Page 31 of The Cottage in the Highlands

Chapter Twelve

What the hell had I done?!

Ok, so I was employed as a writer at one of the biggest magazines of the moment. I was working with the journalistic powerhouse that was Athena Mayhew.

On the other hand, I’d been given the poisoned chalice of working with the fashion industry’s three most pretentious models, I didn’t have a beauty editor boss to approach for advice, and the job I’d really wanted had been given to Athena’s niece.

To top it all off, it also seemed that I had been given the job of beauty writer out of sheer desperation, because there was nobody else.

I set off for Tilly Crabtree’s foundation launch on foot, at least grateful that the event was taking place at a plush department store just a few blocks away from the Goddess offices and there was no need to take the car or negotiate public transport.

Even though it was only the 5th of November, many of the shop windows I passed were already decked out with Christmas trees, trailing twinkly lights and an abundance of bows and holly.

My head was cluttered with a myriad of thoughts as I made my way there. I hoped that by walking it might help unscramble them a little.

I glanced down at the press release again that Athena had given me. There was a glorious black and white photograph of Tilly looking glamorous and very pleased with herself in a sharp, dark tailored suit and nothing else underneath.

“Give your skin power with one of the new turbo-charged foundations created by the make-up artist of the moment, Tilly Crabtree,” gushed the blurb under her picture.

“As soon as you apply one of the Glorious foundations, you will immediately notice that your skin reacts, creating a glow that can be seen from the heavens…”

What?!

“Watch your complexion transform from dry and dull into a mermaid sheen that will draw gasps and compliments. With thirst-quenching properties and a burst of vitamins, Glorious foundations will revolutionise the way you see yourself – and how others see you…”

Dear me. Could it solve climate change as well?

I turned the corner and made my way down past the stately granite offices and shops. There was an old bridge situated at the end of the road on which was painted one of the legendary Scottish street artist Chandler’s pieces of work. It depicted a boat, struggling to get through stormy waves. A couple of gulls were swooshing over the top of the boat, and coming up through the water was a hand, thrusting itself through the foam and clutching a life jacket. Underneath the artwork was painted the caption:

Everybody needs rescuing at one time or another.

Chandler was like the Scottish Banksy, whose array of artwork would appear in a variety of wild and wonderful locations for the masses to enjoy. Everything from satirical sketches of politicians to moody paintings of Glasgow tenements and social commentary images of poverty and deprivation would suddenly appear on the sides of bus stops, dilapidated buildings, and random brick walls.

Chandler was never seen. He would melt away into the dark after painting his latest work. This had been going on since the early 1970s. There was speculation in the media as to who the elusive Chandler might be – everybody from a titled art critic to a museum curator and an old rock star who dabbled in art, had been suggested as the real Chandler but nobody knew for sure. A member of the Royal Family was even rumoured to be the unknown artist.

Chandler was part of Scottish folklore, woven into the fabric of society almost as much as the Loch Ness monster.

He was still an enigma.

I paused to admire the painting on the brickwork as shoppers marched past me and the traffic continued to push along, with the odd irritated beep of a car horn.

It was so lifelike, I felt as though the sea spray was speckling my face.

What an exclusive that would be to find out who Chandler actually was! Or to even secure an interview with him. He famously never spoke to the press.

I stood for a moment longer, appreciating the white peeling paint and rust of the boat, before reminding myself that I had just started a new job and I had my first journalistic assignment to complete.

I moved on and crossed the road before turning right and drawing up outside the department store, Saskia’s, where there was a heavy press presence and lots of overexcited teenage girls with their mobile phones.

I had no option but to make the best of the messy situation I had found myself in. It was a job after all. If I was able to stick it out for even a few months, perhaps something else at another magazine or newspaper might come up?

Good grief! I had landed myself in it this time.

Snapshots of Miles’s smug face drifted in front of my eyes and I blinked them away.

I showed the invitation and then my magazine ID card to a dour-faced security guard. He directed me up to the fourth floor.

I caught the lift with a gaggle of other female journalists who were speculating on whether Tilly’s latest boyfriend, the actor Dylan McKnight, might be there.