Page 88 of A Secret Scottish Escape

I frowned over at the peacock-blue walls and the semi-circular stage. “No, of course not.”

Dad finished adjusting the window lock and shot me a look from over his shoulder. “I take it he’s upset you again.”

I couldn’t tell Dad that I’d ventured up to Coorie Cottage again. He would sport his infamous told-you-so face and that would make me realise even more what an impulsive idiot I was.

“Oh, forget I mentioned anything,” I said, flapping my hands about. “So, what happened between you and Molly?”

At the mention of her name, my father’s long expression melted into a soppy grin. “We’ve exchanged phone numbers and I’m taking her out next week.”

“Fast work, Dad. Well done.”

He went on to explain that she was a widow with no children. “Think I’ll take her to that nice new bistro on the road to Finton. Molly said she hasn’t been there yet either.”

I was very impressed at his assertiveness. “Good for you!”

I followed him out of the boathouse. He jangled the keys and made sure the door was locked. “The boys have all confirmed they’re coming back here on Friday morning to spend the weekend. It was supposed to be another rehearsal.” Dad’s disappointment was clear. “Mikey suggested we recruit another bass player, but it’s too short notice. Ed knows all the songs and he can play those riffs blindfold.”

I offered a sympathetic smile. “Ed’s still coming too though, I take it?”

Dad gave the tiniest of nods.

“And they’re all staying together at that campsite near Galen Waterfall?”

One of Dad’s eyebrows hitched itself up. “Yep. Should be cosy.”

I chewed the inside of my bottom lip. I had to try and speak to Ed.

Dad was doing all he could to be pragmatic about the band not playing on opening night, but I could see how much it meant to him. If Ed was ignoring my calls, then I would go to the campsite on Friday and speak to him there.

I had to give it one more try.

The next couple of days dissolved in a succession of phone calls to bands confirming details of their future appearances and signing off on contracts for our drinks and snacks suppliers.

I also had a couple of deadlines screaming at me on my to-do list for my freelance writing.

Faith was there, as dependable as ever. She instructed me to press on with my writing deadlines, while she took charge of invoices from the food suppliers.

I’d only finished heaving a hysterical sigh of relief at what I’d managed to achieve when my mobile pinged on my writing desk.

It was Dad, checking to see if I was OK. He had added at the end of his text that the boys had arrived at the campsite and would meet up at his later, once they had got settled.

I replied to his text with some general chat and ended with a couple of kisses.

Slumping back in my chair, I stared out as the lazy July sky pricked the tops of the trees.

I glanced up at my wooden clock on the wall. It was approaching 11 a.m. I switched off my computer and hooked my bag up and over my arm.

In my oval hall mirror, I noted grey smudges under my eyes. I had been staring at my computer screen for so long I was surprised my head hadn’t contorted into a rectangular shape.

I reached into the side pocket of my bag and put on some lipstick and a couple of blobs of rosy blusher. It was like trying to add splashes of colour to a negative photograph.

I reached up to the coat stand and plucked my leather jacket from its hook. As I did so, my attention was drawn to something poking out from under the slats of my shoe rack.

I crouched down and retrieved one of Mac’s scarves, which must have fallen there when I was sorting out his things. It was one he would often wear during the fiercer winter weather.

I fingered its woollen texture before holding it up to my nose. It didn’t smell of him at all; I could detect none of the heavily scented, musky aftershave he always favoured.

I couldn’t contemplate that he had been gone for four months now.