Duplicity.

Lisa J Hobman.

For Rich. My best friend.

Fin.

You know that feeling you get when you know everything in your life is just about to go belly up? Yeah? Well, I had it in bucket loads. The really stupid thing was, IF I had listened to my gut and backed out before it got to that particular point, I wouldn't have been standing in the most embarra.s.sing situation ever. A situation I didn't even want to be in.

But no.

Like the spineless moron I'd become, I stood there at the altar, waiting for her.

When it got to forty-five minutes after the time she should've arrived and no one had been able to contact her-not even her own family-I got it.

I'd been jilted.

Fin.

Until recently, in all my twenty-seven years, I've always done the right thing. Well, at least I've tried to. Finlay Hunter-the blue-eyed boy-both literally and figuratively speaking. Never putting a foot out of line but somehow still never good enough.

Having grown up in a very wealthy family, the younger of two sons, I've strived to be the perfect prodigy. Following in my father's footsteps and taking my degree in law had been part of the plan. Notice how I didn't say my plan? My St Andrews degree had afforded me a great education and good friends, but not a choice of career. I would've been working for the family business in some capacity regardless. A serious case of nepotism.

A St Andrews University degree was seen by my family as a status symbol. "The Royals study there, don't you know? If it's good enough for them..." A famous phrase often repeated at me by my dad.

I worked my a.r.s.e off for my qualifications, and it was no b.l.o.o.d.y picnic, but at the end of the day, to my father, it was simply a necessary piece of paper he could wave under the noses of his corporate cronies. A status symbol.

My father, Campbell Hunter, is a senior partner in Hunter Drummond Law, based in the magnificent city of Edinburgh. A high-flyer, you might say, and since a very young age, I too was encouraged to do well, to prosper. My father doesn't suffer fools and ours was never really a relationship based on what you could call out and out love. I know he loves me. Or at least I think he does. He just never shows it, not really. Never has. Dad is a great believer in keeping emotions in check. "No one likes a cry-baby, Finlay," was another of his favourite phrases, and so I learned to keep my thoughts, feelings, and emotions to myself. It explains a lot.

Dad wasn't the kind of guy to play footy on a Sunday with my brother and me. We were both sent to boarding school, and when we were home for holidays, he was always working, so we spent our time with the housekeeper, Henrietta-or Hetty-as Callum and I called her. We didn't mind at the time because she was great fun. She had awesome taste in music and would smuggle CDs in for me of bands she thought I'd like. I can categorically say that my fantasies of being a rock star stemmed from Hetty.

My older brother, Callum, was the opinionated one. He'd argue black was white and up was down if he thought it would get a rise out of Dad, and there was always some feud going on between them. They were far too alike; two strong-willed alpha male characters vying for dominance over each other and neither willing to back down. It was due to this reason that I took it upon myself to be the better son. The compliant one. All I wanted was for Dad to be proud of me. But looking back, even when I graduated with a first, he didn't tell me he was proud of me. Instead, he bought me a new sports car and told me I was expected at the firm the following week to begin work.

That was over four years ago.

I suppose I should tell you about my fiancee. Or should I say ex-fiancee.

Elise Drummond is the daughter of Eoin Drummond, my father's partner at the law firm. She and I were kind of thrust together as teenagers. It was clear right at the start what our parents' intent was. She was sweet and pretty. Long dark hair, almost black, in fact, and bright green eyes. But she was quite thin. Now, I'm not having a go there. I just prefer women with curves in all the right places, if you get my meaning. Elise didn't have curves to speak of. But she was...well...nice enough.

When we were twenty, we started dating-another contrived setup by our respective parents. You'd think in 21st century Britain there would be no such thing as arranged marriage, but in a roundabout way, that's what we were being 'guided' into. We both silently acquiesced without protest, neither of us wanting to rock the proverbial boat. I grew fond of her if I'm honest, and for a long while, she was my best friend. I could talk to her about almost anything. I say almost because there were things I couldn't say to her because they'd no doubt get back to my dad, via hers. Things like the fact that I felt trapped, that it appeared my life was mapped out for me and I had no say. Deep down, I was sure she felt the same way, but neither of us broached the subject, and so life went on.

She too worked for the family firm, which left us with little to talk about apart from our respective cases at the office. And that was it. Our tastes in just about everything were completely different. I loved rock music, but she couldn't stand it. I loved art, but she preferred plain walls. She loved to travel, but I was a home body. They say opposites attract, but we were more 'opposites thrown together for the greater good'.

Only it wasn't our greater good.

We moved in together aged twenty-two, just after leaving uni. The vast apartment was in a stunning area of Edinburgh in an old Victorian building, and Elise chose all the furnishings. But, of course, our parents paid for pretty much everything.

The only things I contributed to my new home were some photographs I'd bought from a little craft shop in the city. The photographer, simply known as S.A.M, had captured a totally different side of Edinburgh. He or she had made it look somehow ethereal with the light and the glow to the prints. I loved them. Elise wasn't keen, but I put them up anyway. I think we had got to the point of living on the path of least resistance, never mind just venturing down it.

Our relationship had been chaste up to moving in together, and rather embarra.s.singly, we were both virgins until then. In my defence, my upbringing and schooling hadn't allowed the allotted time for rebellion that most teens get. There were no wild, alcohol-fuelled parties, no one night stands, and no strip clubs. I guess I'd led a pretty sheltered life, but thankfully, so had Elise. Realistically speaking, we'd been promised to one another since before university. It had been a kind of unspoken agreement between our parents that just added to my feeling of being a puppet in someone else's theatre.

Star.

From a young age, growing up in Fort Wayne, Indiana-Midwest USA-I always said I'd travel the world someday. When I started high school, I had narrowed my dream down to visiting Europe when I left college. It wasn't that I hated my hometown or anything like that. It was simply that Europe seemed like some kind of mystical fairy-tale land from the movies I'd seen and books I'd read.

Of all the stories that gripped me, it was Muriel Spark's The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie that didn't let me go. Set in Edinburgh and with a strong-willed female at the heart of it, the book sparked something inside of me, and that was it. I was hooked. Edinburgh became dear to my heart as it jumped from the pages of the book in the full technicolour of my imagination. I had begun saving when I was ten years old, but in my teens, Miss Brodie captured my soul and determined my ultimate destination.

My dad's origins were Spanish, although you wouldn't know it to look at him, and my mom's were American, although her grandparents were British which I guess is partly why Europe fascinated me so much. I had a small selection of good friends at school, but I wasn't what you could call one of the popular kids. I was the one who shopped at the thrift store by choice and liked to experiment with bizarre fashion. From a very young age, I decided I wanted to have my own ident.i.ty. I didn't want to be a carbon copy of anyone else. I added my own personality to whatever I wore, and some kids at school either ignored me or made fun of me for not being "normal" -but what's normal, right? And why strive to be anything other than your true self?

Only, for some bizarre reason, I seemed to be drawn to guys who were the total opposite of me, and those relationships always ended badly. My first real heartbreak came during my final semester. Sully was a handsome, ball-playing, popular guy who needed extra credit toward his football scholarship. Someone in the higher echelons of the school decided that I would be the perfect person to help him achieve that goal.

Without going into all the gory details-I mean, we all know how Pretty in Pink goes, and Some Kind of Wonderful, right? Let's just say I fell. Hard. And all the time I was tutoring Sully, he acted like he adored me too. But of course, once my usefulness had expired, I received a letter from him telling me we were from totally different worlds, and that while my quirkiness was sweet and endearing, it just didn't fit him and his future. He hoped I would find someone better suited to my "style" and that now he was going off to college it would be best if we remembered the good times with fondness. He didn't even have the decency to speak to me face to face. b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Suffice it to say, I was dropped from my place on Cloud Nine and hit the ground of reality with a huge resounding thud, my heart less than intact, and my ability to even consider trusting another guy was something I couldn't begin to comprehend.

When my final semester ended and my mom and dad handed me an envelope that contained a plane ticket to Edinburgh, UK, I think I screamed with glee for a half hour solid. I just couldn't wait to get on that jet, head over the Atlantic and put Sully, heartbreak, and all that painful s.h.i.t behind me. Well, what American girl can say they wouldn't want to visit Europe? If they do say that, I can tell you d.a.m.n straight, they're lying.

I arrived in the UK around three years ago, aged twenty-two. It was my intention to take a year out before deciding what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, but when I discovered Edinburgh-I mean really discovered it-with its intricate stone architecture, peaceful cemeteries, and lofty castle, I decided I was home. I know that sounds crazy and all, but I just fell in love with the place, the people, the accents, the atmosphere. You name it-I loved it. My camera accompanied me everywhere. You could say I was a little snap happy, but I've always been the same. I managed to find work in a city centre coffee house and a room in a gorgeous apartment close to the town centre, and that was it.

I was made.

Okay, maybe made isn't the right word to choose. I mean, I wasn't exactly rolling in cash or living in Edinburgh Castle, but I had a roof and a wage, and that was enough for this uncomplicated, Midwestern girl. My parents were great about the whole thing. They're kind of relaxed and very trusting, and they always say that so long as I'm happy, they don't mind what I'm doing. I think they're pretty great really, and I do miss them. They've visited since I moved and they totally get why I love it here so much.

The apartment in which I rented a room was really sweet; my roommate/landlord told me it was Victorian; it had high ceilings and lots of original features. I loved the fireplace, even though it only had pillar candles in it. The guy who owned it, and the coffee shop, was Alec McVey. He was just great; gay, and the best person to shop with. We had tons of fun, and he's still a great friend after all these years. The best. So, all in all, I landed on my feet and things were going really well for me.

The coffee house-very originally called McVey's-was in the main shopping area of the city, just off Princes Street. Every day, on my way there, I walked past the Scott Monument on his stone precipice. I'd usually say good morning to him and give him a salute, which got me some bizarre looks from people, but I didn't care. I got bizarre looks most days anyway. Let's just say I'm a...um...colourful character. I love tattoos and have them on my back and arms. My naturally blonde hair spends very little time in its natural state. I love to experiment with colour and have been known to have blue, red, and pink hair. Not all at once, though. Don't get me wrong, I'm colourful, not insane.

My day started at eight, when I usually opened the shop while Alec stayed home with the admin for a while. Well, he used that excuse, but the truth was he hated mornings. My first customers of the day were the folks on their way to work, grabbing their caffeine fix on the go. But my favourite customer, Mr McYummy, usually called in at around eight twenty-five. He was so shy, which, of course, I found endearing. I had to remind myself I was there to serve him coffee, not drool and fawn all over him.

But boy, it was hard.

He was pretty much the opposite of me in every way. He was a tall, natural blonde and had the most incredible eyes I'd ever seen. I'm talking the brightest, most vivid blue. He worked out too. I could tell by the hang of his expensive suit. I guessed he was some high-flying executive on account of the briefcase he carried, but I had no clue where he worked. I kept thinking that one day I should stalk him to find out. But, of course, I didn't. Like I said, I'm not insane.

He always smiled at me, and when he did, my belly did this funny flip. But it wasn't just my belly that reacted to him. I'll leave the rest of that to your imagination, but I'm guessing if you're a hot-blooded, heteros.e.xual female, you'll totally get me.

Okay, so here's how it usually went with him. I'll call him MMY (Mr McYummy).

Me: Good morning, sir. What can I get you today?

MMY: (Blushing and soft spoken) Um, good morning. Um...can I get a latte with skim milk to take out, please? (Oh my G.o.d. I love his Scottish accent.) Me: Sure you can, sir. (I'd go off and start the coffee machine) It's a lovely/cold/horrible day out there today, huh? (Delete as applicable) MMY: (Smiling briefly and blushing again) Yes, it really is lovely/cold/horrible.

Me: So, any exciting plans for this evening? (And no, I wasn't asking him out. It was just small talk.) MMY: (Shaking his head and smiling again...drool) Oh, no. Not really. Working late again. (Rolling his eyes) Me: (Handing his coffee over) Well, don't work too hard, huh? Here you go. Enjoy, and have a great day.

MMY: (Blushing again... so sweet) Th-thank you. You have a good day too.

Me: I'll try. (But you've just made it a whole lot nicer) And then he'd walk out and I'd sigh dreamily. Okay, so it was no dramatic love scene from a Nicholas Sparks movie, but as you can see, I had no clue how to get him to talk. He just went beet red whenever I tried, and I'm not exactly hard to talk to. I gave him opportunities, but it was my guess that maybe I was a little too quirky for him to take notice.

So, much to the dismay of my heart and my ovaries, I just continued to watch him and swoon from afar.

Fin.

After plenty of encouragement from our parents, I proposed to Elise on her twenty-third birthday. We were in Paris, and as we sat there before the Eiffel Tower, eating pain au chocolat and drinking coffee from paper cups, I presented her with a cushion cut, diamond solitaire ring. Talk about cliche. But it seemed to make her happy, and so it all felt worth it. We agreed on a very long engagement, which eased my stress of being betrothed somewhat under duress. Although, our long engagement hadn't gone down too well with the parents. They were getting antsy about us setting the date. There had been several tense conversations between my parents and me where I was accused of stalling, and I was informed that Elise's parents were beginning to think I didn't want to marry their precious daughter. But like the dutiful son I was, I kept my feelings bottled up and my mouth shut. After all, me marrying the right girl would make Dad happy, wouldn't it? Hetty tried her best to encourage me to tell the truth. She insisted that marrying someone I didn't love was crazy, and that I deserved to be truly happy. Bless her.

I think the real cracks began to appear in our relationship when Elise was sent to London to a.s.sist our office in a temporary partnership with another firm connected to an international fraud case. She was gone for a month, and honestly, I enjoyed the time alone. I know that makes me sound like a s.h.i.t, but I felt free for a while. I could only presume Elise felt the same way.

Having the apartment to myself was great. I walked around in my undies. I sang along to my favourite music at the top of my voice, pretending to be on stage like I used to when I was a kid and Hetty was looking after me. I left the milk out on the counter top, didn't shave on weekends, and slept in until lunch time on Sundays. All the luxuries that living with an a.n.a.l, music-hating, clean freak didn't afford me.

I began to wonder if perhaps I was better off alone.

It was the night before Elise was due home, and I was walking around the apartment, trying to ensure everything was tidy to her standards. I had done nothing but think about our situation, and I had come to the conclusion that Hetty was right. This marriage would be a step too far to please a man whose love I had not yet earned by any other means. Why would marrying my friend make a positive difference? After all, she was just my friend. We weren't in love. Our time apart had clarified that fact for me and I guessed it would be the same for her.

I was placing the last of my dirty plates into the dishwasher to ensure the place was spotless, when my phone rang with "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother". It was supposed to be ironic, as middle-aged spread had already made itself known to Callum, and hearing his ringtone-knowing he was oblivious to my reasons for selecting it-usually brought a wry smile to my face. But this time when I picked up the call, I had a feeling in my gut that I couldn't explain.

"Fin?" There was a distinct edge of worry to his voice that made my hairs stand up. He had uttered one word, but the fact that it wasn't preceded by some rude name or a loud belch instantly told me something was amiss.

"Hi, Cal. What's up? Why so serious?" For a split second, I held my breath, waiting for the joke.

"Hi, kid. It's...it's Dad. He's had a heart attack."

Oh, s.h.i.t. He's calling me kid. That's really not good. f.u.c.k. "Is he...did he...?" I swallowed hard as my own heart began a futile attempt at an escape through my ribcage.

"He's not dead, no. But, it's pretty serious. I think you should you get to the hospital as soon as you can."

He gave me all the details I needed and I typed them, one-handed, into the memo pad on my phone.

When I arrived, Dad's room was silent, aside from bleeping machinery, and we all sat around his bed, watching him sleep in his drug-induced slumber. According to the consultant, the heart attack had-thankfully-been mild, but of course, it didn't stop us from worrying.

My mother looked pale, and I realised I hadn't ever seen her looking her real age. Not until that occasion. She was usually fully made up, regardless of the time of day. Never a hair out of place. In fact, Isobel Hunter was like a WAG; a footballer's wife of her day. In her teens, she'd been a fashion model with high society aspirations. She too was from a wealthy family, but it was her looks that propelled her forward. She's beautiful. Tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes, like my brother and me.

Once she married Dad, she gave up her modelling career and spent her time hosting dinner parties and adding to her ridiculous shoe collection. In all honesty, she was never cut out to be a mother, and regardless of how I tried to get her attention, I usually ended up feeling like an inconvenience. It's my guess that she would have remained childless if she had met anyone but my father. You see, he's of the old "keep the family line going" generation, and I'm pretty sure the fact that he had male children was a bonus for him. Shame he never showed it.

Without acknowledging me, my mother left the room to get coffee-I guessed it was at least her sixth cup judging by the empty cardboard receptacles beside her seat. Callum had left a while before to take his heavily pregnant wife home, and so when my father eventually awoke, I was alone with him. Campbell Hunter. My father, the force to be reckoned with. The man I had always tried in vain to please.

Should I tell him I won't be marrying Elise whilst he's in hospital? At least they'll be able to look after him if my news brings on another attack. Ugh...such macabre thoughts...

"Finlay? Finlay, is that you?"

My father's croaky voice dragged me from my thoughts, and I moved my chair closer. "Yes, Dad. I'm here."

He wearily glanced around his surroundings. "Good...good. Where's your mother? And your brother?"

"Mum has just gone for coffee. It's quite late and I guess she wanted to stay awake. Callum's taken Tori home. She was exhausted. But we've all been here. Even Hetty and Fred."

He sighed. "She's leaving, you know? Hetty, I mean. Thinks we don't need her anymore. Pah!"

I smiled. "Well, you don't really."

His brow furrowed. "Your mother's cooking is inedible, and mine's even worse. Lord only knows what we'll do for food."

I couldn't help chuckling at his comment. "I'm sure you'll manage."

Dad reached for me with the arm that wasn't tied up to drips and gripped me weakly. "Finlay. I need you to promise me something."

Oh G.o.d...here it comes. "Of course. What is it, Dad?"

He looked me straight in the eyes. "That you'll set a date and marry Elise as soon as possible."

My heart plummeted. Oh, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k. "Dad...I can't-"

"Pish tosh, Finlay. You can and you must. Promise me. I may not be around too much longer and I want to know that grandsons are at least on the horizon."

Talk about a guilt trip. I took a deep breath, released myself from my father's feeble grip, and rubbed my hands over my face. "Yes, Dad. I promise."

Star "Are you going out with Mick the p.r.i.c.k tonight, Twinkle?" Alec's voice called to me from the living room where he had papers spread all over the coffee table. I poured hot water into my herbal tea and rolled my eyes. He had never liked my latest beau, and I doubted he ever would.

I met Mick at the bar where he works. It was one time when I was out with some friends and we got split up. I was sitting at the bar texting around trying to locate the gang when I was approached by some douche who presumed I was an easy lay. Mick came to my rescue and pretended to be my boyfriend until the a.s.shole got the message and left. I was really grateful for what he did and so when he asked me out just as some of the group arrived, I said yes. That had been almost a year ago and things were going okay, I guess. There were no fireworks, but he was a decent enough guy, and the s.e.x wasn't too bad. Nothing mind melting, but you know, it was okay.

Mick was skinny with spiky hair and tattoos-some of which a five-year-old could've done better-and he had hazel eyes. He was no Adonis, but he was cute in his own quirky way. I guess that's what attracted me to him, along with his chivalry. You see, I considered myself quirky. I wasn't traditionally beautiful, but don't get me wrong, I was no fugly girl.

I clipped the lid on my thermal mug and remembered Alec had asked me a question. "No, Al. I wish you wouldn't call him that. Anyway, I think he has to work tonight. Why do you ask?"

Alec appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. "I was going to suggest we grab a takeaway and have a movie night. Thought we could watch Magic Mike." I turned to face him and the grin on his face accompanied a cheeky sparkle in his eye.

I couldn't help laughing. "Okay. Sounds good to me. What time will you be in work today?"

He shrugged. "Oh, probably around eleven. I have to go to the wholesalers for some more of those caramel wafers. We seem to have had a run on them this week."

I cringed, not daring to admit that the "run" had partly been thanks to me nibbling on them while I worked.

I walked through to where he sat, spectacles perched on the end of his nose so the vain guy wasn't quite wearing them. Why he couldn't just accept that his eyesight was beginning to worsen was lost on me.

I leaned down and kissed his cheek. "Okay. See you later then. I'm outta here." I left the apartment, singing to my iPod as I walked. You can't beat The Proclaimers to put you in a good mood for the day, and I found myself wondering if Mick would walk five hundred miles just to see me. Sadly, I kind of doubted it.

It was a bright but chilly April Wednesday, and the city I loved was buzzing to life as I walked along Princes Street to the coffee shop. All around me, shutters were being yanked up, lights were being flicked on, and each shop's music could just be heard over the sound of "Letter From America" which was now bouncing around my noggin.

I always arrived a little early, but I loved my job. There was something satisfying about being the first person through the door of the empty shop. The aroma of coffee delighted my senses and made my mouth water. Herbal tea was always my first drink of the day, and in all honesty, I preferred the smell of the coffee to the taste. I loved the earthy, burnt aroma that made me think of hot climates and hot, tanned men.

Why was I living in Scotland again?

Once the machines were switched on and ready to go, the point of sale sundries were topped up, and the music was playing, I stood behind the counter waiting for the first customer of the day. I should've known better. I always lost myself in a good song, and today was no different. Bouncing around behind the counter with my hands in the air like I just didn't care, I was busy singing along to "Gigantic" by the Pixies when I turned and froze. I felt the heat of embarra.s.sment rise in my cheeks as I looked into sparkling blue eyes filled with mirth.

Oh my G.o.d. Ground, swallow me whole right now. "Oh...h-hey there. What can I get you?" I made a vain attempt to flatten my crazy morning hair and to not sound like I was on the verge of collapse.