Page 98 of A Secret Scottish Escape

I sat next to Ed.

“Thanks again for helping me this morning.” He angled his elbows along the arms of his chair. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had decided to knobble my other foot.”

I found myself smiling.

I squinted up at the mid-afternoon sky, which was refusing to promise any more sunshine. It looked like we might have received our quota for the day.

“Yes. Well, I’ve got my reputation at The Conch Club to think about. I can’t have the punters thinking I abandon poor bass guitarists in the wilds of Loch Harris when they’re in desperate need of help.”

Ed gave a snort. “In my case, I don’t think many folks would have blamed you if you did.” He dropped his eyes to the knees of his jeans and picked at an imaginary thread. “I feel like such a dick. The boys just explained to me who Mask is.” He flopped his head back against the camping chair. “I’d heard of the guy of course, but I was so concerned about myself and my bloody foot…”

“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “Mask isn’t one for idle chat.”

I saw Ed’s chest heave under the clean red T-shirt he’d changed into. There was a stutter in our conversation.

I dragged a weary hand down my face. “I could be doing with a hot shower. Oh, and I’d better ring Dad myself.”

I knew Jack had spoken to him to tell him Ed and I were both OK, but knowing my father like I did, he wouldn’t be satisfied until he had interrogated me himself.

Ed adjusted his propped-up leg. “Harry is a wonderful dad.”

I eased myself out of my chair and tried to disguise the emotion in my voice. “Yes, he is.”

I lifted my hand in an awkward wave. “Look after that foot, Ed.”

I stooped over and peeked into each of the three tents, waving at the other guys, and had only made a few feet’s progress over the fluttering carpet of grass towards the car park, when Ed’s voice called after me. “Layla. Stop.”

My shoulder bag clattered against my right side as I spun round.

“At least my foot isn’t broken,” he faltered, after a pause. He broke into a smile. “I won’t have to hobble about on stage on your opening night and can let rip with the rest of them.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

“How do I look?” beamed Dad, failing to conceal the flecks of tension in his silvery grey eyes.

He had chosen a pale blue cotton long-sleeved shirt and a pair of smart navy trousers.

I noted he had also followed my advice and had a trim at the local barber’s. His hair was still a mix of longer layers in chocolate brown with a sift of grey running through, but it was much tidier.

“You’ll sweep Molly off her feet,” I grinned. “What time are you picking her up?”

Dad peered down at his watch for the tenth time in the last half an hour. “Seven-thirty. I’ll set off in a minute. I don’t want to be late.”

I pressed my lips together.

Finton, where Molly lived, was fifteen minutes away from Loch Harris. He could have hung on for at least another twenty minutes. Bless him. He was jangling with excitement and nerves.

Dad gazed over my shoulder at my phone. “Crikey, Layla. Are all those emails to do with The Conch Club?”

I shifted round on Dad’s sofa. “Apart from these two, trying to sell me Viagra.”

He laughed and collected his car keys from the coffee table. “OK, sweetheart. I’m off. Pace yourself, all right?”

I performed a mock salute.

“And please don’t forget to lock up on your way out.”

He dashed a kiss against my cheek and vanished out the front door in a swirl of dusky aftershave.