Page 7 of The Cottage in the Highlands

“Hello darling!” beamed Mum, planting a kiss on my cheek. Her dark-chocolate Italian eyes mirrored mine. “How was your day? Anything hot off the press?”

I nestled Harley closer to me and plastered on a fake smile.

She took a step backwards to look at me. “What’s wrong? You look pale and tired.” She frowned. “Are you eating properly and getting enough sleep? I bet you’re living off next to nothing.”

She called over her shoulder. “Ross. Come and see your daughter. You tell me if you think she’s eating.” She shook her dark layered hair. “Why don’t you come in and let me make you dinner. You need feeding up a bit.”

Despite my mood, I couldn’t stifle a brief snort of laughter. “Are you joking, Mum? Have you seen my arse in my jeans lately?”

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with your arse, young lady. It’s a real woman’s arse. You have the Carlucci bottom and there is nothing wrong with that. Remember what Sophia Loren said? ‘Everything you see I owe to pasta.’”

I rolled my eyes and buried my face deeper into Harley’s coat. Why was I standing here on my parents’ doorstep, talking about family bottoms and Sophia Loren, when I should be delivering the sobering news that their only daughter was about to join the dole queue?

“Mum,” I began, but Dad had now appeared.

“Look at her,” pressed on Mum. “You look at Leonie and tell me she’s looking thinner. I don’t think she’s eating properly. Well, Ross, what do you think?”

Dad looked agonised. Either way, he knew he couldn’t win.

“Chi mangia sulo s'affoga,” said Mum, pulling in her lips and not giving Dad enough time to respond.

“He who eats alone suffocates?” guessed Dad, used to Mum quoting her extensive repertoire of Italian proverbs.

“Well done,” I sighed. “Got it in one.”

Mum raked me from the top of my head to my toes, scrunching her nose as she scrutinized me for signs of self-neglect. “You could be doing with a good plate of my ricotta and cherry tomato gnocchi.”

Dad looked me over, with an intense expression. He broke into a smile. “I think our little girl is gorgeous as she is.”

No, it was no use. Those lovely words from my dad tipped my emotions over the edge, like the penny-falls at a fairground.

His smile collapsed. “Leonie? Leonie? What is it? What’s wrong sweetheart?”

I answered my dad’s question by erupting into a series of louder, rasping sobs.

Chapter Three

The next week evaporated in a haze of me trawling through various media job sites.

I’d already fired off my CV to several online magazines and tried a couple of the larger regional newspapers in the hope that there might be a vacancy imminent or that they would see my application and decide they desperately wanted to recruit me. Ha!

Every so often I would try to fight – deny, even – my festering panic. I had a mortgage on my little cottage to pay. I knew I was being blinkered, refusing to even consider a short-term job doing something else, but even that idea was beginning to falter. I might not be able afford to be choosy. Needs must.

I pulled my attention back to the present and the lasagne and parmesan in front of me. I plucked a chunk of garlic bread from the bowl and examined it. Beside me, Harley was crunching on her kibble.

I cleared up my dinner debris and called Harley to come to the front door, by waggling her pink sparkly lead. I felt like someone had tipped me upside down and given me a damn good shake. “Come on, you. Let’s go for a walk before I go crazy.”

Harley’s plume of a curly tail waggled with excitement as I closed the door behind us. I slipped on her harness and glanced around at my modest little garden, with its ceramic pots and flowered hedge.

I lived in an old cottage that was a stone’s throw from both my parents’ and the newspaper office. I’d bought it for a relative bargain, after securing the junior reporter role at the paper. It had belonged to a frail, elderly gentleman who hadn’t been able to maintain it.

When he passed away, his family, all located in the south of England, had been anxious for a quick sale and so I had been able to make them a competitive offer.

It had required a lot of work to knock it into shape and drag it into the twenty-first century. Thankfully, my dad being a semi-retired painter and decorator, meant that he and a few of his contacts had been able to turn it from a tired, jaded house with loud paisley carpets and Venetian blinds suspended from every window into a cosy, modern little home.

I think because I had been born by the sea, that was why I possessed such a love and affection for it. That was therefore reflected in my passion for all things blue, together with my love of rocks and shells. Moody lighthouse pictures adorned my hallway walls and there were sparkly rock and starfish ornaments scattered around my sitting room and bedroom.

I even had a cute little miniature lighthouse on the shelf in my bathroom from one of the local gift shops, which I hadn’t been able to resist.