Page 129 of A Secret Scottish Escape

When he had gone, I let out a ragged gasp to Faith. “This is all we need. One of our performers going missing hours before their band is due on stage. Ed assured me he was fine about it all now.”

Faith squeezed my hand. “Try not to sweat it. I bet there’s some innocent explanation.”

“You think?”

“It’s more than likely he’s got some errand he had to go on.”

“An errand?” I repeated, my anxiety growing.

Faith stifled a laugh. “You know what I mean. It’ll be something and nothing. You wait. Give it half an hour and he’ll show up again.”

I reached up to my shoulder and picked at the band securing the end of my plait. I wasn’t so sure. Why not say something to Jack, Stan, Mikey, or Dad then, instead of vanishing in the middle of the Loch Harris countryside?

I knew Battalion hadn’t played live for years and the guys had admitted that they were all a bit rusty, but surely he wouldn’t let me down now?

Faith read my panicking thoughts. “Come on, you,” she urged. “Let’s try out the new coffee machine.”

I nodded and followed Faith over to the bar where the new chrome coffee contraption was all plugged in and ready for action.

I would have preferred it to have been a curly-haired, pointy-chinned bass player.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

“Where the hell have you been?” snapped Dad, two hours later. “We were about to call out sodding Loch Harris Mountain Rescue!”

Ed locked the door of his car and hovered beside it, looking uncomfortable. “Sorry lads. Sorry Layla. There was something I had to do.”

Dad eyed him with that angular brow of his, but Ed wasn’t forthcoming about where he’d been or what he’d been doing.

“Right,” exclaimed Mikey, with a fierce clap of his hands to rally the troops. “Now that Christopher Columbus here has returned, maybe we can get some last-minute rehearsal time in?”

There was a distinct air of tension as the reunited members of Battalion stalked away from the picnic area and back into The Conch Club.

I eyed the flapping marquee under the pearly sky.

Hopefully, there would be no more cause for panic. It was already 3 p.m. and the plan was to make sure everything was in place, with one final check before we all took off to get ready.

“Layla,” came the hesitant voice of Richie from the boathouse steps. I turned my attention away from the marquee. “We don’t seem to have any liquid soap for the toilets.”

By the time I’d jumped in the car and dashed around to the local corner shop to buy an armful of hand soap, I had just enough time to return and witness the testing of the jetty fairy lights by one of Dad’s drinking buddies, who was an electrician.

It was time to go and get ready, but before I did I snatched a final glance at the zingy, new interior of the boathouse.

From the semi-circular, blond-wood stage, to the rich checked curtains in Harris tartan and the walls in peacock-blue … I had actually managed to do it – with the help of Mac.

For the first time in a long time, I found myself managing to contain my emotions when I thought of him. The twisting, burning feelings of deception and hurt were almost non-existent now. Perhaps that was because of Rafe.

I set my shoulders and began locking up the glass-panelled door to The Conch Club. There would be time enough to think about Rafe when his exclusive new tracks were being played here tonight.

Trying not to dwell on how I would react to that or what I would feel, I shifted the strap of my denim shoulder bag and relegated Rafe to the recesses of my mind.

It was time to go and get my glad rags on.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

After taking a prolonged shower and washing my hair, I rifled through my wardrobe, colours and materials clashing and rubbing against one another on the hangers, until I located what I was looking for.

I’d treated myself to an expensive dress months ago, which I had intended to wear to Mac’s birthday party next year. When he died, I had relegated it to the back of my wardrobe.