Page 5 of A Scottish Island Summer

I hopped from foot to foot, hoping my eyelids wouldn’t freeze shut. There was still no sign of anyone, just the odd throb of cars trundling along the road and the gentle slosh of the waves on the shingle.

My heart lurched with a sudden longing for London buses, stony-faced commuters and shiny windowed boutiques. Why had I ever agreed to do this job? Well, I didn’t actually agree to it, I realised. Justine had basically told me in no uncertain terms that I was doing it.

I dumped my shoulder bag down by my feet and plucked out my mobile phone. If this Iona Carrington didn’t arrive within the next few minutes, I would be making a very irate phone call to my agent.

My fingers zinged with cold, so I searched around in my coat pocket for my gloves. Relieved to find them, I wriggled my hands in and dashed off a quick text to my aunt and uncle, saying I’d arrived safely and would chat later. That’s if I wasn’t admitted to A&E with frostbite first.

As I looked up from my phone, an elderly gentleman strolled past, with a newspaper lodged under one arm. He doffed his cap at me. ‘Good afternoon.’

Is it? I thought to myself, while wishing him a good afternoon in return, nonetheless. I huddled into my checked coat.

Oh, this was a farce!

Where the hell was this Iona Carrington?

Right. I’d had enough.

I would ring Justine.

I ripped of one of my sequinned gloves and was about to pull up the agency number, when a voice from behind startled me.

‘Excuse me. Hello?’

I whirled round to see a timid-faced young woman about my age. She had long, pale blonde hair pulled back into a haphazard ponytail and apprehensive, light green eyes.

She was wearing a red anorak, jeans and walking boots. Her cheeks fizzed with pink. She wasn’t wearing any makeup.

‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, Ms Freeman.’ Her accent was soft and lilting.

I blinked at her from out of my false eyelashes. ‘Sorry?’

She shuffled forwards. ‘Och, let’s get you away from the quayside. You’ll be needing some hot tea inside you.’

More like a Dirty Martini, I thought to myself.

My hands furled protectively around the handle of my case. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but who are you? I’m waiting for someone; an Iona⁠—’

‘Carrington,’ supplied the young woman, her face etched with awkwardness. ‘Aye, I know. She’s me. I mean, I’m her.’

I stared down again at her dowdy clothes and then back up at her flushed face, stripped of make-up.

This was Iona Carrington? No. It couldn’t be.

I opened and closed my mouth. ‘You’re from Skye’s The Limit Public Relations?’

‘Aye. That’s me.’

I struggled to find some words and tried not to let my gaze linger on her old jeans. ‘Oh. Right.’

Iona reached for the handle of my case and proceeded to tug it along.

I hitched my bag further up my shoulder and hurried to keep up with her.

We were walking? She hadn’t brought a car? Or a chauffeur?

‘Have you ever been to Skye before?’ she called into the mist from over her shoulder.

Her cheery voice hauled my attention back. ‘What?! Are you joking? No!’ I realised I’d sounded sharp. ‘Sorry, I mean. No, I haven’t. This is my first time.’ And hopefully my last if I have anything to do with it.