Page 30 of A Secret Scottish Escape

Even though it was Sunday, I knew solicitors very rarely took a day off, so I asked him to ring me back as soon as he could.

My trainers slapped along the deserted road. It was coming up for 8.30 a.m. and I hoped Norrie was up and about.

As I approached his house, I stuffed my sunglasses into the back pocket of my jeans. I entered by the stout, red gate and strode up towards the front door. There was a pane of Charles Rennie Mackintosh-style stained glass in the centre of the door and I could just make out two hazy fingers drifting backwards and forwards behind it.

My hand hovered in mid-air in front of the gold doorbell. Did I really know what I was doing? What was I letting myself in for? I was a freelance writer for pity’s sake, not a stalwart of the music industry.

But what I lacked in knowledge about the practical side of things, I more than made up for with my love of music, my enthusiasm, and the valuable contacts I’d accumulated over the years, thanks to my freelance submissions. Dad still had music connections from his time with Battalion too.

My hand remained frozen in mid-air, my rose-gold bangle suspended from my wrist. Despite Dad’s concerns, I knew he would help me. He still kept in touch with many of his old rocker mates.

Then there was Faith.

Goodness knows what her reaction would be to my wild idea, but she was such a practical and positive soul, I was certain she’d be happy to support me. Given the fact that my crazy, exciting venture would mean I would be staying in Loch Harris, surely it would delight her every bit as much as my dad.

Refusing to engage with any more doubts, I tilted my chin and knocked on the door.

“So, lass, you say you want to buy my business and turn it into a music shop?”

“Not a music shop,” I clarified, eyeing Norrie’s wife Clem, who was bustling in with a tray set with tea, despite me declining her kind offer. “I’d like to turn it into a venue for live music.”

Clem’s hand shot out and clutched at the handle of her tea pot. “Oh my goodness, Layla, it wouldn’t be all that gangster rap, would it?”

Gangster rap?

I was mightily impressed that Norrie’s seventy-year-old wife, a retired clerk of Loch Harris post office, knew of this particular musical genre.

I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh. “Not at all, Clem. I can assure you there wouldn’t be anything like that.”

Her plump face mellowed with relief and she busied herself by pouring a stream of tea into three rose-sprigged cups.

Norrie sat opposite me in his bottle-green velvet chair, like an inquisitive gnome.

He smoothed a flat hand down and over his wisp of white, combed-over hair. “I don’t know that we need another music place in Loch Harris.” He shrugged. “We’ve got the twice-weekly appearances of Big Bob and The Bobcats at The Fiddler’s Rest.”

Oh, good grief.

I knew I was possibly getting a bit ahead of myself, but I had bigger plans in mind than Big Bob’s fiddling quartet. They were a talented bunch, but had a tendency to play their tried and trusted favourites of ‘Rock Around the Clock’, ‘Mona Lisa’, and ‘Sweet Caroline’ on a continuous loop.

Although I was still waterlogged from the tea Dad had given me, I accepted Clem’s offer of a cup and saucer and took a few polite sips. “My idea would be to have a music venue that’s totally different to what The Fiddler’s Rest offers.”

Clem and Norrie exchanged concerned glances and I felt obliged to explain. “I know it’s going to take a lot of hard work and effort, but I think we could make the old boathouse a place where singers and bands will want to appear.”

I cast my eyes around the older couple’s sitting room, which was brimming with chintz furniture and photographs of Norrie proudly holding his various catches over the years. There were also photos of their two hardy-looking sons and their offspring.

“I want it to have a cosy, intimate atmosphere for real music fans. It boasts such a spectacular view of Loch Harris, who wouldn’t want to come and see it for themselves?”

Norrie rocked back in his armchair and surveyed me from under his caterpillar brows. “Aren’t you getting a bit ahead of yourself, lass? I might have had many other expressions of interest already.”

I blushed at my gushing enthusiasm. Oops. I’d been so consumed by my ideas that I hadn’t even thought that there might be other interested parties. Oh bollocks! Maybe I’d blundered in here, instead of deploying more subtle tactics.

“Have you?” I asked in a quiet voice.

“Have I what?”

“Have you had any other enquiries about the boathouse?”

Now, it was Norrie’s turn to colour up. He cleared his throat. “No.”