Page 13 of A Scottish Country Escape

I could feel my eyebrows rising to my hairline as I read another headline, which trumpeted ‘DEXTER GRAYLING – THE ROCK STAR OF THE WRITTEN PAGE’. This article had featured in a newspaper supplement and was not only extolling his ability to write, but also his apparent penchant for leather jackets and rock music.

‘CRIME WRITER SLAYS THE OPPOSITION’ talked about his phenomenal book sales, not only in the UK, Canada, and Australia, but also in Europe. Then there were assorted glowing reviews of his novels, all of which seemed to feature covers of shadowy alleyways or blurred street lights and his name marching below the titles in huge gold lettering.

I fired through an assortment of photographs of him either escorting various long-haired lovelies or of him alone, staring moodily into the camera. Then my attention was drawn to the latest headline: ‘BESTSELLING AUTHOR MAKES SCOTLAND HIS HOME’.

I cleared my throat and began to read.

Dexter Grayling, the crime writer who has burst onto the literary scene and shaken the genre to its foundations, is leaving his native London for Scotland.

The handsome 36-year-old, who has captivated readers with his gripping plots set in museums, airports, and banks, has today announced that he is relocating to Scotland in order to immerse himself in the culture for his next novel, Killing Time, which is set there.

Representatives for Grayling would not be drawn on the exact location of his move, however, his agent, Angie Carson, did say that he had discovered a ‘simple little place, where [he] feels he can concentrate on his book. If he settles there, he may consider staying permanently.’

I struggled to contain my irritation. ‘A simple little place? The bloody cheek! How dare he?!’

‘What is it, Elle?’

Gran emerged into the sitting room, her spectacles dangling around her neck and a book thrust under one arm.

She had just returned from her weekly book group and was unaware of today’s events. I pointed at my screen and relayed the story to her about Dexter Grayling moving to the area.

Her eyes almost popped out of her face. ‘Are you serious? The Dexter Grayling? Living here? Oh, my word! His books are wonderful. So atmospheric!’

‘Yes, well, please forgive me, Gran, if I’m not as enthusiastic about our new arrival as you are, but I don’t think mowing down the locals is the best way to ingratiate yourself with your new neighbours.’

Gran sank down on the chair opposite me. ‘What? He almost knocked you down?’

‘Not just me. Cate and Mrs Carlucci too.’

‘Bloody idiot!’ she snapped, giving the book in her lap a frustrated thump. ‘You could have been killed…’ She paled at what she was saying. Then she drew herself up. ‘Did you just say “Mrs Carlucci”?’

I waggled my bare feet as we sat together in the sitting room at Pebble Brook. ‘Yes. She happened to be on the street outside the shop, selling heather.’

Gran shot forward in her chair. She looked stricken. ‘Are you sure it was her?’

I blinked at her reaction. ‘Yes. Campbell from the fishmonger’s told me her name.’ I smiled over at her, but Gran didn’t reciprocate. She took in a sharp breath.

I leant forward in my armchair. My concern grew. ‘Gran, what is it? What’s wrong?’

She avoided my gaze and tried to brush away my concern. Her fingers gripped the book resting in her lap. ‘Nothing,’ she faltered. ‘Nothing at all.’

Chapter Seven

It was the beginning of June and the next few days saw me losing myself in preparations to turn the shop into my new stationery empire.

Thanks to the money I had inherited from my parents, I was able to channel funds into the business in the hope it would breathe new life into the shop.

Rose was my mother’s middle name, so the idea of calling the shop Paper Roses had jumped into my head whilst I had been browsing merchandising catalogues and agreeing a price with a local artist to have a new sign designed for above the door.

I had never run my own business before, but I had worked for Dad and helped Mum in the shop when it was the newsagent’s, so I hoped this would stand me in good stead. Also, Cate, although not a premises owner, was self-employed and instructed me to ask her anything I wanted. ‘No question is a silly question!’ she had beamed.

It had come as no surprise to me that Grandma had teared up and enveloped me in her arms when I told her of my shop name idea. ‘That’s beautiful,’ she had managed, gazing up at me. ‘Your mum would love it.’

Now we were sitting in the shop on the first Friday of June, with a summer shower drizzling down the windows.

We were sitting behind the counter, surveying the painting job that Pete, one of my dad’s old tradesmen buddies, had finished the day before.

To reflect the new name, I had decided to go for a palette of pale carnation-pink on the walls, with macaroon cream painted on the shelves and counter.