaintive cries and I resort to searching the cool-bag Mum also insisted I take. In it, she's included a freshly made kale smoothie, which will be going straight down the sink, some eggs and a packet of smoked salmon. "Bit like taking coals to Newcastle," she beamed at me when she packed up the bag, "seeing as Scotland is the home of smoked salmon. But it might be nice as a treat with some scrambled eggs for your first breakfast."

Mena leaps up on the kitchen counter the minute I pull the smoked salmon out of the bag, not even flinching when her proximity triggers off a fresh bout of sneezing. Her tail goes up and she looks at me expectantly.

"You have got to be joking," I say, fixing her with my best stern stare. I'm in the presence of a master though. This one fixes me back with her best 'give me the smoked salmon now' look and we lock eyes. Hers are large, liquid gold surrounding big black pupils. Mine are ten times smaller than usual thanks to swelling, green and red-rimmed. We are not equally matched. 

I rip open the packet and hastily pull it back as Ms Mena tries to eat the first slice before I've got it out. I don't manage to drop it before the slice is gobbled up. And the one after that, and the next and the next. My scrambled egg and smoked salmon breakfast tomorrow will be missing once crucial ingredient.

I wander back outside, debating whether or not it's worth unpacking. My mind runs through all the things I'll need to do. Phone Kristy. Apologise profusely and promise to stay as long as it takes her to find another, better qualified cat sitter. Grovel to Melissa and beg her to allow me to work in the office once more, promising I'll travel up to Glasgow ten times a week (or whatever) so I can be super nice to our new clients. Write an email to Ryan where I say, okay so I told you I was moving out and I may have been a little too descriptive when I told you how I imagined the rest of your sorry life worked out, but is there any chance I can move back into the flat, perhaps you're right and we should...

No. It's too much. I can't, can't, can't go back. On cue, my phone rings and I dart to the front of the garden where the signal is strongest. 

"Katya!" I say, and it all comes out, the terrible allergy, the lack of signal and internet connection and the village being miles and miles from anywhere. "I've made a ginormous mistake," I wail, not caring that by now the happy-go-lucky pint drinkers in the Lochside Welcome beer garden are staring at me, transfixed. I hear shushing noises her end and then a pause. 

"So," her voice sounds too bright and breezy. "I've been doing a little research. Um, so the site Ts & Cs. Once you sign up, you have to go through with it unless you've got something life-threatening. Or you die. You agreed to them, didn't you?"

"No-one ever reads the T&Cs!" I exclaim, and two of my pint-drinking audience nod their heads sagely.

"But the good news is!"

I brace myself. People always do that when they are about to deliver not-so good news.

"You can take anti-histamines. They'll help with the cat allergy. And vitamin C too."

"Where do I get anti-histamines from?" My two interested pint drinkers have leaned forward. Katya's answer must be of interest to them too. 

"A GP can prescribe them for you. Take a couple and you'll be right as rain. And I will come to visit you as soon as. Gotta go, bye!"

One of the pint drinkers—a heavy-set guy whose shaggy hair style matches the dog sitting at his table—gets to his feet. "Aye, lass," he shouts at me. "Anti-histamines will sort out the cat allergy nae problem. When ah first got wee Scottie here, ah used to sneeze something terrible. And look at me now!"

He points a finger at his chest and grins. I'm not one hundred percent sure he is the picture of health he supposes. He's awfully red-faced and that pint of beer went down in record time.

"Where's the GP surgery?" I ask, and he grins.

"Just doon the High Street. Ask for Doctor McLatchie. She'll sort you oot."

I wave thanks at him and open the gate, turning in the direction he pointed. I've only taken four steps when the guffaws behind me bring me to a halt.

"It's half five on a Friday, hen!" the words sing out. "The doctor's surgery is nae open now. But if you wait till Monday, you can see her then!"

As I stomp back into the house, I swear I hear the laughter continue far longer than it should. It wasn't that funny.

Inside, I shut the door, and the sneezing starts up again. How am I going to last until Monday? My mum and Katya have always said I'm too impulsive. Here's the proof. I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere, my head pounding, my nose and eyes itching furiously, no internet connection, a risk I might just get sacked and no-one to talk to. And yes, I thought I was okay about Ryan—the guy I've been with for the last ten years. Ha, my silly self told my conscious. All I need to do is take myself far away from Ryan and our lives together and I'll be fine. My subconscious mocks me now. It knew better all along.

And Jack McAllan? That almost makes me laugh. I imagined... I know what the silly yesterday me thought. As I packed my car up, I had daft dreams where I walked down the street of my new town and bumped into Jack stroke Jamie, and just like Outlander, he fell in love with me at first sight. 

I couldn't be further from the truth, could I?