Page 5 of The Cottage in the Highlands

Doug swallowed, hurt and shame etched into his anguished features. “I hoped I could do something. I thought I might be able to make them change their minds. But Sir John was adamant that with the general decline in circulation of local papers and so many people accessing news online, they had to make some tough decisions.”

Now it was Frances’s turn to go on the defensive. “So why the hell didn’t you tell us, Doug? Maybe we could have helped.”

Doug let out an impatient sigh. “You two had more than enough to contend with at the time.” He gestured to me. “You and Miles had just split up.”

I flinched at the memory.

“And Frances, your mother-in-law had just been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.”

“I appreciate that,” responded Frances. Then realisation kicked in. Her mouth dropped open. “But wait… all that stuff with Sarah’s diagnosis and Leonie and Miles splitting up… that all happened at the beginning of the year.”

Doug paced like an anguished zoo animal behind bars backwards and forwards in front of his desk, which bore his Scottish rugby team coffee mug and a couple of photos of Cheryl – a smiling twinkly brunette.

“You’ve known for all this time that this could happen?” I gasped. “You’ve known for ten months and yet you didn’t think to warn us?”

He struggled to speak. “Ok. Ok. I’m sorry. I’ve cocked everything up.” We watched him reach into one of his desk drawers and produce a brown cardboard folder. He slapped it down on the desk. “But I haven’t been sitting here with my thumb up my arse. I’ve been trying to salvage this bloody newspaper. I haven’t been pulling all these extra hours in the office to do bloody sudoku!”

Frances gave the folder a contemptuous look. “What’s that?”

“See for yourselves.”

I reached across and flipped it open. It was a thick report and contained everything from projected sales figures and ideas for features, to snippets of exclusive news articles the three of us had managed, at one time or another, to sell to the nationals. There were even a couple of PowerPoint presentations that Doug had compiled.

I raised my stunned, teary eyes to Doug. “You pulled together all this?”

Doug eyed his work with contempt. “Much good it did in the end.”

Frances’s red suit rustled as she shuffled forward in her chair for a better look. She pointed to one of Doug’s flashy-looking presentations, entitled Alternative Proposals for the Future of The Silver Ness News. Her watery eyes scanned the print out of the slides. “You suggested to Management that we go online or fortnightly?”

Doug took a rueful sip of his now cold coffee. “I would have suggested us giving away free knitting patterns and flavoured condoms if it meant salvaging this little newspaper.” He gave a defeated shrug. “I thought anything was worth a shot.”

I aimed a meaningful stare at Frances as I flicked over a few more pages.

“I’m sorry, ladies.” A myriad of emotions raced across his features. “I’ve been trying to think of something to stop all this, but nothing has worked. Please believe me.”

Frances sniffed into her hankie. “I’m so sorry, Leonie.”

I whipped my head to look at her. “What are you apologising for?”

“Well, they’ve kept me on but not you. Just before you arrived back, Doug was telling me that it’s all to do with this last in, first out policy nonsense.” Her mouth twisted at the corners. “I suppose me being here for ten years has worked in my favour.”

My brain felt addled; broken into sharp, jagged pieces that I couldn’t sort out into a coherent order. “How long till we close?” The question lodged itself in my throat.

Doug winced. “A couple of months. They’ve decided to shut this office and use the Drummond one. The rent is a bit cheaper. Staff moving on to the new title are being told today.” Great. I was going to be unemployed in time for Christmas.

He pushed his mug backwards and forwards on his desk. “And they’ve already chosen the title of the new publication as well.”

Frances and I raised our brows in unison at Doug. Jesus. They hadn’t hung around.

Doug hesitated, as though he didn’t want to say it. “The Drummond & Silver Ness Sentinel.”

I pulled a face. “Blimey. That’s a mouthful.”

“I don’t like it,” ground out Frances.

“According to Sir John, it has an American ring to it.”

Frances reached over and grasped my hand in hers. I wished she hadn’t. The sensation of her kindness, her fingers clasping mine, made me want to burst into self-pitying sobs.