Middle Hebrides

VII - Now, Thursday

Looking at the garden, Angus felt an annoying itch somewhere in the back of his head. He hated the superficial atmosphere of this part of the city - with people complaining about Scotmid's existence, not being on par with the average annual income of its residents (minus the students who seemed to not have conquered only Marchmont yet) or hedges being too high. The disgusted of Morningside were to become his neighbours again and thinking of it, the initial annoyance was quickly replaced with a sense of shame when Mackinnon remembered that to escape this, he moved in what seemed ages ago to Stockbridge. Another district like this. Even with its own Waitrose.

The hedges. This was the most ridiculous part of all the stories he heard and witnessed. His own house's garden was barely visible through the cast iron gate. Angus pushed it. Without a single creak, the path opened. The winding road turned left leading him to a two-story construction, remembering times of King Edward. The granite elevation was surprisingly well-preserved, with a black roof proudly presenting all staves in an immaculate condition. Regardless of how much time his mother dedicated to what she called work, the house was under a strict supervision of annual checks and swiftly carried repairs.

'Angus?' His name pronounced with a French accent made him turn around rapidly.

Black curly hair, pale skin and piercing blue eyes. Despite already being old enough to start a family, Laurent still looked like a teenager, trying to embody everything one could consider continental chic. Grey turtleneck, lazily buttoned crimson vest, both covered by a long black coat and enormously white shoes. Both the shoes and the coat made their owner hop over the cobblestone path to avoid puddles.

'Ça va, Laurent?' Angus smiled. Finally a friendly face.

'Va bien, et toi?' the man laughed.

'Aside from being back here, splendid,' Angus started, then paused for a moment. 'Who am I lying to. Shite. My mother's dead, one of her whores jumped through the window and my girl still had no clue who she is.'

'My, my,' Laurent blew a raspberry. 'I brought the cards, so I hope you've got something to eat and to drink.'

'We can order some food if you want and knowing this house, you'll have plenty of wine in the pantry,' Mackinnon snorted, then took out the keys from his pocket.

For a place belonging to someone only recently deceased, his new home bore a characteristic smell of dust. At first glance, it wasn't dirty or even abandoned. Angus walked up to a small table in front of the entrance and picked up what turned out to be a business card with the cleaner's mobile number scribbled on the back. He put it back and turned left to the kitchen. The old green walls covered with rococo paintings soon gave way to a white, mahogany-furnished space. The kitchen, as usual, was pristine.

'Care to order something?' Mackinnon asked without even looking at Laurent. His friend dialed the number and entered a long exchange of courtesies, huffing and puffing, as well as haggling for deals. In the meantime, Angus walked through the kitchen and opened the door to the right. No pickles, no jams or marmalades - actually, no jars at all. Only an army of bottles.

'Pizza?' he asked loudly.

'Oui. Pepperoni. An eternal classic.'

He took a bottle of what turned to be some relatively young Malbec, then closed the door and approached a cupboard over the sink. It opened silently. Everything here was perfect - too perfect for his own taste. He took out two glasses and shoved these over the table in the centre of the kitchen to Laurent.

'Corkscrew?'

'Ah!'

With a wide smile, Angus started opening drawers. Finally, he found one, tucked between cutlery and chopsticks. He passed it over to his friend and added 'I could actually use some coffee if this place has any.'