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She whispers something into his ear. I’m too far away to hear what, but his eyes widen.

“Er . . .” He flashes me an awkward grin. “Let’s just have a quick bite, yeah?”

My mouth falls open. I can’t believe this. After what I’ve been through, how can they possibly think I’d want to eat here?

“I’ll stay in the car.” I try the door, but it’s locked.

“Come on!” David waves at me. “I promise we’ll be quick!” And with that, he turns and hurries after Grace, who hasn’t stopped walking.

My lower lip quivers, and for a moment I think I might burst into tears right here in this car park. Grace and David are my friends—they’re the people I’m closest to in the world. They’re meant to support me in times like this, not take me to a place that’s obviously going to upset me. And yet . . .

Don’t they care? Don’t they have any empathy at all?

Sniffing and forcing back tears—telling myself I’ll keep my pride, if nothing else—I put on a brave face and follow them. We pass several pretty-looking shops before reaching the restaurant and bar. As the sun has now come out, Grace and David pick the outdoor seating area, which has a view over the courtyard to the original blacksmith’s cottage. They choose a table, and David tilts it to rid it of a puddle of rainwater.

“Well, what do you fancy?” Grace asks me.

I give her my best I-am-not-impressed look. “I couldn’t stomach anything. Not here.”

“Oh? Are you sure?” She shrugs. “Suit yourself. You can keep the table for us, then, while David and I go inside and pick something.”

The way my friends are treating me is almost too much to bear.

“You’re the ones with the car, so I don’t see what choice I have,” I mutter.

I’ve half a mind to make my own way to London. I know they’ve done a lot for me today—coming back from Loch Ness to collect me, and putting up with my tears for the last few hours—but this . . . well, it’s insensitive. Why on earth would I want to eat in a place that’s famous for love?

As I sit by myself at the table, a young couple—mid-twenties, I think—emerge from the Famous Blacksmiths Shop. He’s in a three-piece suit, she’s in a short wedding dress, and they have with them a pug in a waistcoat and bow tie that matches the man’s.

Bloody hell! After the day I’ve had, the last thing I want to see is a newlywed couple.

It’s just the two of them—there’s no wedding party—and they pose under a large sculpture of two clasped hands while a photographer snaps shots of them. Some tourists pull out phones and cameras and take pictures of their own.

The professional photos don’t last long, and when they’re done, the newlyweds simply wander off. Despite my pain and a blaze of jealousy, I can’t help but wonder why they got married with no friends or family present. That must be how they wanted it, and that’s lovely, but it’s so unlike the weddings I’m used to organising, which are large, busy, all-day affairs.

By the time Grace and David return, a piper is welcoming the next couple. These two are a bit older, and they have with them maybe ten guests, including an adorable little boy who I assume is their son.

“Oh, look! A wedding!” David comments.

“Yes, they’re the second couple I’ve seen,” I say drily. “Apparently, this tiny village is Scotland’s answer to Las Vegas.”

Grace and David have the decency to look apologetic—but only for a moment, then they tuck in to their food.

I go back to watching the procession, my attention drawn not by the couple but by the piper, who’s in full regalia. Well, at least I’m getting to see someone in a kilt before I return to England, but I’d hoped that person would be Ally.

Grace and David don’t exactly wolf down their meals. Why would they? Instead, they seem determined to draw out this hell as long as possible, savouring every mouthful and taking their sweet time, watching the comings and goings of tourists.

After a while, I can’t take it anymore. Turning to Grace, I ask, “Did I say something in the car to upset you?”

She blinks. “No. Why would you think that?”

I want to tell her it’s because sometime in the last thirty minutes she had a personality transplant, and since then she’s been acting aloof and uncaring. I want my usual compassionate Grace back. That friend would never make me sit here and stew.

Instead, I blow out and shrug. “Never mind.”

When, finally, they’ve both finished their food—by which time a silver car has pulled up, depositing yet another couple—I’m at the end of my tether. But as we stand, Grace points across the courtyard to the “Gretna Green Experience”.

“Do you two fancy visiting the museum?”