Page 2 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

A ghost of a smirk crossed her lips.

I fixed on a smile and marched out of the wedding melée and along the chequered, portrait-adorned hallway to the patio doors, which led out onto the hotel grounds. They were flung open, displaying this Saturday April evening in all its spring-fresh splendour. Further across the lawn were a couple of guests, wrapped around each other in a clumsy embrace.

I dumped my folder down beside me on the gravelled path and stood there in my rumpled navy suit and pointed heels. I took in several sharp breaths, savouring the zing from the mint garden and the tinkling from the mermaid water feature, which sounded like Christmas bells.

I had been so ecstatic and excited when I had secured this job after working in the PR department at the local council. It was a relief to leave behind the drafting of press releases about local authority spending and fire-fighting questions about a dodgy councillor who was juggling his wife, mistress and fairy-tale expenses.

But gradually, the dazzle of coming to this sprawling luxury hotel with its turrets like whipped ice-cream and acid-green lawns, not to mention its high-profile clientele, began to fade.

I soon found myself run ragged by the stream of ludicrous requests from couples; in particular, the monied brides.

My growing reputation for getting things done had spread amongst the society brides-to-be and I found my esteemed boss Heston delegating more and more to me and being around to assist less and less. Before I knew what was happening, I was frazzled and under-appreciated, with no work–life balance.

I have to admit that my bank balance was pretty healthy, thanks to the generous pay increase I received when I began working at Castle Marrian, but what joy was there in that, when I trudged home each night looking like Freddie Kruger’s sister?

No wonder Callum, my ex-boyfriend, had got fed up with my ridiculous hours. Still, the fact he found consolation in the arms of his middle-aged boss at the bank hadn’t helped either.

After the messy fiasco with Callum, I doubted whether I would be able to trust my instincts with another man ever again.

I blinked and wrapped my arms around myself, forcing myself back to the present. I could feel my pale blonde hair slipping out of its chignon in the spring breeze, but I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was vanish into a lavender-scented bath and ring Grandma to have a good old moan.

My brain screeched on the brakes. Of course, that was no longer possible. A lump of emotion clogged in my chest. The realisation she had passed away just two weeks ago hit me again like a blunt instrument. My shoulders slumped under my suit jacket. When I was occupied, I could compartmentalise, but now I was standing here in the hotel grounds, weary and resentful…

Burning tears clustered in my eyes, but I did what I could to blink them back. From behind me, the chime of clinking glasses and scraping chairs travelled out into the gardens.

I could still smell the pungent white lilies and see Mum’s lost expression at the funeral. Dad had embraced both of us, murmuring a string of comforting words.

Grandma Helena had been eighty years old when she died; she’d always been one of those people who gave the impression they were invincible.

It was from her I inherited my love of all things porcelain. Grandma had taught me from an early age about the delicate beauty of crockery, its often fascinating history and the sheer delight of indulging in a cup of tea from a dainty cup and saucer.

We would sit for hours, fantasising about discovering a rare Meissen or Spode.

She’d collected them, and her little cottage sitting room was dotted with glass cabinets, proudly displaying her well-chosen array of tea sets.

She had also possessed a great sense of humour. I could feel myself smiling as I recalled Grandma often referring to her nosey and unpleasant neighbours as Statler and Waldorf, and humming the Muppet theme tune whenever she spotted them in their garden.

My mum would roll her eyes and say, “Do you have to be so sarcastic, Mother?” and Gran’s knowing eyes would twinkle and she would say, “It’s called wit, my dear girl.”

She had slipped away suddenly in her armchair in her cosy little cottage that Sunday afternoon in March, surrounded by her beloved crockery and knowing that we adored her.

A ball of sorrow rose up in my throat.

I dashed away the tears with the back of my hand and snatched up the folder of wedding notes that rested by my feet.

Thank goodness I had a day off tomorrow, but it wouldn’t be a restful or enjoyable experience. I had promised Mum I would help her and Dad begin the painful job of sorting out Grandma’s things in the cottage.

We really should have made a start on it before now, but Mum couldn’t face it.

I straightened the frilly white collar of my blouse and raised my eyes to the sky. It was contorting into twists of tangerine.

I knew I couldn’t continue like this. I wasn’t happy. I was like a robot, mechanically going through the motions each day. Losing Gran so suddenly like that had made me think about what was important and what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

I had to make a change of some sort. And soon. Take my future by the scruff of the neck and give it a good shake. But by doing what?

“Miss you, Gran,” I murmured before disappearing back into the hotel to collect my bag from my office and head home.

Chapter Two