Page 8

“You are the absolute best,” I tell Grace.

“I know! And until I arrive there in person, I’m going to be checking in on you every day. Promise me you’ll look after yourself. Remember: three meals a day, even if you don’t feel like it. Your body needs nourishment.”

“I promise.”

Since the wedding that never was, my appetite has gone, and I’ve found no pleasure in food. Without a mum or dad to keep an eye on me, Grace is filling that role. I appreciate it.

Thinking of the wedding, I reach for my engagement ring—a ring that’s no longer there. It’s on Harry’s bedside table back in London. I cleared the rest of my stuff from the flat—stored it in the place Grace shares with her twin brother, David—but I left the ring. He can keep it.

“Grace, why do you think Harry left me? Is there something wrong with me?”

“No!” Grace shakes her head, her spiral curls bouncing in indignation. “You are perfect as you are. It’s Harry who’s the problem. Anyway, remember, you went to Scotland to get away from everything, so try to take this time to relax. How about a short yoga routine? We could do it over video.”

I laugh. “Thanks, but it’s late. I’m going to get ready for bed, and you should too. Besides, there’s not a lot of floor space, and I don’t fancy lying on the brown swirly carpet. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”

We say our goodbyes, then I hang up, brush my teeth, change into my silk pyjamas, and climb into bed. The mattress may be better than the one upstairs, but the sheets feel cheap. I don’t want to know what the thread count is.

I’m not expecting a good night’s sleep—I’ve not slept well since the wedding day—but soon after I turn out the light, I drift off.

And I dream . . .

* * *

I’m in the snug, a cosy little room on the ground floor of the hotel with a bar and just four small tables. I’m at one of the tables, sipping cola through a straw, reading a book. Dad’s sitting with the hotel’s owners, Angus and Mairi. They’re drinking pints and exchanging stories, their voices getting louder—and Dad’s face redder—as the night goes on. Angus’s voice is particularly booming, and I can’t help but imagine him as a Viking as he barks with laughter at each of Dad’s jokes, as well as each of his own.

The noise, though close to deafening, is comforting, and it’s nice to see Dad looking so relaxed. Back home in London, he’s usually stressed and serious, not so quick to crack a joke. He’s always there for me, but it’s like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. The Highlands brings out the best in him.

Three young kids sit at another table, side by side, gazes fixed on a handheld games console that the boy in the middle holds.

The boy’s older brother grips his shoulder with excitement.

The boy’s little sister claps her hands and chants, “Go Jamie, go Jamie, you can do it! Beat the boss!”

On a dog bed in the corner snoozes an adorable chocolate cocker spaniel puppy. Every so often she’ll get up, stretch, then pad around the room, going from person to person to be petted by each.

The only other person in the snug is a boy seated at the bar. He’s the oldest of the four siblings and has curly chestnut hair and hazel eyes that keep on seeking me out. I pretend not to notice—pretend to be focused on my book—but it’s been ages since I turned the page.

This boy has stared at me a lot since Dad and I got here last week. At first I thought he was monitoring me, like he didn’t think I could be trusted in this hotel that’s also his family home. Only earlier today did it occur to me that maybe he’s watching me for another reason.

This afternoon, Angus invited me and my dad to go white-water rafting with him and his eldest son, the one with the watchful eyes. It wasn’t an official organised activity—no money changed hands. Rather, Angus and my dad got talking about outdoor sports, which led to the invitation being extended.

My dad accepted, of course. He always encourages adventure when we’re here in Scotland. I’ve done my fair share of different things, but white-water rafting was a first for me. It was pretty scary, but I’m glad I did it.

At one point, though, I fell in. When that happened, the boy reached into the water, grabbed my life jacket, and pulled me back onto the raft. As I spat and sputtered and complained to my dad about being soaking wet, the boy grinned and then jumped in himself.

“Now I’m soaked through too!” he said after clambering back aboard. “It’s all part of the fun.”

It was such a silly thing to do, and yet I found it sweet, this stupid, funny kid sitting beside me, just as wet as me, his damp fringe hanging down in front of his eyes, drip, drip, dripping, a toothy grin directed my way.

Catching myself dwelling on the boy, I force myself to focus on my book, to at least finish the page, so that I can turn it and keep up the pretence I’m still reading. But out of the corner of my eye, I pick up on movement: he’s coming my way. He tosses down a couple of packets of crisps on my table then takes the seat opposite me.

“Which flavour do you want?”

“Oh.” I glance at the crisps then over at my dad. “I’ve not paid for them.”

“Don’t worry, they’re on the house. Salt and vinegar or prawn cocktail? Or I can grab a different flavour?”

I hesitate, doubting his confident claim they’re “on the house” when he didn’t ask his parents’ permission and obviously just grabbed them from behind the bar. But . . . I like that he did that.