Page 10 of A Scottish Island Summer

I gulped back a ball of disbelief. ‘You aren’t serious? You want me to get changed for a photo shoot in the back of this thing? It looks like it should be condemned.’

‘Well, it’s either that or you’ll be standing starkers in the middle of Portree,’ piped up Arran.

The very thought made my Londinium skin bristle with panic.

I swore I would disembowel Justine and Brandy. At the same time. With a teaspoon and no anaesthetic. For twenty-four hours straight. And pissing well record the whole thing and post it for the world to see.

This whole trip was turning out to be a disaster from start to finish. I’d already been faced with amateurish, shoddy and chaotic planning and I’d only just arrived. Not to mention the sodding weather!

Arran grinned at me, which only infuriated me even more.

Iona studied her walking boots.

I peered into the van. Well, what was I going to do? Either I got inside this hell hole or I stripped off in the middle of Portree and gave everybody an eyeful.

Gathering my resolve, I clambered inside and clanged the van doors shut behind me.

Here I was, hunched over in the back of a dingy transit in Scotland, while River shitting Banks was swanning around the Mediterranean. I pushed raging, jealous thoughts about River aside.

The interior of the van was dark, but I could make out a couple of white and silver dream catchers dangling from the rearview mirror. A miniature cuddly toy of Minnie Mouse was propped up at the corner of the windscreen. I could also smell a scent like fresh washing. I suspected Iona had been around the interior of the vehicle, spraying something pleasant to try and make a sow out of a proverbial pig’s ear.

I gathered my resolve and began throwing off my waterproof, jeans and polo-neck. If I took too long, I’d be in danger of freezing to death.

I yanked down the zip on the suit hanger to reveal the outfit but all I could make out in the gloom were glimpses of sparkly silver.

I took the garment and slid it over my head and it slithered down my body like a waterfall. It felt OK. At least that was something.

It had a sequinned belt, so I fumbled around and managed to tie that. Over in the corner of the back of the van was a pair of pale ballet pumps, so I put them on. I gave my ponytail a flick and jerked open the double doors of the van again.

Iona and Arran were chatting and upon hearing my tapping feet, they stopped and whirled round.

A car—now empty of driver and any passengers—had just parked up next to the van and I caught a glimpse of myself in its windows as I shuffled past.

I froze.

What the hell?! I looked like a turkey, ready for cooking on Christmas Day!

On closer inspection and in full daylight, the dress appeared to have been made out of an old tablecloth, with tin foil layered over the top of it. It had short, puffy sleeves—not conducive to this weather—and a frilly hem.

I hoisted up the abomination, stricken with embarrassment, but Iona was enthralled.

‘Oh Ms Freeman. You look wonderful.’

I gulped, gesturing the length of me. I seemed to have lost the ability to speak.

‘Aye. You look like a shooting star,’ added Arran.

‘I do so want to slaughter someone,’ I ground out through my teeth. I raised one incensed finger and pointed at what I was wearing, but Iona ignored me and darted past, back towards the van, to retrieve the jewellery.

‘We need to shake a leg,’ announced Arran, examining his chunky wristwatch. ‘Time is money and I’ve got a photo shoot at the fish farm in half an hour.’

My eyes glittered with suppressed rage. Nice to know his priorities were a couple of Scottish salmon and a sprat.

A couple of teenage boys in school uniform sauntered past. One noticed me, elbowed the other one and they both sniggered.

I flapped my hands. ‘Alright. Alright. Just please let’s get on with this.’

Iona hurried back towards me clutching a tray, out of which were jutting a couple of pairs of studded thistle design earrings in copper; another pair of wild birds in hammered silver and two Celtic rings in white gold.