‘Glenda!’ Beatrice cried, waving to the driver, who waved back, beeping the vintage mobile cinema’s horn as she rolled by.
‘Right on time,’ Beatrice said. ‘I told her to park up on the green in front of the church.’
Sure enough, up ahead the silver bus pulled off the road and Beatrice amended her clipboard accordingly.
‘Your mum’ll be pleased. They’re showingAn American in Parisfor the matinee andBrigadoonafter lunch and then tonight it’sSingin’ in the Rain.’
‘She’ll be made up,’ Atholl said, stopping Beatrice as they reached the village hall, all decked out with pastel bunting strung between the pink blossoming cherry trees.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Beattie, I never thanked you properly for organisin’ this. It all came about because you wanted Mum to see her movies on the big screen. I don’t say it enough, but you’ve a kind heart and since you came here you’ve made a’ our lives better, mine especially.’
Beatrice smiled. ‘You don’t have to thank me, I’ve loved every second.’
‘Still,’ Atholl smiled down at her, lifting her face to his in a cupped hand, his fingertips soft behind her ear, his thumb stroking her cheek. Bringing his lips down to meet hers, they kissed, soft and slow in the airy warmth of the spring morning.
The people of Port Willow, never ones to be late for a gathering, were coming out of their doors now. Some set out deckchairs on the pavement by their steps, others dropped lengths of saltire flags from their upstairs windows to be taken up by neighbours so the whole street quickly became swagged with flapping bunting. The whole curving length of the sandy bay was busy, as was the playpark by the shore with children in their summer shorts and t-shirts.
The chimes of the ice cream van as it trundled along the waterfront and pulled up by the general store sent a stream of kids running home to ask for spending money.
The church doors were propped open and through them Beatrice could see the locals’ floral displays on their stands ready for Mr Park, the minister, to judge the entries right after his sermon was done.
Beatrice had a hand on her back and was breathing a little too sharply for Atholl’s liking by the time they stepped inside the cool village hall. As planned, each exhibitor was already at their stall, setting out their handicrafts.
Murdina was displaying her beautiful fisherman’s gansey jumpers, with a spinning wheel set out for anyone that wanted to try their hand at making yarn.
Mr Garstang had a fine display of watercolours, both his and his students’, on display, all marked up with price stickers for sale – thirty-five dreamy replicas of scenes from Port Willow. There was one of the coral beach and the willow school that Atholl had his eye on already.
The silversmith and the brewer, the paper quiller and Munro the glassmaker were all there too, busily setting out their wares. It was a wonderful sight, and Beatrice greeted everyone assembled as she passed through the hall.
The refreshments stand was all ready to keep the teas and cupcakes coming all day long, and there, beside it, was another stall.
In pride of place under its subtle tartan banner was the Highland Coral Beach Fragrance Company. On a heather-coloured cloth there were laid out many beautifully packaged boxes of their unique lavender and willow perfume. Beatrice and Atholl headed straight for the stall and drew its proprietors into a hug.
‘Happy launch day,’ Beatrice said, kissing Murray and Nina once each upon their cheeks.
Bear, in a matching branded bowtie, snuffled at everyone’s feet and jumped up to be patted too.
The business partners grinned proudly. Murray (he’d told everyone he was done with being nicknamed Mutt, now, it didn’t seem to suit him anymore) modelled his new apothecary’s apron with the embroidered shape of Munro’s unique glass bottles on the front pocket. Now that his arm was only in a cloth sling, he could move around a little easier than before.
‘Very nice,’ Atholl told him.
‘It smells divine over here,’ Beatrice said. ‘You all set?’
‘Uh-huh, almost,’ Nina nodded, pressing the remote control and making a screen behind the stall burst into life where a film showing the craftsmanship that went into making each bottle of their perfume would run on a loop all day. She’d had it made to show at the World Perfumery Congress in Miami, where every industry insider would be showing or sampling new products. Nina had found she didn’t need to draw upon her old contacts to secure a spot on an interview panel for exciting new fragrance brands that were already making waves across Europe; all she’d needed was a worthy product people would crave.
One person had been extremely interested in her new product: Luke Casson.
The calls had started a few weeks ago, once he’d got wind of her new business venture. There was a note of desperation in his voice, and it had reminded her of the look in his eyes while he’d stared intently at the box in her hands as she made her hasty exit from her pitch meeting. It had been a look of intrigue and a fear of missing out.
She’d been glad to tell him over the phone that hehadmissed out and, once he’d got the message that Nina really had discovered her true worth – and all without him and his exhausting culture of phoney friendships and overwork and the feeling of simultaneously being vital to Microtrends whilst always remaining precarious and disposable – the calls stopped.
Last month Mitch had WhatsApped Nina to let her know that Luke had been enraged not to have a stake in what she fully intended to be her and Murray’s Highland perfume empire. Apparently Seamus had talked Luke out of pursuing a legal challenge.
The news had shaken Nina at first but upon consulting Mark Firth she’d been glad to have it confirmed Microtrends had no claim to her product development. She had, after all, been sent to Scotland with the brief of talent scouting. Nothing in her brief had precluded her from developing her own products in her own time while there. Mitch had overheard Seamus say as much to Himari who, incidentally, had stunned everyone recently with the sudden announcement that she’d been headhunted by a Japanese designer whisky company and had wasted no time in dumping Luke and setting out on her own for Tokyo.
Luke was, reportedly, stalking the corridors of Microtrends, sullen and bitter, presumably, Nina liked to think, none too pleased to have found himself slighted and replaced for the first time in his life.
