Page 7 of A Scottish Island Summer

‘No,’ I ground out. ‘I didn’t have time.’

Iona moved off again, her red coat the only splash of colour in the gloomy haze. Was this bloody mist ever going to lift?

‘So, it doesn’t have a spa then? Or a beauty salon? What about a nail bar?’

Iona’s mouth broke into a grin. ‘At The Gorse? Goodness me, no. It’s not big enough to swing a cat in there.’

When Iona noticed my crest-fallen expression, her smile evaporated.

She let out a self-conscious cough and scurried on with my case, leading me to the right of the road. ‘But it has won numerous hospitality awards over the years,’ she offered.

The Gorse bed and breakfast was crouched between the local hairdressers and a haberdashery and was a lime green pebble-dashed painted affair. The windowsills were white and the yellow and cream tartan curtains inside peeked out, completing the look.

Good God. If I didn’t have a migraine when I arrived, I did now.

A wood and gold painted sign proclaiming The Gorse Bed and Breakfast creaked over our heads.

A biting fury enveloped me. Wait until I get back to London. Brandy would be getting it in the neck from me. I bet she’d been sitting behind that oval glass desk of hers, laughing into her Stella McCartney shirt sleeve when she’d booked me into this liquorice allsort!

Avoiding my disappointed stare, Iona negotiated my wheelie case up the few steps and cranked open the frosted white door.

A blast of warm air hit us in the face, as we headed into reception.

There was an old mahogany writing bureau on the right in the navy-carpeted hall, on top of which sat a lit fringed lamp. On the left was a short, steep staircase.

Further down from the cherry-wood reception desk and to the right, was the empty dining room. There were jugs of heather on each of the circular tables, cushioned chairs, and paintings of fishing boats and castle ruins running along the pale lemon walls.

A slim, older woman with layered, short, silver hair appeared, followed by another younger woman with a throaty laugh and modern, quaffed dark hair.

‘I’m Julie Allwood, and this is my mum, Kathleen.’ The younger woman beamed from behind her trendy, dark-framed spectacles. ‘Welcome to The Gorse. We’re the owners of this place. It’s very nice to have you.’

‘Thank you,’ I said through a rictus grin. At least they were very friendly and welcoming.

‘You’re here with us for the next three weeks, is that correct?’ said Kathleen, clapping her hands together in a decisive fashion.

Lucky me! groaned the voice inside my head.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

Julie darted behind the reception desk and tapped at the computer’s keyboard. ‘You’re in guest room four, Ms Freeman.’ She dived one hand under the desk and retrieved my room key, passing it over.

I studied what she’d handed me: a large silver key suspended from a plastic, oblong keyring. Even my goddam key looked like something out of a horror movie. Suitable for locking up victims in dungeons, perhaps.

‘Your room is up the stairs and just along on the right,’ bubbled Julie. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful stay.’

I doubted that very much, but forced a wane smile nonetheless.

Iona led the way, hoisting my case up the flight of stairs. She puffed as she negotiated the incline. ‘My goodness, this is rather heavy.’

I threw her an embarrassed look. ‘I didn’t know what to bring clothes-wise, so threw in an assortment.’

‘Anything warm and waterproof is best at this time of year.’

I pulled a face as she turned away, giving me a view of the back of her haphazard ponytail. ‘Warm and waterproof’ sounded horrific, conjuring as it did the image of practical outerwear with no hint of fashion in sight.

We reached room four, and I slid the dungeon key into the lock. It required a bit of a wriggle around, but with a little effort, the door sprang open to reveal my accommodation.

It consisted of a double bed, topped with a couple of lemon and ice blue cushions and a small ensuite bathroom dotted with lighthouse and boat ornaments.