Page 4 of A Scottish Island Summer

Chapter Two

‘Portree! We’re here, lass!’

My eyelids shot open and I let out a sharp scream at the coach driver’s moon-like face, which was bearing down on me from the aisle.

He made a chortling noise, which sounded like a gurgling drain. ‘Come on now, Sleeping Beauty.’

I squirmed myself upright in my seat and reached for my bag beside me. ‘Thank you.’

Peering through the coach window, I could just about make out the silhouette of a harbour, with several houses painted in ice cream colours, strung along on the opposite side of the road. Little boats were moored, wriggling around in the heavy mist.

It was supposed to be the start of spring next month, only you wouldn’t think it, looking out over the landscape. My heart felt like a balloon deflating.

I buried myself deeper into my coat as the driver fetched my wheelie case from the side of the coach.

All the other passengers had already vanished, so it was just me and the driver, who I’d just noticed from his lapel badge, was called Rory.

There was the odd piece of traffic making its way along the main street and an inquisitive gull flitting through the afternoon pea souper, but no one else seemed to be around at the moment.

The masts of the boats let out eerie creaks as they rocked on the surface of the water.

I gripped the handle of my wheelie case tighter.

Rory glanced over his shoulder at me, as he proceeded to clamber back into the driver’s side. ‘You alright, lass?’

I gawped around myself at the empty car park with increasing irritation. I hadn’t expected a huge welcoming party, with brass band and streamers, but at least one person here to greet me would’ve been nice.

‘Yes. I’m fine, thanks,’ I managed.

Rory frowned, not looking like he believed me. ‘Well, as long as you’re sure? You’ll find Skye to be a very welcoming community.’

I tapped my feet to keep warm and managed a smile. Yes, I’m struggling to wade through the throng of people here to welcome me right now, I thought to myself.

He raised one hand, giving me a military-style salute, before wheeling the coach around and disappearing out onto the main road. I gave him an awkward wave back, as I watched the rear lights vanish like amber pin pricks.

Great. Just great.

Here I was, on my lonesome, on the Isle of Skye, swathed in mist like something out of a horror movie and with only an arrogant seagull for company.

I unzipped the pocket on the front of my wheelie case and dragged out the ‘itinerary’ Justine’s assistant, Brandy, had emailed me last week. It was all rather sketchy and sounded a bit boring; lots of fresh air and traipsing around.

Justine had explained that her editor friend, Primrose, at Caldwell Publishing had been on a business trip to the States and was only just back, so I’d receive more details about what was involved, who would be my guide etc., once she recovered a bit more from her jet lag.

I squinted around myself again and then up at the gun-metal sky.

Dear God.

Three weeks of freezing my tits off! How the hell was I going to get through this?!

I yanked my sparkly pink beret out of my coat pocket and clamped it on.

I glowered down at the itinerary papers again, the brisk sea air buffeting my cheeks.

I knew I hadn’t imagined it. According to this, I was supposed to be met at the coach by the glamorous-sounding Iona Carrington from PR firm, Skye’s The Limit.

I frowned. I’d never heard of them. Since entering into the realm of social media influencing, I’d got to know rather a lot of the PR and marketing companies, but Skye’s The Limit didn’t ring any bells.

I scowled out from under my beret. Where the hell was she?