Page 77 of A Secret Scottish Escape

“Dad…” I began, preparing to try and reason with him.

He glanced down at his battered old wrist watch. “When did you say your drinks menus were being delivered?”

A thought occurred to me as I appreciated the sign now shining above the new pale wood and glass entrance. I should ask Faith and Danielle to keep a look out for this mysterious Australian woman. They literally were the gatekeepers of Loch Harris in the tourist office. They also knew the owners of all the local B&Bs, hotels and camp sites. If this woman were staying locally (which was very likely, considering we were pretty remote out here), they stood a much better chance of finding out more about her than I did.

I decided to drop Faith a text.

“Layla? Layla!”

I swung round.

One of Dad’s eyebrows was hitched up to his hairline. “Where are you?”

I blushed and pinned on a smile. “Sorry. Just daydreaming for a minute.”

He frowned from under his floppy fringe, as he stood on the wooden steps leading up to The Conch Club. “I can see that. I was asking you when your drinks menus were being delivered here?”

I checked the time on my watch. It was 10 a.m. now. “In about an hour.”

Dad nodded. “OK. So plenty of time for me to pop into the village and grab us two takeaway coffees then.”

I hovered by the partially open door and waited until Dad jumped into his silver jeep and streaked off down the road.

Then I sent a text to Faith.

I’d just pressed ‘Send’ and slung my phone into my back jeans pocket, when I spotted a flash of red jacket and a glimmer of a Royal Mail van out of the corner of my eye. It was Arthur, our local postman.

“You’ll be giving Sir Alan Sugar a run for his money, if you carry on like this,” he joked, rummaging around in the mail sack suspended from his shoulder.

“I’m running before I can walk, Arthur.”

He nodded at The Conch Club. “I was just passing and thought I’d drop by and take a look. It’s grand. You can be sure Fiona and I will be some of your first patrons. We’re so looking forward to seeing your dad and the lads doing their thing on stage again.”

I was struggling to smile.

“Oh, before I go, this came for you. Seeing as I was passing, thought I would drop it in. That’s all for today, I’m afraid. Cheerio now.”

Arthur bustled back over the grass and towards his van. He had handed me a slim white envelope, which I turned over in my hands, my thoughts still with The Conch Club.

But all thoughts fled when the name of the DNA testing organisation jumped up at me from the top left-hand corner in blocky blue lettering.

Oh no. Oh no. It was the results.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Dad had only just returned from the village, proudly clutching two lattes and two warm croissants.

“Food for the workers,” he beamed, handing me my cardboard cup and croissant, which was nestled in a brown bag. “Well, one of us is working.”

My mouth had turned to sandpaper.

Oh God. This was it. I set down the cup of coffee and the croissant on the step beside me. “Arthur just dropped by,” I gulped. “He brought this.”

I showed Dad the envelope. His shoulders sank. “Is that it?”

I ran my trembling fingers around the four edges of the envelope and did the briefest of nods.

I wanted to know. Dad wanted to know. I supposed Ed did too.