Page 1 of A Scottish Island Summer

Chapter One

Criminal thoughts about Justine, my agent, whirled through my head as I glowered out of the coach window.

There was an eerie mist swallowing everything up; rickety fences, fields and craggy mountains. It was supposed to be Easter in a few weeks. Maybe the weather memo hadn’t got this far yet, I thought with a stab of sarcasm.

Where the hell were we? I couldn’t feel my arse. It had gone to sleep.

The coach driver had let out a bellow of laughter when I’d asked if we’d arrive in Skye in a couple of hours. He’d hoisted my Louis Vuitton wheelie case into the luggage compartment at Glasgow’s Buchanan Street bus station alongside the other passengers’ belongings and shook his shiny head at me. ‘Och no, lass. Takes about six and a half hours, more or less.’

Six and a half hours?! Where in God’s name was this place? New Guinea?!

The coach trundled on. This Monday morning at the beginning of March, saw landscape which was shrouded in twists of vanilla and lavender cloud, with only the occasional peak of a hillside visible. I peered out at the dancing mist, swirling over everything. Any moment now, I expected Dracula or a werewolf to emerge – or both.

Actually, come to think of it, being bitten by a vampire or savaged by a werewolf might be preferable to what I was about to put myself through.

I ground my teeth. Bloody Justine Carew!

Here I was, Darcie Freeman, luxury travel influencer—someone who’d built up an impressive following on social media, due to my varied and exotic jaunts around the world—rattling along in a coach to the Highlands of Scotland!

My lip curled in horror as I took in my travel surroundings.

The coach consisted of bottle green and navy-blue tartan seats, with matching curtains tied back at the windows.

One of my hands reached up to stroke my long, conker-brown hair. Thank goodness I’d brought my rose-gold GHD straighteners. If the weather continued like this, I ran the risk of ending up like Curly Sue in no time.

I pushed out my feet, encased in my wedged, claret suede boots and fired an icy look around myself at the other half a dozen or so passengers. Thankfully, the seat beside me was empty.

The other people I was travelling with appeared to be lost in books and newspapers.

I let out a grunt. I should’ve been flying out to Paphos now, not on my way to some remote Scottish island to freeze my knickers off for three weeks. I gave an inward shudder. Three sodding weeks!

I folded my arms and huddled deeper into my belted, checked coat. This was all bloody River Banks’s fault. Like me, River (real name Emma Jones from Caerphilly) was a luxury travel influencer. However, where my number of followers had stagnated, she was hoovering up social media fans faster than a supersonic Dyson. That was why River had been awarded the partnership with Techno, the hot new mobile phone brand, instead of me. Its USP was its global plan that made it easier for travellers to stay in contact with those back home, and it would have been perfect for my audience.

So here I was, travelling to Skye instead.

The good news was that Justine had secured me a book deal with Caldwell Publishing, and they were huge. I had been commissioned to compile a Spring into Skye travel guide, the first in a series of seasonal travel books set around parts of the UK. Summer in Sutherland, Autumn in Alnwick and Winter in Windermere were the other three titles that were to follow and would be written by a well-known breakfast TV presenter, a famous character actor, and an assertive, blonde radio journalist who all the politicians were terrified of, respectively.

The bad news was that yours truly had been commissioned to write the spring edition, about Skye. Now, don’t get me wrong, I was very flattered to be included amongst such esteemed company, but I had very quickly grown used to staying in sumptuous accommodation, surrounded by fluttering palm trees and sharing my blog posts and pictures from sun-drenched locations with solid gold taps.

Normally, I would’ve been able to sweet-talk Justine into suggesting one of her other clients for this, by buying her a few cocktails and telling her how amazing she was, but not this time. Over lunch in Strattan’s sumptuous restaurant in South Kensington just last month, she’d informed me that I had to branch out into the ‘unexpectedly exotic’, which she felt would open up new opportunities for me. ‘We’re talking UK-based tourism boards and agencies, darling. You’ll appeal to all those new followers who want to live the same wanderlust life as you, but on a more realistic budget.’

She gave me one of her gimlet glints. ‘Caldwell Publishing are very keen to have you on board with this, Darcie, especially with your photographic credentials. It makes things simpler for them, not having to recruit a professional photographer to accompany you.’ She offered a winning smile. ‘And you’ve always said you wanted to produce a beautiful photography book, anyway.’

‘Yes, that’s true. But I imagined it’d feature my work from somewhere like Casablanca or Mexico.’

She’d twinkled across the dining table at me, all coiffed, bouncy dark hair and ringed hands. ‘But think of your carbon footprint.’

Her persuasion gathered momentum. ‘You’ve got to be seen to be more in touch with the masses. Writing a book like this will go a long way in doing that. You’ll be producing your own guide about a place here in the UK, that’s accessible to more people, rather than another unattainable five-star, sun-soaked country.’ She eyed me. ‘You’re coming across as too high maintenance.’

‘That’s because I am! And anyway, that’s no bad thing,’ I’d insisted with a swish of my hair.

‘It can be.’ Justine had propped her pointed chin on one hand. ‘River’s follower numbers are rapidly going up. I don’t have to tell you that. That’s why she’s currently a more attractive prospect to brands that you’ve worked with before.’ She’d picked up her wine glass and waggled it in her manicured fingers. ‘You need to up your game; get out there and show there’s more to you than designer sunglasses and heels. Show the public you’re far more approachable than you appear.’

‘I am approachable.’

Justin’s eyebrows had threatened to take off. ‘You can be. When you let your guard down.’

I’d bristled. ‘What do you mean?’