Page 69 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

Three weeks later, she was told by Mrs Docherty in the corner shop that Cup of Joy was closing, the shop was being sold and Chris was returning to London. “Don’t think he could hack it up here,” remarked Mrs Docherty with a dismissive sniff. “No doubt too quiet and parochial for the likes of him.”

Helena bundled her shopping into her drawstring bag and escaped the stuffy confines of the shop before tears slithered down her face.

She never saw Chris again, but his parting gift was four of the most expensive tea sets in their stock, with a note that just said, For you – from me X.

That was all he left her, together with the memories she carried around on repeat in her head.

Cup of Joy was sold within a matter of weeks and became a florist’s…

It came as no surprise that Ophelia Walker made no attempt to contact me and I was struggling to decide what I should do next.

I did consider contacting Xander for advice, but he had been even more aloof than usual since our last phone conversation. I didn’t want to say anything either, for fear of igniting the issues between him and Jake again. I just wished Xander had told me himself, rather than letting me hear all the details from Jake.

What did please me was the feeling I was growing closer to piecing together the mystery of the tea set and letter. I knew I was getting somewhere, albeit more slowly than I had hoped and without help from Ophelia Walker. All the little threads leading back to the tea set and Briar Forsyth’s letter had separated and frayed, but it was as though I could see what their destination could be now and how they might tie together.

Nevertheless, I knew I had to try and speak to Ophelia Walker again. The recognition on her face when she saw me standing there on her doorstep had been evident, yet she didn’t want to discuss the tea set, the letter or why she had felt compelled to leave it with me in the first place and vanish.

But without speaking to her, I knew there were vital pieces of the puzzle missing and she was in possession of far more knowledge than I had at my disposal.

Saturday swung around and before I knew it, it was time for my dinner with Jake.

“Looking forward to it?” asked Mum, popping her head round the door of the shop that afternoon.

I nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

It would be lovely, I assured myself. A dinner date on a Saturday evening with a very attractive man. Of course I was looking forward to it. Why wouldn’t I be? I fished out my ankle-length summery dress in ice-blue, decorated with pink roses, and secured my hair in a messy topknot.

Jake was half an hour late collecting me. I waited for an apology, but it didn’t come. Instead, I opened my flat door to be greeted with a laconic smile. “Had an urgent phone call, but I’m here now.”

My eyebrows arched with disapproval. He could have rung me and let me know. I bit back my irritation. I felt I should give him the benefit of the doubt.

As we drove towards Glasgow, leaving behind the scooped inlets of cottages and tended gardens for the glinting spires and thrusting blocks of the city, I filled in Jake about the situation with Ophelia Walker.

“I wouldn’t give the old dear any more thought,” he said with a dismissive raise of one hand. “If she doesn’t want to talk to you, you’ll just have to suck it up.”

His blond profile concentrated on the road ahead. “If I were you, I’d sell that crockery and pocket the cash. This woman, whoever she is, left the tea set with you. If she loses out on the cash, that’s her problem.” He gave me a charming smile. “”She shouldn’t have parted with it in the first place.”

I studied his smiling profile. But I’m not you.

“Anyway, forget all about that tonight and let’s enjoy this fish restaurant. It just received another five-star review in that broadsheet supplement.”

“Fish? I thought we were going to that tapas bar.”

Jake eased his growling white Audi TT into a parking space in front of a lit-up, smoked-glass restaurant, proclaiming its name as Sea Scape.

His voice was brisk. “Change of plan. Thought this place would be better.” He switched on his megawatt smile. “It’s more expensive, but you’re worth it.”

He bounded out of the driver’s side, leaving me to stare at his vacant black leather seat.

We were greeted by a fawning maître d’, who directed us to a table by the window that overlooked the sprawling Botanic Gardens and its sea of impressive domed glasshouses. The colours swished across the sky and the sloping roofs bled together in the pastel July-evening light.

The menu was sensational, an elaborate affair of everything from seafood linguine and clam broth to cod and chorizo stew and smoked trout salad.

“What do you recommend, seeing as you have been here before? I can’t make up my mind.” I looked across the table at a distracted Jake. He was holding his leather-bound menu but wasn’t paying any attention to it. He seemed preoccupied, shifting in his high-backed chair for a better view of the restaurant car park.

“Jake?”

He adjusted the collar of his stripey Paul Smith shirt. “Sorry?”