Page 56 of A Secret Scottish Escape

Dad cocked one brown brow at me. “You’ve already interfered, haven’t you?”

“She really does like him and he really likes her. It’s obvious.”

Dad gave his head a resigned shake. “What’s obvious is my daughter trying to interfere. Why didn’t you come and speak to your wise old bugger of a father first?”

I crinkled up my freckly nose. “Probably because I knew you would tell me not to. But just because I’m crap at relationships, doesn’t mean I should sit back and allow Faith to make a hash of her love life.”

Dad disagreed. “Layla, you are not crap at relationships. You’re just a bad picker – like me.”

“Same thing,” I mumbled.

Dad made a puffing noise. “Take my advice, lovey. Don’t meddle. Best leave things be.”

“But she’s my best friend and I’ve never seen her like this before. Usually she’s so laid back and in control of all of this kind of thing, but this is different.”

“Even more reason not to get involved,” warned Dad. “Now, how about once we’re finished here, you rustle me up one of your hot chocolate specials. And don’t hold back on the marshmallows.”

I agreed.

Dad noticed my hand sliding towards the DNA test secreted in my pocket.

“Come back to mine,” I managed. “The sooner we do this test, the better it will be for both of us.”

I jerked my head at the sound of Rory calling me into the boathouse to ask me something about a preference for matt or gloss.

“Sure thing,” answered Dad. “No point in putting it off.”

The hot chocolate tasted just like it usually did – reminiscent of cosy winter nights – but neither Dad nor I were able to enjoy it. The presence of the DNA kit sitting out on my hall table was all-consuming.

Finally, we could put it off no longer,

Dad disappeared into the bathroom with his kit and I gripped my swab in my hand. Lifting it, I swept the inside of my right cheek for several seconds.

Done.

I slid it into the container and picked up the test kit packaging, its dark blue and white box making my heart thud faster. It looked so innocuous.

Dad returned and, dismissing any more deliberation on what we were doing and the possible outcome, I bundled the two tubes into the padded envelope, together with our signatures of consent.

We had completed our part of the process. Now, I just wanted that envelope and its contents to evaporate.

I reached for my hooded jacket hanging on a hook in the hall. I knew the second postal collection of the day was at 4 p.m. It was now just after 2.30 p.m. so we would easily catch it.

I shrugged on my jacket and collected my phone from the sitting room table. I stuffed it into my pocket and hurried towards the door.

“Just popping down to the post box,” I yelled to Dad, waggling the envelope in my hand.

Dad nodded but said nothing.

The post box was located at the bottom of the lane, right before you reached the main square that spread out like a pop-up book.

I walked briskly along the damp grass verge. There had been a heavy shower and puddles glinted up at me from the road.

I huddled a little deeper into my jacket, relieved as the sight of the bright red post box materialised.

When I reached it, I lifted the padded A5-sized envelope. My hand hovered for a moment as I held it up to the gaping black mouth of the post box. I let my fingers go and it slid in, making a satisfying thudding noise as it landed amongst the other items of mail.

I thrust my now empty hands into my jacket pockets. It was like experiencing a release of something – albeit temporary. The next challenge would be when the results were delivered back in a few weeks’ time. But I decided not to dwell on that for now.