Page 3 of The Bookshop By the Loch

When they appeared reluctant, I pointed out I could take the money instead, to which they relented after working out the considerable sum involved and agreed yes, taking my accrued total leave of three months was the more sensible option.

I think looking like a terrifying, tear-stained poodle helped my case.

Grant had summoned me up to his ostentatious office after the announcement, to tell me that while my skills and abilities were much appreciated, the board had decided that Anya Mills’s name carried more weight, which meant, “We would be in a better position to take on the other publishing power houses.”

More swirling thoughts took over. The way I felt right now – cheated and foolish – I couldn’t envisage myself returning to work there. But I loved the publishing world so much. Could I really turn my back on it?

I did have some savings put by, thanks to the money my late grandmother had left me in her will eighteen months ago, plus what I would make from temporarily renting out my flat in Glasgow for the three months I was back here in Bracken Way. The combination of both of those would keep me going if I did decide to hand in my notice, but it wouldn’t last forever.

I tried to give my head a mental shake. Right now, I was struggling to decide between peppermint tea or camomile, let alone what I wanted to do about my job.

I set my shoulders, plastered on a smile and started to stride over to where Mum was, but she had already abandoned her zesty yellow Hyundai and was bearing down on me, arms flung open.

She enveloped me and planted a huge kiss on my cheek. The wind carried wafts of her Estée Lauder perfume towards me, warm and flowery. “Three months,” she breathed. “I’ve got my baby girl home for three months.”

Guilt tugged at my insides. I fought to make my voice sound jovial. “You’ll want to see the back of me after a fortnight.”

“That long?” she teased. “Come on. Let’s get you home and you can tell us all your exciting news.”

Right. Enough. I would tell her and my grandfather the truth, once lunch was out of the way. I couldn’t carry on, bottling up my frustration like this.

Mum held up the fob to the car and it let out a series of bleeps.

While I dumped my wheelie case in the boot, I realised that it only seemed like five minutes ago, that I was in the midst of the hustle of Glasgow and now, I was being blasted by hypothermic winds. And this was April, for Christ’s sake! Bracken Way was a romantic, rugged part of Highland Scotland though, carrying echoes of the Vikings, so I guess the bracing weather was to be expected.

I buried my hands deeper into the pockets of my denim jacket, wishing I’d thrown on my thick pink fleece instead and clambered into the passenger side.

Mum began talking about Grandpa complaining about his new reading glasses. I hoped I was murmuring and nodding in the right places. I was struggling to focus. My thoughts were jumping everywhere.

She indicated out of the train station car park and took us in the direction of the main street, moving the conversation on to the bad snow that had hit the area last month. I could see visitors meandering up and down the hill towards Bracken Castle.

Clusters of chattering American tourists were entering the castle courtyard in an array of multi-coloured waterproofs and clutching maps.

Chilly, Scottish dappled sunshine rippled down through the exposed towers.

To the right, was the gift shop, selling everything from Bracken Castle embossed bookmarks to postcards and clotted cream fudge. To the left, was the entrance kiosk and office. I recalled coming up here on school trips to hear about the history of the castle, with its links to hidden treasure, smuggled ladies of nobility fleeing from arranged marriages and the rumoured ghost of a knight searching for his lost love.

I gazed out of the car window, drinking in the achy, buttery stonework, with its narrow, grinning passages and elaborate crenelations. Busty balustrades erupted at every turn, depicting frilly flowers and rearing horses.

If you ventured through the gift shop and out of the exit on the other side, you were greeted by a hillside of sloping green grass, which overlooked the shimmering loch.

My heart sank. It was as if my life was contained in a snow globe and someone had snatched it up, given it a prolonged shake and then handed it back to me and said, “Right then. How are you going to deal with this?”

Perhaps I should have ignored that voice in my head at sixteen, telling me to indulge my dream of becoming a book editor. Maybe if I’d chosen another career, I wouldn’t feel so much of a withered, rejected husk right now at the age of thirty. Literati had chewed me up and spat me out.

It had been the love of our local bookshop, Book Ends, which had triggered my book obsession from an early age. From the moment I had stepped in there with my late grandmother Pattie, the world of books and publishing had cast its spell on me and there had been nothing I could do about it.

I stared up at the castle, as Mum eased us up to the traffic lights. This place was the voice of the long-gone characters who had drifted in and around these walls, who had drunk up the sunshine in the sprawling lawns and hatched and plotted in its chambers hundreds of years ago.

I bit back a swell of disbelief as I played over in my head again, Grant’s burring voice as he introduced Anya Mills and her perfectly pressed checked suit.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?”

Mum’s voice made me sit up straighter.

“You’re very quiet.”

I huddled deeper into my denim jacket. “I’m fine.” Out came another brittle smile. “Just a bit tired.”