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Lottie watched Freya apply the finishing touches to her elaborate eye makeup in the hallway mirror that had been wonky ever since she had a strop when she was eight. The nail holding the mirror had shifted, thanks to an errant fist. Lottie had been meaning to fix it for years, but by now it had blended into the busy space at the entrance to the cottage, full of boots and coats and hats.

Moving to the Highlands had been quite an eye-opener for city girl, Lottie. The children had got used to it far quicker than she had, settling into the local school and nursery easily enough. Lottie had devoted herself to parenting and work and tried not to think about the plans she had made and been forced to abandon.

Anne-Marie had been her rock during that time. While Lottie’s parents provided support from afar, they were dealing with their own crushing grief. Anne-Marie ran the hotel, so was technically Lottie’s boss, but looking back Lottie could see she had taken her under her wing more like mother might a daughter.

“Looking lovely, Freya,” said Lottie, feeling pride in the young woman standing before her.

“Thanks.” Freya turned her head and flashed Lottie a rare smile. “Roll on chocolate fondant.”

“You have Anya wrapped around your little finger,” laughed Lottie.

“It’s a skill,” said Freya with a pout.

They donned their big coats and forced their way through the wind which had blown up into a gale since earlier in the day.

Lottie and Freya joined Anne-Marie and Alistair at their customary table near the kitchen door. It was a great vantage point to watch the other diners, and also close enough that they could hear Anya bellow at the sous chef from time to time.

Lottie raised her eyebrows when she saw Anya personally taking Hannah’s order. Hannah caught her eye on her way back. “Personal service for our celebrity, huh?” questioned Lottie.

“Well, I wanted to see why your knickers were all in a twist.” Anya winked. “I can see why now, she’s even hotter in person.”

Freya rolled her eyes. “God, you two are disgusting, you should be beyond this kind of thing.”

“Oh darling,” Anya cast her eyes towards Freya, “you’re never too old for love. Or fun, for that matter.”

Freya made a vomiting gesture but followed it with a half-smile at Anya, who disappeared into the kitchen.

“What’s all this?” asked Anne-Marie. “A celebrity?”

“She was booked in under her married name,” said Lottie. “She’s Hannah Castle.”

“Oh,” interrupted Freya, “off the BBC? She’s the PM-killer.”

“Well, at the last time of checking I believe he is still alive, dear,” said Anne-Marie, “but that woman certainly took him down. Interesting. She’s here alone, is she?”

“Yeah,” said Lottie, trying to be nonchalant. Objectively, she knew Hannah was attractive, but Anya had misread everything if she thought Lottie had some kind of thing for her. “But for what it’s worth, I was surprised when she started appearing regularly on our screens. We were actually at uni together.”

“Oooh,” said Freya, “ex-girlfriend?” Her eyes were wide.

“What happened to me being too old for ‘that kind of thing’?” said Lottie, using her fingers to create air quotes.

“Well, you were young then. That’s OK.” Freya took a sip of her lager.

“Oh, well that’s good to know,” said Lottie, locking eyes with Anne-Marie, who was trying not to laugh. Alistair carried on eating, oblivious. “But no, there’s never been anything between us. We just knew each other a little bit when we were in our teens and early twenties. It was a long time ago.” Lottie fingered the bottom of her wine glass. “Before we came here.”

“I bless the day you three came to live here in this place with me and Alistair,” said Anne-Marie, her eyes soft.

“Aye,” agreed Alistair, “you’re family now.”

Freya once again looked like she was going to vomit. Lottie smiled and wondered if she should say hello to Hannah, given she was on her own.

“I’m just going to say hello before our mains arrive,” said Lottie.

In the stroll across the restaurant, Lottie took in Hannah’s outfit. She cut a chic figure in the restaurant, sipping a glass of white wine. Just as Lottie approached and greeted her, Hannah turned, assuming Lottie was there to take her order. Lottie wished she had remained at her own table. Her face went bright red and she felt about six inches tall.

Of course. Hannah didn’t see her as anything but a waitress in a hotel she had deigned to visit.

Lottie quickly excused herself and headed to the loos. She needed a moment away from prying eyes. She hoped desperately that none of the staff had seen her. She splashed cold water onto her face to bring down the redness. She looked at herself in the mirror, in an old and worn-out dress. She considered how she might appear to Hannah. She was a little person in a little place. Hannah was the famous journalist responsible for breaking the story of the decade and causing the downfall of a prime minister. Of course she would look down on Lottie. Perhaps she always had.