Page 11 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

I fed Bronte her kibble and once she’d hoovered up the contents from her bowl, she jumped up beside me and pushed her squirming body against me on the bed. I wrapped both arms around her and buried my face in her coat.

A weariness gripped me. I threw on an old T-shirt and slipped under the bed covers. I was slumped against the pillows in a snotty, crying mess and despite thinking I’d never be able to sleep again and certain I had no more tears left, I finally fell into fits of restless sleep.

* * *

I lay in bed the next morning, staring listlessly up at my aertex guest room ceiling.

Pictures of Joe burned in my chest. It was as if I’d undertaken last night’s journey here in a mixed-up, hallucinated fog.

Bronte was still curled up beside me on top of the bed, her ears sagging as she looked at me out of her mournful eyes.

I didn’t want to get up. I just wanted to cocoon myself under these covers and push everything away, wallow in my desperation and anger.

But I got a whiff of my fruity armpits and decided that wasn’t an option.

I was struggling to think about anything, let alone getting myself sorted out. The day was stretching in front of me like one long empty tunnel. It was dark and there was no chink of light to brighten it up. I showered and washed my hair on automatic pilot and threw on my clean, baggy, electric blue knitted jumper and jeans.

I scraped my red curls back from my pinched face into a messy ponytail trying not to linger in front of the steamed-up bathroom mirror.

God, I looked horrific – pale and blotchy.

I didn’t feel hungry for breakfast, but I’d paid for it last night in my rush to get to my accommodation, so after feeding Bronte and whisking her out for a quick walk, I returned her to the room and slipped down to the dining area.

I took a napkin and stashed a blueberry muffin, a banana and a cereal bar inside it. I didn’t want anything else. I didn’t even fancy any of those, but I thought I’d better try and force something down. I’d been pecking and nibbling at food since Joe had died, and Lola and Mia had repeatedly warned me that I’d hospitalise myself, if I carried on this way. I’d already lost weight as it was. I’d always possessed a curvy, ample bottom, which Joe loved, but that was beginning to disappear under my jeans. I thought there were lots of things Joe had loved about me. Turned out I was wrong. He’d certainly loved the standard of living my books had been able to provide for us.

I screwed up my eyes. Even my face, leaning towards heart-shaped, was sharper.

When I returned to the room, I took Bronte out for another pit stop before we checked out and set off on the road again.

I sat hunched behind the steering wheel, my fingers digging into the leather.

The sky was bulging with tumultuous clouds. Upon arriving at a set of traffic lights, I shot one hand into the back seat and gave Bronte’s ears a good ruffle. She responded by lashing my hand with her warm, flicking, pink tongue, which made me want to dissolve into an emotional, self-absorbed puddle.

The car was too quiet. It was like I was trapped in a silent bubble of torture. The silence was making me think too much. I couldn’t focus on anything else except Joe and Greta.

I blinked and forced my attention on the road again. I knew where I was headed for now but what was I going to do with myself? What were my intentions once I reached Rowan Bay? I’d always written, but now…

I switched on the radio, keeping the volume at a steady, low hum, trying to drown out the noise in my head.

Oh brilliant. Road works at Newcastle.

We started to crawl along with other cars, vans and lorries wedged side by side like building bricks. When we eased to a standstill, I fetched my mobile from my bag beside me on the passenger side and reluctantly switched it on. I had kept it turned off since speaking to Mia and departing from Hampstead last night. I didn’t want to have to explain to anyone what I was doing, where I was going and why.

I eyed myself in the rear-view mirror. The traffic started to move off again, a giant snake of metal, and so I took the opportunity to park up at the next service station to let Bronte relieve herself and to give my in-laws a quick call.

‘Darling, how are you?’ asked Nancy with concern.

I took in the grey and marble sky through my car windscreen and the motorway services which were rather attractive: all potted plants and shrubs, surrounding a modern-looking glass building with a café, newsagents and a mini supermarket. There was a big, lit-up pumpkin outside the entrance, and stickers of ghosts, mummies and witches plastered on the double doors. It wouldn’t be Halloween for several weeks yet. Funny how everybody else’s lives were just pushing on as normal. So many people were desperate to move time on, whereas I would’ve done anything to wind it back. ‘I’m just outside Newcastle,’ I said, refocusing. ‘I stayed in Leeds last night. Now we’ve parked up for a bit to talk to you.’

‘We?’

‘Bronte and me.’

From behind Nancy, I could hear Joe’s Dad firing questions at Nancy. ‘Is Rosie alright?’

I jammed my lips together. I didn’t want to cry again. I didn’t want to make them worry or feel any more wretched than they already did, but I was struggling. I had to tell them about Joe. I couldn’t keep this festering up inside me, pretending to be the grieving widow.

‘Yes. Um fine. Well, not fine, but you know.’