Page 53 of A Secret Scottish Escape

I awoke the next morning with a wave of emotions swishing about inside me.

When I had been with Mac, we would spend Sunday mornings sprawled in bed, nursing endless cups of coffee and in a tangle of warm limbs.

I tried not to stare over at the vacant soft pillow beside me. Then my mother’s revelation about Dad and Ed reared up again.

Part of me had clung to the hope that I had imagined it all or that it had been some lucid nightmare.

Memories of last night, including the worry and pain in Dad’s eyes, told me otherwise.

I huddled further into the bedcovers. I mean, I didn’t look anything like Ed Stockton. He had a pointed, confrontational edge to his features, whereas when I looked like my dad; we shared so many similarities, especially the same bemused-looking mouth.

Or maybe that was what I was choosing to see.

I bunched my knees together under the pink and white covers and indulged in another few moments of self-pity, before switching on my phone and scrolling through the dizzying array of DNA kits for sale.

There was one that was a bit more expensive than the others, but boasted excellent reviews. My fingers hovered over the ‘Buy Now’ key. Refusing to waste any more time, I jabbed in my credit card details and was informed it would arrive within a few days.

Then I tossed my phone back onto the top of my bed and headed for the shower.

The month of June was shooting past in a frenzy of carpentry and assorted phone calls to paint and furniture suppliers.

Alec and his team had repaired the cracks and scuffs in the boathouse skirting boards, installed some new shelving, and replaced Norrie’s old shop counter with one made from the most gorgeous, pale blond wood.

They also replaced some of the tired golden hardwood flooring and matched it up with the existing oak.

Once all that was complete, they set to work on making a semi-circular stage out of the same golden oak as the floors.

The stage would protrude out of the right-hand side wall and provide an intimate experience for the audience – at least, that was what I was hoping for.

Alec had also recommended a heating engineer friend of his, who got to work installing the gorgeous gothic-style limestone fireplace I’d managed to locate for a good price online.

While they had been putting the finishing touches to all that, I had been knee-deep in assorted colour charts.

I wanted The Conch Club to be cosy, but also to reflect its spectacular woodland surroundings.

In the end, I decided to go down the ‘inspired by nature route’ and opted for a palette of colours in sea-salt pale grey, a subtle mint green, and a peacock blue. I hoped these shades, complete with dashes of navy-blue furnishings, would honour the glassy beauty of Loch Harris and the rambling forests all around us.

I also decided to go for short, Highland-check charcoal lined curtains in a brushed-wool effect for all six windows.

In keeping with the atmosphere I wanted to create, I chose rustic solid oak, high-backed chairs and circular tables to cluster over the floor and around the stage.

For the expanse of jetty at the back, which stretched out towards the loch like a giant wooden smile, Alec advised me to go for furniture made out of slow-growing redwood, protected by an oil-based preservative. “That repels water and protects it,” he informed me. “That means you will be OK leaving it sitting outside.”

He also suggested that in order to keep the outside furniture in peak condition, it was best to add a further coat of the preservative every twelve months to keep it looking fresh. “I’ll recommend one or two of the really good brands for you.”

Following Alec’s suggestion, I ordered six sets of six-seater tables, complete with two chairs, two-seater benches and rectangular tables, which had a built-in hole to place a parasol.

Dad had grinned at me when I’d pointed this out. “A hole for a parasol? Are you forgetting we live in Scotland?”

I’d also been putting the word out to my music contacts at various newspapers and magazines for bands and artists who might be interested in appearing at The Conch Club in future.

Faith’s experience in dealing with advertising and marketing at the tourist office had been invaluable, and she deployed all her skills and contacts so that we were able to plan a publicity drive and persuade local businesses to hand out the fliers we were in the process of designing. Word of mouth would play such a huge part too in the club’s success.

The way things were going, I envisaged our opening night to be middle to late August.

I’d pushed any more thoughts about Mask to the back of my mind after I’d approached him about appearing and he’d knocked me back.

It wasn’t any of my business if he wanted to rattle around Coorie Cottage all on his own, with just the waterfall for company. Still, it was a pity. He had such a haunting voice and his lyrics were mesmerising.