Page 69 of The Bookshop By the Loch

When I had arrived home from work, I’d changed out of my work clothes, opting for my plain white T-shirt, slim-fitting jeans and my cream denim jacket. I tugged on my trainers, my fingers working the laces on auto pilot, while I thought about my father.

I finished teasing my hair and snatched up my phone from my bedside cabinet.

I felt nervous. I hadn’t told Mum and Grandpa who I was meeting. Not yet.

My stomach swooped and dived as I made my way down past the huddle of shops towards the castle. Bracken Way had been a hive of holiday activity today, but now it was only the last few defiant bank holiday stragglers who were packing up cool boxes, picnic blankets and herding over-tired children into their cars for the journey home.

My stomach performed another apprehensive roll.

This was ridiculous! I could understand my feelings if I was going out on a first date with Tobias, but not meeting up with my own father.

A date with Tobias? Yeah, right. Not a good idea on any front. I needed relationship heartache like a hole in the head and affairs of the heart, with me, never seemed to turn out well. I hadn’t been faultless though. I’d thrown so much energy into my job at Literati, I never had time for anything else. Love and romance didn’t seem to sit well with my family. Even my own parents’ marriage had been a disaster.

A dull ache ripped through my chest. Such a pity that real relationships couldn’t be as magical as the ones my romance authors had written about at Literati.

The sunset bled amber, crimson and scarlet stains across the sky, as the castle shimmered into view.

It was almost eight o’clock.

My father was already up there waiting for me, hunched over the rail and lost in the horizon. His greying collar-length hair was getting a little too long, furling up at the ends. He was sporting a battered leather jacket, dark jeans and white trainers. He looked like he was about to audition as a drummer for a middle-aged rock band.

I strode more purposefully than I felt up the steps.

As if sensing me approach, he turned around. He tensed. “Lexie.” The relief was evident on his tanned, lined face. “I wondered if you might change your mind about coming.”

“I wouldn’t do that. I don’t like to let people down.” Not like you, ground a hurt voice in my head. As soon as I said it, I wanted to bite the words back, even though a part of me was ashamed to admit I meant every word of them.

My dad looked like he wasn’t sure what to do with his arms. They opened and closed several times. No kisses. No hugs. It would have been awkward for both of us.

Huge public displays of affection were out. Tentative, odd smiles were exchanged instead.

I stepped up beside him so that our profiles were side by side, appreciating the blue, craggy vista. The slight bump at the bridge of his nose mirrored mine.

“So, you wanted to talk to me?” I asked.

He nodded.

I breathed in the heathery tang dancing on the breeze. “How is… how are you? I mean, your condition.”

Dad rubbed at his cheeks and contemplated my question. “Godawful some days, bearable on others. I have to face facts, Lexie. It’s going to get worse, not better.”

I leant on the rail. His words prodded and poked me. “What about treatment for it?”

“My consultant said it’s a case of just slowing down the symptoms and its progression.” I listened as my dad, his hair being sifted by the breeze, spoke about the limited options open to him. “He said he’s starting me on a drug called Memantine, to try and improve the quality of my learning and memory.”

“What else?”

“Some sort of antipsychotic to control the impending anxiety, depression and agitation.” My father’s lips twitched with sarcasm. “It all sounds fabulous, doesn’t it? I can hardly wait.” He stared straight ahead at the shimmery water. “I’m going to be rattling when I walk.”

This disease was going to take everything that he cherished: his intelligence, writing ability, the core of who he was.

“I’ve made a monumental cock-up of my life.”

His sudden admission made me crick my neck as I snapped my head round to look at him. “Not where your career is concerned, you haven’t. We’ve read about the journalism awards you’ve won over the years. All the exclusive stories you broke.”

Dad squinted ahead, as if in pain. “I’m not talking about my career. I’m talking about you and your mum. About being a parent and a husband. Making a successful, happy marriage.”

Now it was my turn to look discomfited. “Well, I won’t argue with you there.”