Page 32 of A Scottish Island Summer

That was one of the reasons why I enjoyed my career so much. It allowed me to focus the attention on other people, places and lifestyles. I didn’t have to go into depth about myself. I could instead put all my time and energy into pushing the exotic places I visited and talking about what made them so special.

My ability to talk to people gave me a feeling of being part of a community, and if I was the one always asking the questions, I didn’t have to pull back the covers of my own life.

‘What were your parents like?’ Logan asked, clearly missing the fact that I didn’t want to continue this discussion.

I didn’t like to talk about them because the pain of their loss was still burning bright in my chest, but it sometimes felt as though not talking about them was denying they’d ever been here. I steadied my voice as pictures of my parents flashed in my head; my dad, Gary, with his booming laugh and love of cars. ‘My dad owned a couple of garages and was a workaholic. My mum was convinced it was the strain and stress of him working all hours that triggered his stroke.’ I gazed ahead as I spoke. ‘He never recovered and passed away a week after falling ill. My mum couldn’t face life without him. She collapsed and died of a heart attack six months later.’ Pictures of Lizzie Freeman, with her wild riot of black corkscrew curls and her infectious smile assailed me.

‘I’m still convinced Mum just gave up and died of a broken heart. Fancy loving someone like that so completely, that a part of you dies when they do. It’s so sad but kind of beautiful too.’

I missed both my parents so much, but I stuffed my feelings into a box in my head and did what I could to keep a lid on it. I had to, otherwise, at moments like this, they would spill out and swamp me.

‘I lost my dad several years ago,’ admitted Logan, prodding the campfire with a stick. His words dragged me out of my memories. ‘He’d been ill for a while.’

I twisted around on one of the two camping chairs Logan had brought with him. ‘Were you close?’

‘Yes. Very. It hit me and Iona hard when he died, but our mum even harder. She couldn’t stay on Skye after he passed away, so she moved to Lerwick to be near my uncle Dougal.’

‘Do you see your mum often?’

‘Only a few times a year.’

Logan continued to prod at the campfire, turning over the logs. It wavered and spat amber flames. The heat rising from it was welcoming. ‘What made you want to become a social media influencer?’

I squinted up at the shards of stars. ‘It’s something I seem to be good at. I enjoy it. Talking about countries and places that interest people; trying to let them see what a big, beautiful and varied world there is out there, even if they never get the chance to visit the places themselves.’ I dragged my knees up to my chin. ‘It’s opened a lot of doors for me and I’ve been able to help my aunt and uncle pay off their mortgage.’

‘That’s really kind of you.’

I pulled an embarrassed face.

‘But what about you?’ Logan asked.

I eyed him, our tents flapping behind us in the dark. ‘What about me?’

‘Has what you do improved your own life?’

I felt my spine stiffen at the direction his questions were taking. Had it though? Was it always fulfilling? Did it complete me? Did my career meet my expectations? It was wonderful, travelling to such stunning places but did I want to do it forever? Could I envisage that?

I pretended to yawn. ‘I think I’ll head to bed. Think the excitement of being chased by a wild animal is catching up with me.’

‘That’s not a very nice way to talk about me.’ Logan stood up and stretched his arms above his head. His dark grey fisherman’s jumper lifted up, exposing a taut stomach and a smattering of brown hair.

I quickly focused on the skyline again.

‘I want to take you bird watching tomorrow, so we should set off early.’

‘Yes, boss,’ I moaned, fantasising about my non-existent lie-in.

He loitered a moment or two by the campfire. ‘Goodnight, Darcie.’

‘Night, Logan,’ I replied, watching him dip his dark brown quaffed head and vanish into his tent.

My limbs were crying out with all the walking I’d been doing, my hair was beginning to rebel and twist into its natural, long tangle of waves and all I wanted to do was submerge myself in a hot, scented bath.

Instead, I was squeezed into a camping chair that my arse was struggling to get out of.

Surely something good would come out of these twenty-one days of torture? Or was I just kidding myself?