DAMSEL OF THE HIGHLANDS(Charles E.J. Moulton) Kirsten felt gutsy, in spite of prediction promises of rain, and put on her light garments. Heading for the hills she felt a strange mixture of relief, bliss and agony.
She had spent an hour getting up here, sweat running down her back, her white t-shirt sodden with perspiration, her nipples visible through the t-shirt in the hot morning sun.
At long last, Kirsten arrived at the look-out at the top of the hill. She breathed in once, gazed through the clear morning air at the highlands, threw down her bag pack and cried a weep of relief. Panting for air, she bent down and grabbed the Tupperware flask of apple soda from out of her bag and drank, the drops of liquid trickling down her chest. The smell of freedom reached her nostrils. It came with pain. Pain. Loss of having lost a love to infidelity.
She closed the bottle and threw it back inside the bag, belched and dried off her mouth with the back of her hand. Always the pretty filly, she dared only belch in solitude. Here, no cared. No one but the ravens. Kirsten’s hand shaking, she shook her head, felt how hot it was, too hot for Scotland, and wondered why. Why had this happened.
Kirsten stood once more on her hill fair as a Milngavie cherry blossom flower. She felt with some hesitation that the decision to come here had been good. That in spite of her humiliation of thinking she was running away from her problems.
Was she? Yes, she was.
She had no will anymore to get involved in a relationship.
Since her last affiliation ended, many men had been courting her and many men had failed. The advances had been miscellaneous. Everything from asking her about her mysterious past to bringing her stolen flowers had been a part of the act of courtship.
All these penetrating men who always pretended to be interested in her really wanted to get into her drawers. She had stopped trying to find out if they wanted to cuddle her soul or her C-cup. Why were men so preoccupied with sex? No, stupid question. Of course, she knew why. Kent. Stupid, faithless Kent.
Kirsten tried very hard to concentrate on other things. She analyzed the countryside. The rolling hills and the sky met at the horizon in a way that seemed unusual for Scotland. The air was so clear and so free from drizzling rain that she thought she could see over to the other side of the county by that other loch that her colleague Kayla and her had visited a while ago. They had skinny dipped, but only because Kayla had whispered that Kirsten wouldn’t have the guts to do so.
Kirsten looked toward the path that led to the nearest loch and promised herself that she would go down there to sit by the water a while as soon as she was finished sitting here.
What had happened? She had to recapitulate.
Two Scottish love birds in the Paris University of Sorbonne had turned into two bickering worry warts in Edinburgh. Their mutual interest in English Literature had brought them together, their diverse life styles had split them apart.
It had been weird, though, that two Scotland youths went to Paris to study English literature. They had both loved Paris and being away from home, away from all things British had been a lure. They had both minored in Art and spent hours in the Louvré studying Mona Lisa and being very grand and intellectual.
Kent had loved her, there was no question of that. He had spent valuable time trying to figure out every year how to surprise her with flowers and candy and worship and dinners and singing messengers and all kinds of new little treats.
One year on April 9th, he had invited her to the illustrious star restaurant Fouquet’s at 99 Champs Elysée for her 26th birthday. The reservation had been complete surprise and the menu had been ordered way in advance. He had gone to extra trouble to order the very things she liked and even gone to the restaurant to work out with the maitre d’ cuisine where they would sit and what flowers were to be put on the table.
Their 16th anniversary was supposed to be celebrated in style by going to Paris yet again. That had been the plan. Instead, she was somewhere in the country not working as a teacher, but as a waitress who ran away from pain. She ran away because her Kent had slept with another woman. That last conversation had been interesting over the phone. He had told her:

“I can love two people at the same time. I love Madeleine, but would never leave you for her. You are my first choice.”

What was she? Part of a saccharine harem aimed to gratify her master like in the good old television series with Barbara Eden?
It had been the year of the millennium and the last year of their graduation at the Sorbonne. He had invited her to the Lido and they had ended up kissing by the Arc de Triomphe. It had been a dream, after all too good to be true. Why did it end? Madeleine.
As she stood there overlooking the grandeur of Scottish nature, it was obvious to her that she was home here somewhere in her heart, raised near Ben Nevis and gone to school with Kent in Glencoe.
Now a citizen of Glenfinnan, it seemed to her that she was home again, far away from the bustle of the University at the David Hume Tower.
Far away from Kent, far away from infidelity, she felt that this landscape would never betray her, not after 15 years and not after 15000. Skinny dipping with Kayla and flirting with young men seemed to be nice compensation.
Long relationships flourish after they wither away.
They are like sweet winds of nostalgia sinking into your depth and hoping that you will chant as you swim in their dark watery abyss.
They want you to suffer in their bliss.
Spencer, her estranged father, had no doubt been surprised to see his daughter again. She managed to visit him even now. He was not far away.
She had told Kent on numerous occasions that she refused to ask for a job near the place where her estranged father worked. Kent had been happy that she had wanted nothing else than go back to Scotland. When she graduated that was the first place she looked. Naturally, she had asked her mother first and she had said that if she did she would never come to visit her and that Kirsten would have to visit her in Glencoe. She said that she understood and she then spent three years working and teaching ‘English Poetry, Literature, Plays and Prose’ to young students, whilst Kent spent time as Assistant Educator at Stevenson College.
It was Edinburgh and not Ben Nevis that tickled her fancy. It became obvious to both of them, though, that this was not Paris. Kirsten and Kent both knew well into the professional life together that they had lost that sparkle that had made them such a “Perfect Scottish Couple” in “The City of Love”. Scotland had been different without work. Scotland had been different back then. Now it was new and hard and slow and very odd.
After Kent betrayed her, she left Edinburgh and moved closer to Ben Nevis. If she had been mistaken about Edinburgh, maybe she was right about her father. Her mother had been hurt when her father had left her for a younger woman, but never ever considered that dad had felt estranged himself. Now she was in Glenfinnan and saw her dad every week. Kirsten’s mum knew that her husband wanted to be a part of the family again. He had grown tired of his new wife.
I don’t know really, Kirsten thought to herself, why my family is so scattered. What is that supposed to tell me?
Kirsten sighed standing there on the hill, thinking back.
People are strange, she whispered to herself. Strange.
That word sounded so mysterious.
Her father leaving mum and wanting her back.
Her boyfriend betraying her and wanting her back.
She hating Kent, but her wanting him back.
Did she now?
Deciding not to wallow in self-pity, she started looking inside her bag pack for some food and drink. The first thing to come out was the tea. She sat down on the stone that seemed made for resting a red tush on and poured herself some of Brodie’s Breakfast Tea into the mug. She set it down on the stone and began rummaging again, her hair hanging in her face, and took out a full grain roll with Mull cheddar and Ayrshire Middle thin sliced bacon.
The food was as soothing to her stomach as the nature here was to her soul. It seemed no one had thought of going up here on this glorious day. She wondered why. It was a region known to house tourist from all the isles and provinces of Britain. The green leaves upon the trees swayed in the slight breeze from a north-westerly wind. The sun, only blocked by one or two clouds, had that special warmth that could be enjoyed so seldom in this part of the world.
As she sat there munching on her roll, watching the clouds pass by, she thought of how she had spent her last birthday screaming at Kent all day and ended up sleeping at her father’s place swearing never to see him again. What made her proud was that she had kept her promise. She had only spoken to Kent on the phone two times since the incident and she had made her father get all the things she needed from the flat, knowing that the flat belonged to Kent.
“Water under the viaduct,” she whispered, taking another bite of her bun. “Water, lots of water by now, lass!” She looked up at the sky and saw an eagle flying over her head that disappeared into the light. If she only were an eagle, then she could soar away and not recall the pain that told her she loved the bastard in spite of it all.
As she reached inside her bag to grab a peach for dessert she thought of that betrayal and of how deeply he had wounded her. She took the peach and began munching, the juice spilling across her chin onto her bosom. Kirsten dried off the peach juice with a handkerchief and let the memories flood her with mixed delight and cheap desolation. Memories of hot tears on vacuumed floors came back. She let herself think once again of how Kent MacGrovie had raped her subconscious.
She had found out that day his affair with Madeleine had been going on for 8 years. 8 years of lies.
Time for memories?
He had met his mistress in Paris and they had had quickies in lobbies and in bathrooms for four years until he had to leave Paris to work in Scotland. That much she had squeezed out of him the last time they had screamed at each other in their flat.
That year, 2004, Madeleine had obviously missed humping Kent all too much, having exchanged loads of secret erotic e-mails for four years, so she came to visit him. He had apparently told her not to come on Kirsten’s birthday, but she had said she would be living in a hotel near his workplace. He could come over for shagging before work and in the break and after work. That way they could shag three times a day and still keep it secret. He just had to tell Kirsten he had more work to do and then they could pretend that everything was bright eyed and bushytailed and oh so pink and flowery. God bless the upsie-daisie, as her Aunt Helen had kept on muttering.
The trouble began when Kirsten decided to surprise Kent after work that day. He had told her that he had extra work until 7:30 that night and would pick her up in front of the flat at eight so that they could go to their favourite Italian restaurant for dinner at eight thirty and a pre-ordered four course dinner.
Kirsten wanted more time with her loved one, so she decided to come to Stevenson College early and meet him as he went out from class. She walked into the lobby and found Patty there as usual answering late calls. When Patty asked her why she was there, Kirsten answered that she was surprising Kent. The receptionist had looked at her very strangely and said that he had left at his usual time around 5:30 p.m. and that he seemed bewildered and nervous.
Kirsten asked her if she was sure if this was true and Patty said that she even asked him if she could help him with something. Without responding, beautiful Kirsten had vanished elsewhere at five minutes before half past and stood there for a minute wondering why Kent had left without saying a word to her about his early evening. What followed changed everything. It changed her occupation, her sex life, her self respect, her relationship, her interest in men, her career opportunities, her hopes in marriage, her gaiety.
She walked down to the corner of the street not really knowing what to do next, wondering where he could’ve gone and why he hadn’t called. Maybe he had been off to fetch her and missed her. Maybe he had forgotten to buy her a present or had …
She was just about to pick up her mobile phone, close to turning that corner, and dial his number beginning with 07710, when she heard voices standing on the other side of the edge, right on the other side past the curve. She stopped because she recognized Kent’s sonorous bass baritone. She smiled. After all, she had only missed him. The girl must’ve been mistaken. The smile vanished fairly fast. His voice seemed different. Lusty, sensual and sweet as rum.
Kent MacGrovie was not alone.
“This is not exactly the spot for secret meetings, is it?” he said.
There was a woman with him. Who was that?
”Every spot is the spot, as long as I am with you” the woman moaned.
“In chez Paris they don’t have adventurous men?”
“Not like you” she answered. “Why’d you think I travel 550 miles to see you?”
“Well” Kent mused. “We do like a good ride in Scotland.”
“Darling” she whispered. “I like to ride you. I’ll miss that in Paris.”
As the pause went on, sweet Kirsten realized what had happened. Kent had been unfaithful and the woman on the other side of the corner was someone … from Paris? How long had he known her? Since the years at Sorbonne? Panic struck Kirsten.
“Cheri” Kent said. “We will work it out.”
“Gosh, I hope so” the girl sighed.
“No” he smooched. “No bad thoughts. Pretty thoughts. Okay?” There was a small hum that Kirsten took as a yes from the mistress. “I don’t want to hurt Kirsten, but it has just died out. She knows it and I know it. It is not like before.”
“Then how come you also loved her” the girl mused.
“Because you are my little aventure heureuse. Ma peu de fille de tour de bedtime.”
“De bedtime?” The girl giggled heartily. “Your French stinks, mon cheri,” she said in a French inflection.
“My French is great,” Kent laughed. “The language is not.”
Kirsten was shocked first of all surprising Kent with another woman and then hearing him say these words. She had trusted him.
“Does she please you at all,” the woman sang.
“No” Kent answered. “It was good to have my tilt waddled so well after all this time. Kirsten feels far too prissy for oral.”
At this point, disbelief hit the pretty Kirsten and she controlled the urge to surprise them as she was intent on hearing the rest of the conversation. If they turned the corner now it would be only good for them if they would see that they had been discovered.
“You don’t feel guilty about this, do you, Sweetheart?” she inquired.
There was a silence.
A long silence that spoke of notion and pauses filled with shame.
“No. Not really.” He kissed her again. “I love Kirsten, I really do.” He laughed. “Making love to you is better, though. More fun.”
The woman sighed. “I want to have you for my own. I don’t want this secrecy.”
”Making love to you is worth all the secrecy.”
“All these e-mails, these messages. Kent,” she urged, “please let me come to you. We have been doing this for eight years.”
As the couple round corner kissed, a small tear rolled down the lonely, betrayed Kirsten Turner’s cheek. She had never suspected this. She muffled her cries against her blouse. After they finished kissing, the woman went on.
“Are there chances of us coming together?” she asked. “Ever coming together?”
“We have come four times today” he chuckled. “Better than The Beatles ever did.”
“Don’t joke” the woman said. “Tell me.”
Kent waited and then said: “We can keep at it for another year or so. I’ll see if I can change things by then.”
There was another long kiss, rustle of spring clothing and sighs.
“Can I see you tomorrow?” the woman groaned. “I want another reunion.”
Kent giggled. “Kirsten and I are free tomorrow. We wanted today free, but her college wouldn’t have it. They’re having some sort of conference.”
“Then, buy for now.”
“Au revoir, Cheri.”
That was when Kent and Madeleine turned the corner. She was on her way crossing the street. Kent was on his way home.
As Kirsten sat there exactly a year later on the hill, those words rang painfully in her ear. She had been promoted to head the conference back then. She had heard him say to her that he was so happy that she had been promoted. Now she heard him call it just ‘some sort of conference’.
Kirsten drank her tea, dried away a tear and put the thermos back in her bag and threw away the peach pit with a sharp movement that had it tumbling down the ravine. Then she put the bag back on her back and took the path past the ravine on to the lake, thinking of her life and how it had changed. She had been working at the inn now for exactly 7 months, deciding to seek a place where she knew no one except her daddy and then think about actually going back to Edinburgh for the subsequent period.
Her father, being the head of the literature department, had arranged for her to be able to take a year off. Sleeping at her father’s place the night after the break-up had left him even saying that she could stay there for good. She had declined, never wanting to be coward. She lived with her father in his and his wife’s big four room apartment. Kent rang every day trying to mend old wounds. She always refused to speak with him.
A world had broken down.
Something good was coming out of all this, though. Her parents were now on speaking terms.
“I loved you. You invited me to dinner at Fouquet’s. Now I find out you were almost certainly shagging Madeleine on the way to your date with me. How could I been so dim-witted. Never call me again. Aye, y’er a sleekit wee basturt.”
All the way down the hill to the sweet loch of blue peace, now a year later, she thought of the hot tears and how they had stung her soul. Was the pain ever going to stop? Well, she had been with him for a very, very long time. What surprised her was that he had not fought to get her back. She would’ve warded him off, but she would’ve at least been happy if he had been a little battle bold.
Kirsten stood by the lake a while later, a lady bug crawling up and down her finger. The waves gently hit the shore of the grass and the mud at the sweet banks.
“Sweet lady bug” she said. “Fly up to God and tell him to give us good weather.”
The lady bug stopped and finally flew up and disappeared into the distance of the sky. Kirsten heaved a sigh, hoping that Kent’s vile deceit could let her go. Her father and mother and the college knew where she was, no one else. Now, she didn’t know if she had the strength to live in the same city as that Loupin Keech. That was lowland Scots for stinking shit. That was all he was. The trouble was that she still missed his affection.
Kirsten kneeled down and put her hand in the water.
She stood up yet again. Her chemise went off and left her in her pallid brassiere. Consequently, instantaneously enough she was there in only mingle attire.
Kent didn’t know what he was missing. She felt impious to be standing here in the middle of Scottish setting bare. She reached down and picked up a ribbon from the side compartment of the carrier and then took out a hairpin. Kirsten put her hair up in a bun and then slowly strode to the water, feeling the soft breeze caress her. She knelt down by the water and looked at her own mirror image. The sun shone so magnificently against her countenance. She had praised her spiritual assets, intelligence and stamina, cooking and waitressing, bachelor’s degree in literature and linguistic capabilities.
Invitingly attractive and charming, animated, energized and fervent, enthusiastic and keen male to jump into and conquer. Light enough to be considered stylish.
Kirsten slowly entered the medium chilled water and shivered as each inch of her frame disappeared into the blue loch. The sound of her breast stroke and her hands splashing against the surface of the lagoon was a soothing experience that made her contented. She felt every cell in her body vibrate and jitter. The hills around her seemed royal in their height and the blue sky above had lost its grey and increased its blue, the clouds almost gone.
A fish or two passed by her as she swam and Kirsten felt very happy looking at the trees and the bushes that surrounded the lake. A bird circled the heavens above her gorgeous frame and the only sound she heard was her own breath. She felt her legs turn and her arms lead her to the banks again.
Before long, Kirsten was again wandering back to the settlement of Glenfinnan content.
She passed the inn, where a local stood chatting up another Kayla, who was watering the flowers outside the pub. The man, George Morris, turned around and took off his cap.
“Well” he chuckled. “If it isn’t the fair wee Miss Turner? How’s ye doin’, lassie?”
Kirsten flirted with the elderly gent in his blue jeans and white shirt.
“Just enjoyed me free day with a swim and slurp,” she answered.
“Oh, my” he said as she stopped. “I’d be willing to assist ye out o’ the wat’r!”
She laughed. “It was a private performance for the wee toads.”
“Aye, bonny bairn” the man said. “Me breeks wouldst not stand the tension and me aye willnae say what aye ken what me wife would say ‘bout it. I must bide here.”
Kirsten was always happy to hear the faithful man giving her boorish comments. He had a wife that was very sick and was known not to fool around. She turned to the girl that stood by George with a small pitcher of water.
“Kayla,” Kirsten chirped.
“Aye, bonnie?” Kayla sung.
“Fancy to emaciated plunge by the Loch?”
Kayla smiled.
“Ain’t as fair as ye, bonny frein, and I’s merrit, I must wee say!”
“Poetry and cooking and maybe watching a bit of flicks by the way of Weir’s Way,” Kirsten answered.
“Aint ye got enough of Scottish nature for real,” Kayla laughed.
“No,” Kirsten answered.
“Then enjoy yer day off,” her colleague said.
“See ye tomorrow,” Kirsten answered and waved to the both of them. She felt George watch her rear as she walked down the road.
Kent was a stupid fool to let someone as luscious as her go. Sensual, intellectual and good looking as she was, the man just had bad manners to take another mistress less attractive just to prove he was a hormone pumping male.
The landscape made her feel strong and suave. The hills and the moors, the lochs and the trees were gorgeous to say the least.
She wandered down the road and as she did her eyes met Roger. This man was a very skilled gardener and a gentleman, although he was just as sexually flirtatious as the others.
He was working on his own garden in front of his house, whilst his wife seemed to be busy cooking and talking on the phone. The roses bloomed under his green grasp.
“Awrite and Guid mornin, lovely miss!” he said in his characteristic Scots lilt. “A misst ye sae muckle, enticing missy!“
Kirsten smiled.
“I missed you, too, Roger” she said.
“Whitasmather“ he sang. That was dialect and meant ‘Isn’t that lady delightful?’
“Be canny not to bend the tip of yer breeks when ye drookit over me muckle description” she laughed. In regular English that would’ve been: ‘Be careful not to bend your trousers while you drool over my ample features’.
Soon enough, she reached a small house with a garden that belonged to a lawyer in Edinburgh that only stayed here on occasion. He was a friend of her father’s and knew that Kirsten needed a place to stay on her flight from lost love. He even gave her a recommendation to work in the inn. He had told her that she could stay here for as long as she liked for free, since the house stood empty. She just had to keep it clean.
In the mailbox that day was a letter.
Kirsten’s reaction was shock. Kent had obviously broken up with his filly and been persistent about finding her address.
Sitting down by the dining room table in the pastoral house, she read the letter. Kent had broken up with his mistress and was sorry for his lousy behaviour. He wanted her back. He pleaded. He begged.
Kirsten put the letter aside and sat there for a half hour, feeling cheap. Did she love him? Yes, she did.
She went to her desk and threw the letter in the top drawer.
Sighing, she took her keys and decided to take another walk.
She didn’t come further than the porch when her gaze encountered Kent on the front step.
She had no idea how many minutes passed while they stood there just staring at each other.
He stammered how much he loved her and that he was sorry that he had cheated on her. She laughed at him and walked away. He followed her down the road and blabbered on.
Suddenly, without forewarning, she turned around and spat out all her anger, all her frustration and all her fear and loathing of having been treated like a simple trollop.
She screamed at him for five minutes without realizing that the entire village must’ve heard her voice. Kent simply said that his French mistress had cheated on him as well and that he had realized that all he had done was follow his sexual drive and that he didn’t want that to happen again.
He told her that he lived in the small bed and breakfast named “The auld lang syne” down the road and if she wanted she could come to him. He would leave the day after tomorrow and if she came before then he knew she wanted her. If not, he would leave and never come back.
Kent went off to his B & B without really turning around and Kirsten wondered if her former fiancée really had learned his lesson. He had only listened. He hadn’t protested or screamed back at her. Obviously, he knew when he was beaten. He told her that she had the opportunity to change her mind and that he would leave if she didn’t return his favour.
Wandering unhappily about for the next ten minutes, she passed all the people that she had flirted with so heavily a moment ago. This time she said nothing to them.
Finally, she arrived at the inn. Kayla looked up at Kirsten and smiled. There was no smile coming back now, only a confused silence.
Well, soon enough Kayla asked the pub owner Bill if she could take a short break in order to comfort Kirsten. He told her with a smile that she might take her lunch break now, but only if she give him a kiss. Whilst Kayla ate her lunch she listened to Kirsten converse about the situation. Kayla listened patiently and told her to go to Kent and talk with him why he had been unfaithful? Had he been hurt? Was the relationship repairable?
On the way back to her house, Kirsten thought about this.
Had he learnt his lesson?
She tried to watch telly. She tried to croon some songs and play a small sum of chords on the guitar. She tried a paperback. She tried poems. She even went over to Roger and tried to pick up a line or two, but it all seemed so strange.
She slept badly that night and kept tossing and turning.
At eight o’clock in the morning, after just a few hours of rest, she went over and woke up Kent. He was naturally surprised to see her, but agreed that he would do anything to get her back. After speaking with him for over one hour, Kirsten agreed to have him in the separate bedroom in her temporary house for a bit to try him out. There would be no sex and no kissing. They would be sharing a house only. If he could arrange being away from Edinburgh for a month and not touch her at all, maybe even work for free in the inn, then she would consider taking him back.

He agreed. Kirsten couldn’t believe that Kent actually agreed to be abstinent in her presence for a month.
Kirsten was surprised to see that Kent really had changed. It had been twenty eight days of complete ice between them when something stirred in her. It was an old feeling of fascination. She dismissed it, but the feeling remained with her for the rest of the day.
Kent sat after shift’s end looking at Mr. Bean on the tube when she arrived with a bottle of wine, two glasses and a tube of liquid silk lube in her tender grasp. She kissed him and he kissed her and soon they were again making love as if nothing had happened.
The end of the summer was near when the couple moved back to Edinburgh together, they decided not only to get a flat near the university. They wanted to marry. It felt almost as if nothing had happened between them. They were two love birds again, laughing and joking and eating out, making love in the park. Kirsten became pregnant a month after their honeymoon.
It wasn’t until three years after their reunion that a certain French girl from Paris arrived in Edinburgh again and looked up Kent, seeking him as an English tutor. Kent was unwilling to speak to her at first, but she enrolled in the course and soon enough they were out dating again. Kirsten was, of course, unsuspecting when she arrived at the university one morning and heard that Kent was not there.
So, she went looking for him. Not before long, she saw him standing at a corner speaking to a rather familiar French girl. This time, Kirsten faced the woman and told her that if she didn’t disappear out of their lives one of them would have to depart from this earth, even if that meant Kirsten going to jail. She had suffered too much to dismiss this. It turned out that the girl had never resumed the affair with Kent. They had only talked. It had been entirely the fault of the French girl. Madeleine disappeared from their lives all together after that. On Kent and Kirsten’s third wedding anniversary, Kirsten’s father moved back to Edinburgh.
He had a offering of sorts: an announcement about remarrying Kirsten mother. Bliss hit the Turner estate.
Even the most confused and tortured of souls find peace at last.
Kent was never again unfaithful and neither was Kirsten.

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