Page 16 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

I resolved to buy some pretty autumnal flowers for in here and pop them in a vase on the windowsill.

Despite the chill, I opened some of the sitting room and bedroom windows to clear my head.

I then hauled my denim jacket back on and took Bronte back outside with me into the sea-whipped air. I shuttled backwards and forwards between my car and the cottage, retrieving my belongings and all of Bronte’s paraphernalia.

The weather was dry, but cold. The late September chill was evident, made worse by the exposed bay. It was still beautiful though, even on a gnarly, grey day like this.

I eyed the lighthouse across the way, stippled on the broken cliff face. It would be wonderful to see Barclay again.

I clicked the front door closed behind me.

Realisation of what I’d done and what I was doing gave me a brutal shake. I wrapped my arms around myself. Had I just driven nudging five hundred miles to swap one empty property for another? One set of scenery for another? One set of ghosts for another?

I bit my lip, trying to stem another wave of emotion.

Bronte plonked herself on her bottom by my feet and thumped her bushy tail on the hall carpet. I dropped down beside her and nuzzled my face into her curly body.

I squeezed my eyes shut. For the first time in my life, I felt completely alone, like a shadow no one noticed. My stomach let out a gurgle of hunger.

Bronte gave me a knowing look. ‘I know. I know. I need to eat something.’

I kicked off my trainers and padded through to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Oh, bless Barclay. He’d been shopping and had popped some essentials in; bread, milk, fruit, vegetables, fresh orange juice, cereal and a couple of ready-made meals to get me started.

I’d need some more kibble for Bronte, so I decided to pop down to the local supermarket and get that now, before having something to eat. Food was the last thing on my mind, but my stomach was telling me otherwise.

My insides sagged at the prospect. What if I got recognised? The last thing I wanted to do was engage in small talk with anyone. I didn’t want to be pinned to the spot by doleful eyes, being asked how I was doing and listening to them talk about Joe. Folks around here must’ve heard about what had happened to Joe by now. When I’d rung him, Barclay had said that he’d mention Joe to a few of the locals and ask that I was given some space.

Mia, Lola and my in-laws had done a commendable job of trying to steer me away from the headlines, so I wouldn’t be witness to photographs of Joe and me together or to the headshot of him on the publisher’s website, looking all dapper and dimpled at the camera.

But all the same I would often get the urge to go on my phone – like an itching wound that was begging to be scratched – and end up coming across more comments, more headlines, more condolences; and they clouded my brain.

I thought again about stocking up on Bronte’s kibble. Barclay didn’t have a dog or any pet, so he probably hadn’t thought to get Bronte some food. If I kept my head down and avoided eye contact, I might be able to do a quick smash-and-grab and get away with it. My proud grandparents would often remind the locals who their writer granddaughter was and how I visited them often as a small, red-headed, nosey child.

Some insisted they remembered me from all those years ago.

I sunk my teeth into my bottom lip. I just hoped none of them who remembered me happened to be knocking around when I went shopping. I wanted to be anonymous. I wanted to be invisible. I just wanted to seek solace in the cottage, snuggle up beside Bronte and remain in the past.

Snatching up my bag from the top of the kitchen table, I returned to the hall and picked up Bronte’s lead. A walk though would be good for the both of us. ‘Come on then, honey. Let’s go get you some more grub.’

* * *

‘Rosie? Is that you?’

My hope of making a quick exit withered.

From the rear of the corner shop came Rhea Stafford, its owner and Rowan Bay’s answer to the BBC.

She came barrelling down the aisle like one of the town’s tourist boats, but with deep-claret-coloured, short hair. ‘I’d recognise those stunning red curls anywhere! How are you? Oh, what a stupid question to ask! Oh God, I was so shocked and sorry to hear about that lovely husband of yours.’ She tilted her head to one side, like a pet budgie. ‘Barclay dropped by earlier. Said you were on your way. It’s been a while since we’ve seen you around here.’

I gripped the handle of my basket. Was she ever going to take a breath? My brief smile was brittle. ‘Thank you. But it’s not that long ago since I was last up here. I came up in March, for my grandma’s funeral.’

Bronte was poking her head into the shop door. I’d tied her up just outside and popped her quilted, waterproof, fuchsia coat on her for extra warmth. Maybe I should’ve gone to the large supermarket in the next town, Castle Hamilton. I would’ve been less likely to be spotted there. But I’d done so much driving to get here and the walk to the next town would have taken me a good fifteen to twenty minutes. I knew I didn’t have the energy or inclination.

‘So sad,’ she sighed, looking pensive. ‘Your Joe was so young. Just goes to show we don’t know the minute, do we? And they broke the mould when they made your grandma.’

My empty basket banged against my leg with frustration. ‘Yes, they most certainly did. Right, sorry, I don’t mean to be rude but⁠—’

‘Ah. So much to do when you lose someone, isn’t there? The phone calls, the emails, the documents. It’s never ending.’