Page 50 of The Cottage in the Highlands

“I agree that Esther and Dante shouldn’t have done what they did, but there is every chance we will have to use them again in a future issue and we must maintain good relationships with models like them, who are held in such high regard.”

I wanted to point out that there were other models out there.

“Yes, well, that’s something I’ve been thinking about,” I replied, hovering across from her desk with pent-up frustration. “Why can’t we have a future issue where we use real people as models?”

Athena looked like she had just sat on a pin. “I beg your pardon?”

“Real people,” I reiterated to her pinched expression. “Real readers, not professional models.”

She almost sniggered. “But why on earth would we do that?”

Oh, dear Lord.

“Because it is these women who are actually spending their hard-earned money on our magazine. If they thought there was a chance they could appear between the pages of Goddess…”

“Goddess is an aspiration,” rallied Athena. “It is a way of life. A state of mind. If we start featuring real readers, where will we be? You’ll be telling me we should start including makeovers next!”

That had in fact been my next suggestion. I buttoned my lips together. How I longed for the arguments over gull-droppings on the Silver Ness harbour wall and stories of library books being returned thirty years late.

“But that is precisely my point,” I answered. “We want Goddess readers to feel included—”

Athena rose up snake-like up from her desk and stalked to her office door. She tugged it open in a flash of cranberry nails. “Thank you, Leonie. We’ll consider this matter closed.” She bit her lip. “You do, however, seem to have an unfortunate habit of upsetting people. I don’t want any more complaints of this nature. Understood?”

Upsetting people? I opened my mouth, my incandescence boiling over, and then thought better of it.

It was obvious Athena was referring to the Tilly Crabtree and Glorious foundation incident.

I marched back to my desk, festering with indignation. If upsetting people meant being honest and not making up bare-faced lies, then she could stick it up her—

“Oh, Leonie,” travelled Athena’s throaty voice across the sea of heads, as she prepared to retreat back into her office. “I’ll make sure you’re compensated for that little door.”

I sat at my desk for the remainder of the afternoon, seething like a volcano that was about to erupt.

Guilt clung to me about what had happened and not being able to explain it to Lily had made the whole situation take on an even greater and troubling significance.

I made a start on writing up copy for the Avanti cosmetics feature, but I kept throwing out the usual clichés and deleting it. In the end, I parked the article to one side and produced the letter to Lily from my back pocket. My eyes grazed the handwriting again.

I knew I should have returned it to Lily straightaway, whether she knew about it or not. But it hadn’t helped that she’d refused to answer her door and a letter like that wasn’t something you crammed through someone’s letterbox with a, “And oh, yes, I found this. See ya!”

I didn’t want her to think any less of me than she already did.

Some of my work colleagues had already slunk off for the evening, proclaiming urgent interviews to conduct or drinky-poos with valuable contacts. There was no sign of Athena either. She had brayed to Orion that she was meeting up with the PR of a high-end fashion house for lunch and hadn’t been seen since.

While the Glasgow traffic thrummed outside, I smoothed the passionate letter out and entered the name Flynn Talbot into the search engine.

I decided to have a trawl through Facebook first. I suspected it wouldn’t be a common name, or at least it didn’t sound like it.

How old would this gentleman be now, that’s if he was even still alive? Mid-seventies, going by Lily’s age when she opened her bakery. Would he use Facebook or social media at all? Was he still living in Scotland? I concluded it was worth a shot.

It transpired from my search that there were three people with the name Flynn Talbot. One was a twenty-five-year-old surfer-type living in Los Angeles. Another was a forty-year-old glass blowing artist based in the South of France. It didn’t look like the Flynn Talbot I was searching for could be either of them.

I clicked onto the third and last Flynn Talbot profile, my feelings of pessimism twisting in my stomach.

A profile photo of Loch Lomond for this particular Flynn Talbot glimmered out of the screen. Ok. So, no photo of him. But it was a picture of one of Scotland’s most famous landmarks. Could he be Lily’s Flynn – or perhaps be able to lead me to him?

Come on, Leonie, I chided myself. Don’t get too carried away.

Nevertheless, I took an excited, hopeful breath, prayed I might be onto something, and began to read.