Well.
My holiday is really looking up.
FOURTEEN
SUMMER
Ispend the next hour in the cabin trying to wrangle my inbox. I can’t concentrate. Even when I give up on reading and have my computer read my emails aloud to me, the words don’t mean anything. My thoughts scatter like balls on a pool table. My brain is full of Fraser, helpfully replaying the hard press of his thigh between my legs.
Before long, I feel like I’m losing my mind. I’ve gotten nothing done, and I’m furious at myself. I hate when this happens. It reminds me of being in school, of studying late into the night and not getting anywhere, of knowing I was going to fail and Mum was going to be mad at me.
I decide to give up. I figure I should buy some food before it gets dark, so I can stop scrounging off the guys. Cameron left a handful of hand-drawn maps on the coffee table, and one of them tracks the route down to the local village. I snap a picture of it and grab my shoes.
It takes about thirty minutes to reach Dalbrae on foot. The village is tiny and adorable. Grey stone houses cluster around one central street of shops. There’s a post-office-slash-cornershop. A library, a bookshop, and a miniature church. As I walk through the cobbled streets, every single person stares at me. I keep my head down. I’m just going to buy groceries, but then I walk past a shop with a lace-covered wedding dress in the window and reverse to stare at it.
To be honest, the dress is slightly hideous, but the lace is what catches my attention.I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’spoint de gaze—an old Belgian needlepoint lace, known for being particularly gauzy and shimmery. I learned about it during my two-month lace obsession at uni, when I spent my evenings searching the historical roots of various patterns instead of doing my coursework.Point de gazestopped being produced in the twenties. I’ve never seen it in person before.
I look up at the shop’s sign. It’s a charity shop called Twice Blessed.I’m pushing inside before I know it.
The shop is warm and cosy. A teenage boy chews gum behind the counter. I float over to the window display. The dress is old and slightly torn, but the white lace is mostly intact. I could unpick it and use it to make something…
Although I’m not sure what exactly. I haven’t sewn in years. Before I can decide, a flash of pink a few feet away catches my eye. I pull the raspberry-coloured jumper from a rack of knitwear, inwardly cooing.
I haven’t been in a charity shop in forever, but I used to trawl them multiple times a week. I’d spend all my wages on secondhand stuff, staying up late into the night with my cheap little sewing machine. Much to my mum’s disapproval.
I wince. I should probably call her. I’ve been putting it off since I got to Scotland, but she might be wondering where I am. I check the cashier is still ignoring me, then I hook my phone out and press her contact.
It goes straight to the answering machine. “Hi, Mum!” I say, fondling a tartan scarf. “I hope you’re doing well. Um, there wasa bit of a problem with my brand trip in Scotland, so I’m staying at a nearby Airbnb. So if you check my location and I’m in the wrong place, that’s why.” I pause awkwardly. “Um, I’ll be back in London next week, so if you want to grab a coffee, I’d love to?—”
The beep cuts me off. I shove the phone back in my pocket. Well, at least I tried. My eyes catch on a pearl necklace on a mannequin, and I immediately forget everything else.
The next hour is a blur. I flit around the shop, finding treasure after treasure. A lilac nightdress. A powder-blue vintage waistcoat. A silk dressing gown embroidered with flowers. Soon, my arms are weighed down with pretty pastel fabrics and sparkles. I’m just building up the courage to ask about the wedding dress when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“We’re closing,” the cashier informs me, smacking his gum.
“Oh, right! Yes. Sorry!” I look down at the heap of clothes in my arms.
Reasonably, I know I shouldn’t get any of them. I don’t even sew anymore. I don’t have the time. And Lulu would have a conniption if she saw this stuff. Neutrals, they are not.
But I could make them so cute…
“Please don’t make me put all that back,” the boy drones.
“Oh my God, no. Of course not!” I heave it all onto the counter. “Um, how much is that wedding dress in the window?”
He looks at me like I’m insane. “Tenner. It’s ripped in the back.”
“I’ll take it.”
I leave the shop clutching a pile of paper bags and buzzing with happiness. As the door shuts behind me, I realise the street is gloomy and shadowy, the clouds overhead almost black. Rain soaks my clothes.
My stomach goes cold. Crap. The sun has set.
I’m bad with time. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been perpetually late. Whatever internal clock most people seem tohave, mine is well and truly broken. The only way I get anything done on time is through a complex system of alarms on my phone.
I start to panic. There’s no way I can get back to the farm. There are no streetlights on the road. I’d probably just walk right off a cliff. Or into a cow. Or into a cowpat. Do I call someone? Who?
“Summer,” a low voice calls from across the road.
