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Cinna 🤍

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@stephaniehikaru

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Words for Skin Tone | How to Describe Skin Color

We discussed the issues describing People of Color by means of food in Part I of this guide, which brought rise to even more questions, mostly along the lines of “So, if food’s not an option, what can I use?” Well, I was just getting to that!

This final portion focuses on describing skin tone, with photo and passage examples provided throughout. I hope to cover everything from the use of straight-forward description to the more creatively-inclined, keeping in mind the questions we’ve received on this topic.

Standard Description

Basic Colors

Pictured above: Black, Brown, Beige, White, Pink.

“She had brown skin.”

This is a perfectly fine description that, while not providing the most detail, works well and will never become cliché.

Describing characters’ skin as simply brown or beige works on its own, though it’s not particularly telling just from the range in brown alone.

Complex Colors

These are more rarely used words that actually “mean” their color. Some of these have multiple meanings, so you’ll want to look into those to determine what other associations a word might have.

Pictured above: Umber, Sepia, Ochre, Russet, Terra-cotta, Gold, Tawny, Taupe, Khaki, Fawn.

Complex colors work well alone, though often pair well with a basic color in regards to narrowing down shade/tone.

For example: Golden brown, russet brown, tawny beige…

As some of these are on the “rare” side, sliding in a definition of the word within the sentence itself may help readers who are unfamiliar with the term visualize the color without seeking a dictionary.

“He was tall and slim, his skin a russet, reddish-brown.”

Comparisons to familiar colors or visuals are also helpful:

“His skin was an ochre color, much like the mellow-brown light that bathed the forest.”

Modifiers

Modifiers, often adjectives, make partial changes to a word.The following words are descriptors in reference to skin tone.

Dark - Deep - Rich - Cool

Warm - Medium - Tan

Fair - Light - Pale

Rich Black, Dark brown, Warm beige, Pale pink…

If you’re looking to get more specific than “brown,” modifiers narrow down shade further.

Keep in mind that these modifiers are not exactly colors.

As an already brown-skinned person, I get tan from a lot of sun and resultingly become a darker, deeper brown. I turn a pale, more yellow-brown in the winter.

While best used in combination with a color, I suppose words like “tan” “fair” and “light” do work alone; just note that tan is less likely to be taken for “naturally tan” and much more likely a tanned White person.

Calling someone “dark” as description on its own is offensive to some and also ambiguous. (See: Describing Skin as Dark)

Undertones

Undertones are the colors beneath the skin, seeing as skin isn’t just one even color but has more subdued tones within the dominating palette.

pictured above: warm / earth undertones: yellow, golden, copper, olive, bronze, orange, orange-red, coral | cool / jewel undertones: pink, red, blue, blue-red, rose, magenta, sapphire, silver. 

Mentioning the undertones within a character’s skin is an even more precise way to denote skin tone.

As shown, there’s a difference between say, brown skin with warm orange-red undertones (Kelly Rowland) and brown skin with cool, jewel undertones (Rutina Wesley).

“A dazzling smile revealed the bronze glow at her cheeks.”

“He always looked as if he’d ran a mile, a constant tinge of pink under his tawny skin.”

Standard Description Passage

“Farah’s skin, always fawn, had burned and freckled under the summer’s sun. Even at the cusp of autumn, an uneven tan clung to her skin like burrs. So unlike the smooth, red-brown ochre of her mother, which the sun had richened to a blessing.”

-From my story “Where Summer Ends” featured in Strange Little Girls

Here the state of skin also gives insight on character.

Note my use of “fawn” in regards to multiple meaning and association. While fawn is a color, it’s also a small, timid deer, which describes this very traumatized character of mine perfectly.

Though I use standard descriptions of skin tone more in my writing, at the same time I’m no stranger to creative descriptions, and do enjoy the occasional artsy detail of a character.

Creative Description

Whether compared to night-cast rivers or day’s first light…I actually enjoy seeing Characters of Colors dressed in artful detail.

I’ve read loads of descriptions in my day of white characters and their “smooth rose-tinged ivory skin”, while the PoC, if there, are reduced to something from a candy bowl or a Starbucks drink, so to actually read of PoC described in lavish detail can be somewhat of a treat.

Still, be mindful when you get creative with your character descriptions. Too many frills can become purple-prose-like, so do what feels right for your writing when and where. Not every character or scene warrants a creative description, either. Especially if they’re not even a secondary character.

Using a combination of color descriptions from standard to creative is probably a better method than straight creative. But again, do what’s good for your tale.

Natural Settings - Sky

Pictured above: Harvest Moon -Twilight, Fall/Autumn Leaves, Clay, Desert/Sahara, Sunlight - Sunrise - Sunset - Afterglow - Dawn- Day- Daybreak, Field - Prairie - Wheat, Mountain/Cliff, Beach/Sand/Straw/Hay.

Now before you run off to compare your heroine’s skin to the harvest moon or a cliff side, think about the associations to your words.

When I think cliff, I think of jagged, perilous, rough. I hear sand and picture grainy, yet smooth. Calm. mellow.

So consider your character and what you see fit to compare them to.

Also consider whose perspective you’re describing them from. Someone describing a person they revere or admire may have a more pleasant, loftier description than someone who can’t stand the person.

“Her face was like the fire-gold glow of dawn, lifting my gaze, drawing me in.”

“She had a sandy complexion, smooth and tawny.”

Even creative descriptions tend to draw help from your standard words.

Flowers

Pictured above: Calla lilies, Western Coneflower, Hazel Fay, Hibiscus, Freesia, Rose

It was a bit difficult to find flowers to my liking that didn’t have a 20 character name or wasn’t called something like “chocolate silk” so these are the finalists. 

You’ll definitely want to avoid purple-prose here.

Also be aware of flowers that most might’ve never heard of. Roses are easy, as most know the look and coloring(s) of this plant. But Western coneflowers? Calla lilies? Maybe not so much.

“He entered the cottage in a huff, cheeks a blushing brown like the flowers Nana planted right under my window. Hazel Fay she called them, was it?”

Assorted Plants & Nature

Pictured above: Cattails, Seashell, Driftwood, Pinecone, Acorn, Amber

These ones are kinda odd. Perhaps because I’ve never seen these in comparison to skin tone, With the exception of amber.

At least they’re common enough that most may have an idea what you’re talking about at the mention of “pinecone." 

I suggest reading out your sentences aloud to get a better feel of how it’ll sounds.

"Auburn hair swept past pointed ears, set around a face like an acorn both in shape and shade.”

I pictured some tree-dwelling being or person from a fantasy world in this example, which makes the comparison more appropriate.

I don’t suggest using a comparison just “cuz you can” but actually being thoughtful about what you’re comparing your character to and how it applies to your character and/or setting.

Wood

Pictured above: Mahogany, Walnut, Chestnut, Golden Oak, Ash

Wood can be an iffy description for skin tone. Not only due to several of them having “foody” terminology within their names, but again, associations.

Some people would prefer not to compare/be compared to wood at all, so get opinions, try it aloud, and make sure it’s appropriate to the character if you do use it.

“The old warlock’s skin was a deep shade of mahogany, his stare serious and firm as it held mine.”

Metals

Pictured above: Platinum, Copper, Brass, Gold, Bronze

Copper skin, brass-colored skin, golden skin…

I’ve even heard variations of these used before by comparison to an object of the same properties/coloring, such as penny for copper.

These also work well with modifiers.

“The dress of fine white silks popped against the deep bronze of her skin.”

Gemstones - Minerals

Pictured above: Onyx, Obsidian, Sard, Topaz, Carnelian, Smoky Quartz, Rutile, Pyrite, Citrine, Gypsum

These are trickier to use. As with some complex colors, the writer will have to get us to understand what most of these look like.

If you use these, or any more rare description, consider if it actually “fits” the book or scene.

Even if you’re able to get us to picture what “rutile” looks like, why are you using this description as opposed to something else? Have that answer for yourself.

“His skin reminded her of the topaz ring her father wore at his finger, a gleaming stone of brown, mellow facades.” 

Physical Description

Physical character description can be more than skin tone.

Show us hair, eyes, noses, mouth, hands…body posture, body shape, skin texture… though not necessarily all of those nor at once.

Describing features also helps indicate race, especially if your character has some traits common within the race they are, such as afro hair to a Black character.

How comprehensive you decide to get is up to you. I wouldn’t overdo it and get specific to every mole and birthmark. Noting defining characteristics is good, though, like slightly spaced front teeth, curls that stay flopping in their face, hands freckled with sunspots…

General Tips

Indicate Race Early: I suggest indicators of race be made at the earliest convenience within the writing, with more hints threaded throughout here and there.

Get Creative On Your Own: Obviously, I couldn’t cover every proper color or comparison in which has been “approved” to use for your characters’ skin color, so it’s up to you to use discretion when seeking other ways and shades to describe skin tone.

Skin Color May Not Be Enough: Describing skin tone isn’t always enough to indicate someone’s ethnicity. As timeless cases with readers equating brown to “dark white” or something, more indicators of race may be needed.

Describe White characters and PoC Alike: You should describe the race and/or skin tone of your white characters just as you do your Characters of Color. If you don’t, you risk implying that White is the default human being and PoC are the “Other”).

PSA: Don’t use “Colored.” Based on some asks we’ve received using this word, I’d like to say that unless you or your character is a racist grandmama from the 1960s, do not call People of Color “colored” please. 

Not Sure Where to Start? You really can’t go wrong using basic colors for your skin descriptions. It’s actually what many people prefer and works best for most writing. Personally, I tend to describe my characters using a combo of basic colors + modifiers, with mentions of undertones at times. I do like to veer into more creative descriptions on occasion.

Want some alternatives to “skin” or “skin color”? Try: Appearance, blend, blush, cast, coloring, complexion, flush, glow, hue, overtone, palette, pigmentation, rinse, shade, sheen, spectrum, tinge, tint, tone, undertone, value, wash.

Skin Tone Resources

List of Color Names

The Color Thesaurus

Skin Undertone & Color Matching

Tips and Words on Describing Skin

Photos: Undertones Described (Modifiers included)

Online Thesaurus (try colors, such as “red” & “brown”)

Don’t Call me Pastries: Creative Skin Tones w/ pics I 

Writing & Description Guides

WWC Featured Description Posts

WWC Guide: Words to Describe Hair

Writing with Color: Description & Skin Color Tags

7 Offensive Mistakes Well-intentioned Writers Make

I tried to be as comprehensive as possible with this guide, but if you have a question regarding describing skin color that hasn’t been answered within part I or II of this guide, or have more questions after reading this post, feel free to ask!

~ Mod Colette

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Imagine; You’re going to look for a midnight snack in the kitchen but you find me instead :*

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[aeneas75]

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Prologue

A Highland Christmas 

Prologue

On the grey days, the low days, the days where the little annoyances of life make me want to kill someone, I think of my days in Kenmore. I only spent six weeks there, from the middle of November to the New Year, but those were the weeks that changed my life. 

I’ve left Kenmore now. But Kenmore has not left me. I close my eyes and the memories flood back, the sights and sounds of that winter in the Highlands.

[aeneas75]

1

This story starts in a kitchen in a ground floor flat in Somers Town, an inner city estate nestled between three big London terminus. There are two women in the kitchen. The elder, thin and proud with collar length silver hair is seated and dressed as if she is about to go to lunch at a Michelin starred restaurant in a fashionable full length skirt, black polo neck and kitten heels.  

The younger has dark hair swept up in a messy bun and busies herself around the kitchen in leggings and hoodie.

They may be grandmother and granddaughter but there is no family resemblance between the pale skinned younger and rosy cheeked elder. However the warmth between them suggests something more than a professional, hired-help, relationship. 

“Oh Cici. I know that expression and I do not like it one bit.”

“I’m fine. Honestly.”

The older woman did not take her eyes off the younger despite the latter trying to ignore her, busying herself packing away the weekly food shop while the silver haired woman sat impassively, sipping her tea. 

“Cici, I know you. Don't try to pull the wool over my eyes.”

Cici sat down and took a sip of her tea,

“Good tea Isobel. You make the best tea.”

“Cici. Talk.”

“Josh and I split up. No, Josh dumped me. No, actually, it's worse than that. Josh’s ex, well who thought was his ex, Sarah, you know, annoying posh blondie at work who I only sometimes fantasise about murdering…”

“That one who always speaks in meetings and even though she comes out with absolute drivel all the bosses think she’s wonderful?”

“Oh, no, that’s Celine, my actual nemesis. Sarah is not on that level. She’s just the annoying pretty blonde who used to fuck my boyfrend. Sorry. Used to go out with my boyfriend. I only think about murdering Sarah once a week or so. With Celine it’s daily.”

“‘I’m 78 Cici, not a nun. But I don't like it when you swear. It’s vulgar and you are better than that. Please go on but I’m beginning to think you might have anger issues.”

“My anger issues need to get in line behind my anxiety, social awkwardness and all round inability-to-function-in-the-modern-world issues Isobel. 

“Anyway, annoying Sarah comes in and is waving this big rock on her finger and all the girls in the team are running to her and there are dogs south of the river in pain with the noise they are all making. "

She was agitated, her knee bouncing, fidgeting with her hair. 

“And I go toward her trying to work out what the appropriate and not at all patronising thing to say when your boyfriends ex who you didn't even know was dating anyone gets engaged to some rando and then I look over and see Josh getting handshakes and back slaps from the tech boys and he sees me and gives me this weird look half smug and half apologetic and i’m thinking No no no no this is not happening and when I get to Sarah and the coven around her she's telling them how Josh spoke to her father on Saturday afternoon then took her to that fancy rooftop restaurant next to St Pauls and got down on one knee.”

“Oh Cici”. Isobel reached out to stroke Cici’s hand and silence settled between them.

“I got away with it, I think. Some crazy pride thing kicked in and I gave my best fake smile and said how happy I was for both of them and gave her a hug and waited just long enough before I slipped away to cry in a cubicle in the ladies with my fist in my mouth so no one could hear. 

“And i managed to stay till 5pm and left saying I had barre class even though that’s every Wednesday but no one noticed and I’m just trying to work out how i could be so fucking stupid. Sorry. And for Josh, I mean he’s fun and handsome in a posh boy way but he was never The One and I knew that.

“I knew we had gotten together when they were on a break and that things were “complicated” and we had to be discrete and I thought I was being the better woman saving her feelings when all the time I was just the side piece.”

Her voice cracked a little, just enough that someone who knew her well could sense the epth of hurt and anger.

Isobel nodded and waited a while before responding, gently, “How long have you been together?”

“Six months, well would have been six months in a couple of weeks and when I saw him last, on Friday night, the night before he proposed, I talked about going away for our six month anniversary and he just grunted. Which isn't really out of character so I ignored it. 

“But, the signs were all there. The secrecy. Like I could see why we would keep it quiet at work but he never introduced me to his family or any of his friends. Because I was just a dirty little secret on the side. 

“He messaged me that night, to apologise for not giving me the heads up but said that when things calm down we can go back to the way things were. 

“I almost threw my phone across the room before remembering it’s still in contract and I can't afford a new one.”

“You don’t always have to make everything a joke Cici. Not with me. It’s ok to hurt.”

She smiled and mouthed thank you as she breathed through welling tears. 

“I’m more humiliated than anything. I mean, I’m meant to be smart. An adult female with a career and, and …. I can’t stay there Isobel. They’re bringing a pile of wedding magazines in on Monday to look at dresses together and talking about hen weekends and just can't do it. 

“I can say I‘m sick and work from home but only for a while, they’re enforcing the minimum three days in the office. And I hate it there anyway and it’s just, Everything. My anxiety was back before all this and I’m keeping it at bay with yoga and barre and reading loads and going to bed on time. But…

“I’m not you Isobel. Look at you, you're a real London girl, you look amazing all the time. I’m a fuck-up from the sticks who is trying to make it and be someone I’m not and just want to hide from the world somewhere in the middle of nowhere and read and paint and feed the local cat and not speak to anyone.”         

“And, also, and I‘ve been putting off telling you this but I think I'll have to move out. Lucy’s sister is moving down to London so she has said I need to look for somewhere else. She’s not chucking me out, she’s being decent. She said she can sleep on the sofa while I find something else, and it's not new or anything, they have been talking about it for months. 

“I‘ll try and get somewhere close and regardless I'll still do your shopping every Friday and come for Sunday lunch. I’m not breaking up with you,” they laughed together and Isobel gripped her hand tight.

“You’re my best friend in this city Isobel. Wherever I end up I'll still be around. If you’ll have me.” 

“God Cici, if I really am your best friend in this wonderful city then things really are worse than I thought. I might make good tea but I'm hardly a suitable partner in crime for an attractive young single woman.

“More tea?”

They sat in silence, Cici glad she didn't have to make conversation, Isobel’s head nodding in thought. 

“When you say You can’t stay there, what do you mean?” 

“‘I’m going to quit. I feel sick about seeing either of them. If I loved the job I would swallow my pride and push through but i don't, i hate it. I have a little bit saved, not much but I won't starve while I find something else.”

“And do what?” Her eyes were sharp despite her age, Cici could see flashes of the  formidable political operator she once was. 

“I’d love to tell you I'm going to change my life, go back to painting, try and see if I can make a living from it, but in reality I'll get something similar, Digital marketing or web design stuff. I’ve got a bunch of user experience design qualifications from them so I will get something and it will be equally shit but it will be different shit for a bit.”

“Why not change your life and paint? You’re good. Better than good. I’ve told you I will pay for my portrait. Going rate too, no favours. And paint pictures of horses and dogs to sell while you build a reputation.”

“I can’t afford it. Even if I had the energy and focus to paint living in London, it would be crazy financially. I just couldn't pay the rent without a full time job, even sharing with three or four strangers. I’m sorry I‘m not braver but I can't make it work.”

Isobel nodded and the silence resumed.

“Did you mean that? Painting and living somewhere you see nobody? Loneliness can be more difficult than you think.”

Isobel’s pale blue eyes met Cici's brown eyes and they shared a look that told a story of love and friendship and gratitude. 

“Maybe not forever. But for a while.” 

“You know I‘m going to Malcolms for Christmas, aren't you? I’d invite you if I thought, well you are invited”

“No, your family, not mine. I’d feel an intruder. I hate Christmas. Christmas is for people with families. Ideally I'd spend it alone and eat Quality Street and drink wine all day but Lucy will bully me into going to her mums and I’ll drive back from hers to wherever I‘m staying first thing on Boxing day. But I just want to be alone.”

“You’ve been good to me Cici. No, don't wave it away like that. I appreciate it. I appreciate this. And I think I can help you for once.”

Cici smiled indulgently at her neighbour and friend. She had wielded power and influence once, had her own Wikipedia page, even though it was Stub, with a list of her “First woman in Politics to…”

But now she lived alone, hale enough to resist attempts to put her in a home, frail enough to need help carrying her weekly shop that she insisted on doing in person. 

She video-called an adored daughter in Rome every few days, and saw her banker son, Malcolm, every couple of weeks when he could make it in from Hertfordshire to see her, even though he passed within a few dozen yards of her flat four times a week on his way to and from his City office. 

“I still have a house in Scotland. It was Fraser and I’s first home, in the small town he was from, up in the Highlands. We kept it when we came to London, it’s so long ago I can't remember but I think we gave it to Finlay, his brother, to stay in for a while. 

Cici couldn't imagine anyone just giving away a house. 

“Then when Finlay moved away it became a family holiday home. We spent every school holiday there for a while. Kirsty loved it. Malcolm less so. We would use it in the English holidays, Finlay and Jess and their kids in the Scottish holidays, and cousins and whatnot would get use of it too. It’s in a pretty glen, if you like hills and moors and rain and nowhere you can walk in heels.”

“Then when the kids all grew up we rented out to someone, a friend of Finlay’s daughter I think? Fraser always planned for us to move back but I‘m not a small town girl Cici”, she gave a conspiratorial smile. 

”But when Fraser…..” She shrugged and left the words unsaid. 

“It’s had a lovely family in it for a few years but they have moved out to buy somewhere locally. Malcolm of course wants me either to sell it or “make real money” by turning it into a holiday let but it’s a small home for a young family and I won't do that. Fraser would be appalled.”

Despite herself Cici leaned forward and shuffled to the edge of her chair. She wasn't really, she couldn't seriously be offering…  

“It’s been empty for a few weeks, and Eilidh, that’s Findlay and Jess’s youngest, she's an interior designer in Edinburgh and very talented too, you remind me of her…Sorry where was I? 

“Yes, Eilidh has given it a makeover and it’s rather pretty now. If you give me my tablet I’ll show you…

“There is a young family from the village moving in at the start of January. They’re moving back from Glasgow so have things to organise.”

Oh. No. She wasn't offering that. 

“But I don't like the idea of it being empty for weeks on end. Highland winters can be harsh. And I don't like the idea of houses lying empty at all really. 

“It’s at the other end of the country so it's a big commitment. You can't pop back to London for the weekend and really are in the middle of nowhere.”  

Yes. Yes. Cici was packing in her head before her friend had stopped talking. 

“But what about you? I can’t leave you for that long.”

“Yes you can. We can do a big shop just before you go, I have a few lunches planned in December anyway then I'm off to Malcolms in the blasted Shires. I’ll be fine. Well as fine as i can be in the country. And we can meet here again in the New Year and you can tell me how much you missed London. 

“And of course you can stay here while you get a new place sorted, even if I can only offer you a sofa in London.”

“Then Yes. If you're sure. I’d love that Isobel, let me run away for a while. Let me disappear and work things out.” Cici hugged her and fought back tears of relief and gratitude.

[aeneas75]

2

Cecilia Ann Lawrence, 27, latterly of Somers Town in the Borough of Camden, London, pulled her large suitcase through the streets of Kenmore, a village in the heart of the Highland, 8 hours by train and bus from London and a world away from the life she was used to.

She handed in her notice that Friday afternoon, frightened her nerve would not last the weekend, gave an excuse about a family crisis that required her to leave London urgently which her boss seemed to believe from the vague sympathetic noises he made even though she had told him several times before she had no family, and reluctantly agreed she could take emergency leave as her notice period. 

She worked over the weekend writing handovers, spent Monday dialing into calls to walk them through and then went into the office after 5pm to hand back her laptop and pass. 

48 hours later she was approaching the house that would be her home for the rest of the year in the gathering dusk, dragging her suitcase through a pavement thick with autumn leaves, her shoulders aching from carrying her remaining belongings in an overstuffed backpack.

The long, tiring journey had gone to plan so far but as she grew closer to Kenmore her self doubt and anxiety began to build. 

What was she thinking? She had barely even left London, travelling to Scotland to reboot her life was just not the sort of thing that she did, she was a homebuddy, not an intrepid traveller and she was way out of her depth. 

Would the woman be waiting behind the counter of the village shop with the key as promised?

Could she work the central heating? 

What if there was a power cut? Or a burst pipe or leak in the roof? 

Could she live somewhere without a 24 hour shop or Just Eat deliveries? 

Without Lucy she would have to cook. Every. Single. Night. Would she end up starving, unable to face her own cooking? 

Did Isobel secretly hate her and this was just an elaborate ruse to humiliate her and leave her to die of exposure, homeless, on a cold late autumn night in the Highlands? 

Would the locals hate her and end up burning her in a Wicker Man? She wasn't a virgin and was pretty sure that usually happened at Midsummer rather than Midwinter but the possibility could not be ruled out. 

But according to the map on her phone, she was now approaching Ivy Cottage, the last Victorian building on the lane that led up the hill away from the main street towards the mountains on the horizon, looming black against the last of the autumn light in the darkening sky. 

As she stood in front of a pretty two story stone cottage with white washed walls and steep wood faced roofs designed to shrug off the snow, the knot between her shoulder blades began to ease a little. 

And when the door swung open at first turn of the lock to reveal a small entrance hall and staircase, with glimpses of a spotless kitchen and living room beyond, she exhaled a deep breath she didn't know she had been holding. 

When she heard the boiler fire up at the turn of the dial she smiled a little. 

And as she tentatively explored the house while the radiators warmed and the house creaked and groaned as it came to life around her that smile grew wider. 

The cottage was small but spotless, freshly decorated and modernised but with a sense of its history, from the slightly uneven sanded floorboards in the living room or the traditional kitchen with eggshell blue walls and a Welsh dresser that looked as old as the cottage. 

Tired but too wired to sleep, she made tea and began to unpack, claiming the space before the Universe tried to take it away from her. 

All of the three bedrooms on the first floor were built into the eves of the roof with dormer windows to make more space. She claimed the largest of the three space, with pale pink walls, a brand new king sized bed but ancient wardrobes in dark wood that might just be portals to another world and started to sort out her things. 

She looked at the pile of clothes tipped from her suitcase onto the bed in the bedroom. She had packed in a hurry and with the dream of days spent alone painting in big jumpers and paint splattered duds over her secret indulgence of beautiful lingerie so realised with a wry smile she had only packed her most practical, and her least practical clothes, with nothing in between. 

So no dresses, smart tops or anything work or date appropriate but plenty comfortable leggings, multiple sweaters, her favourite painting jeans, a fleecy hoodie, her most sensible shoes (well worn cross trainers) an outfit for yoga, some elegant pyjamas and almost the entire contents of her lingerie drawer. The lingerie was barely worn, some with the tags still on, a metaphor for her stunted love and sex life. 

She folded them with care into the drawer she had designed for her intimates; the silk teddy with lace trim that she had bought for the weekend away with Josh that never happened, the pink silk bralette with a big bow at the front and matching French knickers that she bought for their first night-in together that he had stripped her out of in seconds. 

An open backed cross strapped chemise slit high up the side that she bought for a hotel date with her lover before Josh, a married man on the cusp of divorce (he claimed); again unworn as he fell asleep after the first round and she spent the night eating crisps and watching TV in bed while he snored beside her.    

She had bought them all for occasions that didn't happen or were a disappointment. For men that didn't happen or were a disappointment.  

There was a lot of pink in the drawer. Oh well, there was no one to judge her here, so why not be the girl she had always wanted to be, without shame or embarrassment, even if for only a few weeks. 

She would wear lingerie for herself, and as she slipped her favorite egg shaped vibe (a travel essential) into the same drawer she suspected her sex life would be more fulfilling here, alone, than it ever had been in London with thin walls and flatmates.

When she crawled into bed, her presence marked on the house, she allowed herself a glimmer of optimism before falling into a deep dreamless sleep. 

[aeneas75]

3

The next day she began to explore the small town and set herself up to live here till next year. 

It would be called a village in England and she reckoned she could walk from end to end in little more than thirty minutes. She found to her delight a small cinema, a gallery, pretty walks along the river (supposedly famous for its birch trees and a possible subject for a painting to sell). 

The autumn colours had clung on in sheltered spots along the river and beside the loch so she snapped away with thoughts of painting the same scenes in autumn and winter during her stay. 

As her mentor drummed into her; Landscape sells, famous landscapes sell better, and pets sell best. Portraiture does not sell unless the artist or sitter is famous but that is no reason not to paint it. It is the pinnacle of figurative art.  

At the independent cafe where she had lunch the friendly owner asked why she was here out of season but did not appear to be overtly hostile so fears of ostracism faded a little. 

However when she went shopping for essentials it was clear that food was going to be a problem. There was another (fancier) cafe; a small Italian restaurant that looked enticing and a couple of less appealing options but her budget was too tight to eat out much and the Co-Op had a limited supply of ready meals. 

As she picked at her microwaved Mac & Cheese later she suspected she would grow tired of that and ready made Chicken Tikka Masala quickly. Now the fear of starving to death, unable to eat what she had made seemed a lot more likely cause of her demise than sacrificial victim or exposure. 

But as she changed into her favourite silk pyjamas and curled up on the sofa to sketch and read she began to relax and let the tension of the last few days leave her body. And she began to realise how tired she was. Tomorrow she would sketch and see if any art store could deliver canvas to her, and if not plan a trip to Glasgow or Edinburgh, but not for a week or so. She was here now and wanted to enjoy this feeling. 

She was alone, blissfully alone, in a warm, quiet house, where she could lounge with no one to justify anything to, wearing her glamorous pink Pj top with matching silk shorts cut high on the thigh to show off her long slim legs, toned by barre and yoga. She would wake tomorrow when she choose to and spend the day on her own schedule.  

And then she heard a key turn in the front door.

Fuck!

She leapt up and ran to the hall, grabbing a rolling pin from the kitchen, cursing herself for leaving her pepper spray in her backpack hanging on the coat hook on the far side of the hall. 

The intruder stood in the doorway, clearly not expecting to be challenged. 

“Go away, I’ve nothing of value here and I'm calling the police so you’d better run.”

He looked shocked but made no attempt to flee.

“Who the fuck are you? And to be honest I reckon you could use that rolling pin to bake us something that will be ready before the police bother to drive up from Perth.” 

He was taller than her, 6ft at least and broad shouldered. Maybe ten years older than her, his thick brown hair and full beard were streaked with grey. He studied her, almost as surprised to see her as she was him. 

“And, I'll call the police myself, what are you anyway, some sort of hippy squatter in posh jammies?” 

His voice was thick with arrogance and he held his ground, trying and failing to intimidate her but she regretted her choice of outfit, it not exactly helping the fierce image she was trying to project.  

“I live here, till January anyway.” Chloe shouted with fear and anger, “The owner has sent me to house sit until her new tenants move in.”

She made a dash for her backpack and fished out the pepper spray from the front pocket in a single fluid motion that she didn't think she could repeat even with twice the time. 

“Back. The Fuck. Off.” She held the pepper spray up and stepped towards him, voice low and cracking with anger. 

How dare some prick just waltz in and try and take this away. 

“Whoaaa crazy girl with the illegal weapon. That's going in the police report along with squatting,” but he raised his hands, palms up and lowered his voice to something close to conversational. 

“So who is the owner who you claim asked you to house-sit, given that I am looking after the place til the Sayyids move up?” Conversational maybe but his tone was mocking. 

“Isobel Matheson you smug prick.”

“And she lives round the corner in Athol Drive yeah, let’s go see her then, come on.”

“Fuck off you arrogant wanker. No, she lives in London. She’s my neighbour for the last three years. And friend.”

“Right well done you, so you asked about who owns the place. So whereabouts in London then?”

“Somers Town.”

“Haha nope. She lives in Camden. Not wherever that place is.” He managed to sound even more smug than before, thinking he had caught her out. 

“Somers Town is in the Borough of Camden you hick.” 

“Is it? Well OK. Maybe it is.” 

A hint of doubt seemed to creep into his voice for the first time and she went on the offensive. 

“She lives in Walker House, flat 0/18. That’s about halfway between Euston and King cross. She has stupidly expensive wallpaper on her ex-council flat, wears vintage Dior most days and usually has a bottle of champagne in the fridge because Being alive is a celebration enough in itself to drink fizz.”

He gave a chuckle and rubbed his beard. 

“Tae be fair that does sound like Wee Auntie Bell. Does she really wear vintage Dior?”

“Yeah she’s on first name terms with all the charity shop owners in Knightsbridge and they call her whenever they get the good stuff in her size.”

“So. Ok. Wee Bell is my Aunt. Great Aunt to be precise. Can I sit down? I’ve driven up from Glasgow and I’m knackered” he moved to go toward the living room.

“No. You can fuck off” she stepped sideways to put her body between him and the living room door and raised the pepper spray higher. 

“Isobel gave me this place to look after. Fine you might have a set of keys but I’m house sitting, not you and I don’t want you here, you big fucking oaf.” 

“Charming. Shall I call her now?”

“No. She'll be asleep.” 

He nodded and leaned against the wall. 

“So here’s the thing,” the sharpness had gone from his voice and he sounded weary. 

“I told Aunty Bell I would spend the weekends here until Salim and the family move in. I’m working down in Glasgow, crashing in a mates spare room during the week then coming up here Thursday night to work from here Friday and spending the weekend. 

“I'm kinda “between flats” at the moment and I love it up here, wee Bell knows that and I know she would be cool with it. I’m definitely her favourite male relative. Although if you have ever met Uncle Malcolm you might say the competition is not that strong.”

He forced a nervous laugh he cut short when he saw she wasn’t amused. 

“I messaged her all this and told her I would look after the place and asked Mum and Eilidh to remind her when they next spoke. Only Mum would forget and Eildh probably just wanted to talk to her about wallpaper.”

He sat in the doorway. Cici remained still, pepper spray ready. 

“And? I don’t really buy the sob story and frankly don't care. I want you out.” Her fear was gone now but her determination had hardened. 

“Fine. Whatever. Just let me stay the night and we can talk about it in the morning.”

“No. What part of Get the fuck Out do you not understand?” 

“Fecking hell. They really do breed them differently down in London. Enchante.”

He ran his hands through his hair and slumped deeper, back against the front door. 

“So she sent you up until New Year yeah, is that your story? What colour are her eyes?”

“Blue but her left eye has a hazel segment. It’s beautiful and rare and she says it gives her second sight.”

“Fuck.” He sounded defeated,  holding his face in his hands. “Ok, Ok, fine. Crazy scary Auntie sends crazy scary angry London girl 500 miles across the country to house-sit but doesn't bother telling any of her actual family. 

“Again, tae be fair that does sound exactly like something Wee Bell would do.” He gave a wry smile in admiration. .

“But don’t chuck me out in the rain. Just one night at least? I’ve driven up from Glasgow in the pissing rain and just want to make something to eat and then sleep.”

“No. I don’t want you here.” She had to be firm. 

“Jesus, right, I get it. Ok at least let me phone around and try and work out where i’m going to stay the night. And I have a car full of food that I was planning to cook over the weekend, can I at least put that in the fridge so it doesn't get ruined?”

She nodded and sat on the floor at a safe distance, watching as he called the local hotel and caravan park only to find both closed for maintenance work in the out-of-season, and pre-Christmas dead zone and a search of rooms at the local castle turned spa elicited a; 

“Fuck me, no, I can’t afford that for one night.”

He rubbed his forehead and looked thoroughly miserable.  

“One night.” She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. “Just tonight and clear out in the morning.”

He almost sounded genuine when he thanked her. 

“I’ll try and keep it quiet but I need to get this food in the fridge and I haven't eaten since lunch and then i’ll crash out. You’ll barely notice me.”

She grunted as she gathered her sketch pad and novel to go to her room and get away from him. 

“Good night,” he called out from the kitchen, his cheerfulness forced, “Oh and nice legs by the way.” She glared at his back from the stairs. 

“I’ll have my pepper spray in my hand all night so don't even think about trying anything you creepy misogynist pig.”  

“Night night to you too.”

[aeneas75]

4

She sat up in bed until she heard the noises from the kitchen go quiet. Then dozed a little when she heard him come up the stairs. She had dragged an old oak chest of drawers to barricade the door but as she heard his footsteps go past her door she was wide awake, upright and ready to launch herself at him if he tried to come in. 

But the footsteps went past her door and she heard him slam the door to the guest bedroom.

She must have fallen asleep in the early hours as the adrenaline left her body and the anger faded. It was bright when she woke. 

Shiit. 9.15am 

Hauling away her improvised barricade, her hopes of him leaving at first light were dashed by the sound of tuneless singing coming from the kitchen along with the smell of freshly brewed coffee. 

She found him slicing a crusty loaf, he didn’t look up at her as he spoke. 

“Good morning. I’m not staying. But I bought loads of food that i probably won’t be able to use so thought i’d make breakfast. And maybe by way of apology. You did not see me at my best last night. I didn't mean to scare you. So, sorry. Coffee or tea?”

“You didn't scare me. But i’ll take a coffee”

She had fantasised about tasting it as soon as she could smell it but it tasted even better in reality and she allowed herself a tiny moment of bliss as the hot, fresh coffee touched her lips.

She had thrown a hoodie over her sleepwear but she still caught him sneaking a look at her legs. 

“How do you like your eggs? It’s not a line, I’ll do them anyway you like. Poached? Switched or Sunny side up? Poached is the most hassle if that matters.”

“Poached then.” She sat at the large kitchen table and luxuriated in the first few sips of her first coffee of the day and watched him work. For all his bravado he moved around the kitchen with the ease of someone in his natural environment. 

“Good choice. I have fresh sourdough that I'll lightly toast and would you like some avo with it ? Of course you would, stupid thing to ask a posh Londoner.”

“I’m not posh. The very opposite. I’m from Watford originally. Isobel thought her family up here were.”

“Aye well with most things she’s not wrong without being entirely right either. i'm from the disappointing branch. Maybe that’s why she likes me.”

“So You say.”

She watched him as he worked, while pretending to read. He was handsome in his own way, not the romantic lead but the bad unfaithful boyfriend our heroine has to see through to find true love.

He handed her a plate of instagram perfect food.  

“Et Voila, poached eggs and sliced avocado on sourdough toast with a squeeze of lemon and chilli flakes, garnished by fresh dill. Bon Appetit!” 

Even granted that with her empty stomach her standards were low it was still the best meal she had eaten in days and she didn't want to think how much a breakfast this good would cost in a London cafe. 

“Satisfactory?” 

She looked up to see him standing above her, arms crossed, watching her eat.

“Trick is to bring the avocado up to room temperature. Most places serve it straight from the fridge and it kills the subtle flavour and distracts from the overall. You like?” 

“Are you not eating? Have you poisoned it? Is that your plan, to get the house by bumping me off?”

He laughed and his big smile split his face and made his eyes crinkle at the edges as he took a forkful from his plate. “No poison, promise”. 

She ate in silence, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her say it was delicious but the silence got too much fr and she cracked

“Sit down, you’re making me nervous hovering over me,” and then, “Do you enjoy cooking”

“Yeah, I love to cook. I'm not great, i don’t do anything cheffy or very fancy  but I can follow a recipe and being in the kitchen is my happy place. That and on a mountainside. 

“My plan for this weekend was to do a couple of the peaks in the Lawers range a few miles west, above Loch Tay that I’ve never done before, and cook, and read and that was it. 

“I took today off to sort out anything I would need to set myself up here and would drive back down late Sunday evening, to let Stevie, the mate I‘m crashing with in Glasgow, get all day with his kids.. Well that was the plan. But you seem to have beaten me to it. 

“So i’m now trying to work out what friend or family i can crash with each night without pissing off too much, or worse, getting their pity. ”

Cici remained silent. He would be gone soon. No point getting to know him, even though is gravelly voice was pleasantly the ear she came here to be alone 

“Oh i should really introduce myself. Ruairidh MacKenzie. Ike i think i said last night Enchante. ”

He held out a hand that Cici reluctantly took, unsmiling. He had a firm grip and her hand felt warm in his. 

“R-U-A-I-R-I-D-H, pronounced Ruarry if you’re curious although “Rory” is the English version and that is absolutely fine. Means Red King but the red in my beard has long since gone grey”. 

He rubbed a hand through his beard ruefully, “So it’s not really that difficult to pronounce. But everyone I work with from down south takes one look at it written down and collectively decided to just call me Mac. Which I'm actually fine with. My parents gave us all Gaelic names, which are nice but a bit intimidating if you’re not Scots.“

“Cecelia. C-E-C-E-L-I-A. My friends call me Cici. So you may call me Cecilia.

And I don't find anything about you intimidating Buster. Ruairidh. Wait, no that’s not right.”

“What’s not right?”, he looked amused by her studied hostility. 

“If you’re who you claim to be you must be the brother of the girl who decorated this place,”

He nodded, “and she’s Ellie… or something, Isobel made it sound like it started with an A but I assumed that was just her accent but that’s not Gaelic … “ 

“Haha, nope she’s Eilidh.” that big warm smile was back, unaffected by her iciness.  

Cici looked blank, “That’s what I said!” 

“You obviously haven’t seen it written down. Which, again, tae be fair just suggests you were told it verbally which either show’s you are who you say or a very skilled con artist. 

“Either way, you win. Let me enjoy my breakfast, I’ll even wash up for you then I'll go… somewhere. Congratulations, if anyone asks you what you did today you can tell them you chucked a guy out of his family home on a bitter cold, foggy November morning. And inherited a fridge full of fresh food to boot. 

“Good day’s work for you big city corporate types? I bet you wish it was closer to Christmas, would you get extra evil points for that?”

“I’m not that bad.” She said quietly, avoiding his gaze, although he kept his tone light, she could sense his weariness and the quiet despair of having longed-for plans crushed that she knew far too well. 

“So what have I inherited in the fridge then? What were you planning to cook this weekend.”

He shrugged, “Hadn’t finally decided so I’ve a few options and would freeze anything I didn’t use for next week but for tonight I was thinking a Greek-style baked aubergine dish done in tomatoes and with feta. Salad bowl of grains on the side, with plenty pomegranates. This is right bang in the middle of pomegranate season so they're at their best.”

“Sounds nice.” she swallowed hard and glanced at her empty plate. Her stomach grumbled like a traitor.

Would it be rude to ask him to make more eggs before he left? Probably. Yes. 

“It is rather nice, one of the things I make that I'm quite proud of. I put a couple of handfuls of  breadcrumbs through it and they soak in all the flavour and get nice and crispy, I think it adds a nice texture.”

“Uh huh. I’m sure it does.” 

“Sunday was going to be a traditional roast dinner, roast chicken, roast potatoes, and veg done with garlic and rosemary from the garden. I planted it... I know it sounds stupid to make it for one person but it just brings back so many memories. I was going to take the leftovers down to Stevie and we could have it for lunch on Monday. I’m rather proud of my roast tatties, crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside.”

“Sounds nice. If you're into that.” 

And she couldn’t help think it sounded exactly like the roast that Isobel cooked for her most Sundays, and was a highlight of every week. 

“And tomorrow? Saturday night plan?”

“Curry of course. Saturday Night Curry was a tradition in our family. I haven't decided between a Jalfrezi or a vaguely Kashmiri style one, I have recipes simple enough for me to follow for both. Lots of fresh red chillies and garlic and ginger either way. I’ll do up some dhaal to go with it and have shop-bought naan to go with it, which is supposedly not very authentic to Kashmir but hey. Everyone in the UK loves naan don’t we?”

He was smiling now and she hated to think she knew why but could not stop her mouth from watering. She swallowed hard and he continued. 

“Again I'll end up making way too much for one person so I’ll freeze the other portions.”    

“How spicy do you make it? Just… out of interest.” 

Stop talking Cici this is not helping, but all she could think about was food. 

He shrugged. “As spicy as whoever I'm cooking for likes it. Usually enough spice for a kick but not too much that eating it is an effort. Food should be a pleasure, not an endurance test.” 

He made no move to get up from the table. 

“So were you really planning to climb a mountain in that?” she pointed to the gloomy morning outside. 

“Yeah it's just fog and very low cloud. Once I get up the first thousand feet or so I should be above the clouds. A cloud inversion, looking down at clouds in the glens with blue sky above, is a spectacular experience. I’m gutted I‘m missing it.”

She nodded and drank the last of her coffee. 

“So. I can’t use all the food you’ve bought and I hate to see food going to waste. So just this weekend, go up your mountains. Stay out all day please, I don't want you around, I have work to do. But, yes, you can stay.”

“I am less of a bitch than you think. I’d rather you didn't spend your weekend crashing at different places. Been there, got that t-shirt, didn't particularly like it. “ 

“But my price for doing something I am sure I will regret is that you cook for us both. Also, as a bonus should mean there is no reason for you to come back for stuff from the freezer after you leave. And on Sunday I want you gone and out of my hair for good.”

“Understood, sure. Thank you.” 

Missing a line here 

End of Chapter 1

[aeneas75]

[aeneas75]