Page 75 of A Secret Scottish Escape

Dad must have spoken to the boys in the band by now about Ed and our situation. Realistically, he had no choice.

Visions of long-haired, shouty, fifty-something men drifted into my imagination and I cringed.

Part of me really didn’t want to ring my father. Even mentioning the situation seemed to bring it to life. When I didn’t talk about Ed, when I didn’t have to think about him, it disappeared into the recesses of my mind for a while.

I was stealing myself to ring Dad when there was a knock on the door.

Dad was hunched on the doorstep, his hands buried in the pockets of his leather jacket. There were tired smudges under his eyes.

I scooped him into a hug and guided him inside, where he sank into one of my armchairs.

“I thought there was going to be a bloodbath,” he admitted. “When I told Jack, Stan, and Mikey, they went from shock to infuriation within a matter of seconds.”

I curled my feet underneath me, trying to stem the hammering in my chest. “Nothing violent happened, did it?”

“If you don’t count Mikey threatening to wrap his microphone around Ed’s neck, then no.”

“Oh…”

Dad dismissed my concern with a flap of his hand. “Don’t worry, love. It was all posturing. I mean, the other lads were being loyal to me and I think things could have turned ugly, but when I reminded them about you and what you’ve been through with Mac…” Dad’s flint grey eyes flashed. “You’ve had enough people letting you down – your mother, Mac – you don’t need any more.”

My heart swelled with love and appreciation. “Thanks Dad.”

He laced and unlaced his drummer’s fingers. “I’m not saying things are going to blow over easily, especially after Mikey spotted Ed in the village this afternoon and accused him of being a sanctimonious shit.” Dad tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m so sorry sweetheart, but I can’t see Ed changing his mind about appearing with the rest of us.”

Furious tears pricked the corners of my eyes as I surveyed my dad’s weary smile. He didn’t deserve any of this.

The more I considered the situation, the more I wanted a definitive answer – even if it turned out not to be the one I wanted.

How long had Ed known my father? Forty years? They had slept on uncomfortable floorboards between gigs. They had played in countless dingy pubs boasting sticky, beer-soaked carpets and jaded audiences.

Dad had done everything he could to make Battalion a successful band, and although the fame they had experienced had been fleeting, the recognition they had received had been largely down to my father.

The least Ed could do was give my dad and the rest of the guys an evening to remember at The Conch Club, whether I really was his daughter or not.

July rolled around in a flurry of lists being ticked off, rewritten, or added to, accompanied by puffs of frustration.

Faith’s help continued to be priceless. Whenever the tourist office experienced a lull in visitors, she used the time she had to ring tradespeople on my behalf or confirm delivery dates and times.

I’d managed to whittle down the number of candidates of potential staff to six and after informal interviews, I selected three full-time employees and two part-timers to begin with.

Alec had spoken to one of his friends, an artist by the name of Molly Evers, and she had produced the most gorgeous sign – a scalloped-edged rectangle of pale treated wood with ‘The Conch Club’ scrawled across the sea-blue banner in sweet vanilla lettering. To the right of the name was a depiction of a pretty ruffled conch shell which Molly had painted in gold and tangerine.

I loved it.

Dad and Alec hovered outside the boathouse, shuffling each end of the sign between them, like a modern-day Laurel & Hardy.

Before Alec had arrived, complete with a fried egg roll that had my tummy groaning with desire, Dad had told me the guys would be returning that weekend for another jam session. “Even though the gig is off, we really enjoyed meeting up like old times and we all agreed we wanted to do it again.” Dad had performed a big eye roll. “They’ve decided to camp this time up in that campsite not far from Galen Waterfall.”

“And what about Ed?” I’d asked.

“He’s coming as well.”

“But he said he wouldn’t play with Battalion again.”

“Turns out he hasn’t told Karen and the boys yet about you, or that he’s quit the band,” Dad said, his voice layered with meaning. When he saw my expression blossom with hope, he’d added, “Oh, he’s still got no intention of playing with us, but you know what a gossip Stan’s missus is and she and Karen are best mates.”

I’d let out a grunt. “So he’s coming along with the lads for the weekend as usual, so Karen doesn’t get suspicious.”