Page 18 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

Chapter Six

It was a relief to cocoon myself again in the cottage.

This place was quickly becoming my protective shell.

I replayed the heated conversation with Rhea Stafford again. I knew I’d been rude but I found I didn’t care. Then again, what had I expected?

Rowan Bay was a close-knit community. My grandparents had been part of that ever since they’d moved from Edinburgh all those years ago.

I put Bronte’s new bag of kibble in the cupboard under the oven. I didn’t usually speak to people like that. Most of the time, it took a lot for me to get wound up and lose my temper. But her incessant questions and then that salty remark about my grandma… How often was this going to happen round here? Probably quite a lot. I would just need to get used to it.

Pictures of Joe fixed themselves in my head again. I’d been plunged into this, exposed and made to feel vulnerable, because of him. I’d become a sour, snappy, heart-wizened woman. The polar opposite of who I’d been before. His death and then discovering his affair had twisted and contorted me into a version of myself I didn’t recognise. And I realised I didn’t care.

In the bathroom, I eyed my make-up bag propped up next to my electronic toothbrush. What would be the point of slapping on cosmetics? I was here in a cottage in the Scottish Highlands, not about to parade down the red carpet.

I hadn’t felt any compunction to wear cosmetics since Joe’s accident. But then something my mum used to say whirled around my head. ‘Make-up is your armour. You might feel rubbish, but a dash of lippie works wonders.’

I concluded it was going to take more than some lipstick to stop my insides feeling like they were collapsing on top of each other, but I rummaged around to locate my rose-pink lipstick and my eyeshadow palette.

My eyes reminded me of two piss holes in the snow. Mascara would just be a step too far. I knew as soon as I saw Barclay, I’d crumple into his fatherly arms, so I dashed on some biscuit-coloured eyeshadow and decided to leave it at that for now. I didn’t want to end up looking like a melted waxwork.

I pulled on my walking boots and white Puffa jacket and reached for the tin of biscuits I’d bought for Barclay. I slipped them into a shiny gift bag I found in my grandparents’ utility cupboard and encouraged Bronte to follow me.

I locked the cottage door behind us and huddled into my jacket. The water below in the bay stirred in the wind, reflecting the pearly sky.

Barclay had come to our wedding in London five years ago and he and Joe had hit it off straight away. They’d teased each other about English and Scottish football and their camaraderie was formed. He’d been taken in by him too. We all had.

Bronte negotiated the steps up to the lighthouse. It was rocky and mossy, overlooking the spectacular swell of Rowan Bay and the fishing boats bobbing up and down. Houses stippled along the skyline on the opposite side of the bay.

I reached the lighthouse, raised my hand and knocked. I smiled down at Bronte. ‘Barclay might give you a little piece of digestive biscuit, if you’re lucky.’

As if on cue, I could hear thudding feet on the lighthouse stairs before his friendly shaggy, greying appearance materialised at the lighthouse door.

He took one look at Bronte and me and threw his arms open. Bronte jumped up at him, her tail thudding from side to side. ‘Red! Oh, Red. Come here, lass.’

I fell into his arms, dropping his bag of biscuits down at my feet.

And out it came; a strangulated series of cries, as the waves in the bay slapped against each other.

Barclay smelled of sea and boot polish.

It was comforting.

Once we’d gathered ourselves, Barclay locked up the lighthouse and we ventured towards his white bothy close by, with its small windows and tie-back, red tartan curtains, where he stayed when he wasn’t attending to his lighthouse duties.

He insisted on fetching me a cup of tea – or something stronger if I was so inclined – but I said tea was fine.

Moments later, he re-emerged from his kitchen and gave Bronte a tea biscuit. ‘Is it a daft question to ask how you are?’

I shook my messy curls. ‘I really don’t know how I am.’

‘Time, lass. We all need time.’

I buried my face in the steam of the tea. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be me again.’

Barclay tugged down his thick, beige jumper. ‘You mustn’t look too far ahead. Minute by minute, at the moment.’ His lined eyes creased even more as he looked at me. ‘In time, your memories of Joe will comfort you. You’ll see.’

His innocent words stung. I cleared my throat and gazed around, taking in his heavy, dark wooden furniture, seascape paintings and old maps framed on the walls. ‘That’s where you’re wrong.’