Page 5 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

Chapter Two

My head was constantly rattling like a box of tools.

I’d been hollowed out; my heart smashed into a million jagged pieces that I had no inclination to gather up and try to piece back together again.

In his rush to get to my book launch, Joe had made a dash for it across the busy road and not seen the lorry bearing down towards him. The driver had slammed on his brakes but it was too late.

Joe was killed instantly.

The poor lorry driver, a fifty-something father of three from the North of England, had been riddled with guilt and sought counselling after the accident. He’d written to me, the tumultuous state he was in evident in his erratic, emotional handwriting.

I’d gripped the lined writing paper, scanning the words but not allowing my brain to process them.

I didn’t blame him. It hadn’t been his fault: Joe was dashing across that road, still gripping his mobile as he hurried to get to me. That had been all my doing.

I’d been nagging him, only thinking of myself, hassling him to get to the museum. To get to me.

Meanwhile, I had morphed into a lifeless dummy after Joe’s death. My head whirled like a carousel. This must be some sick joke. He wasn’t gone.

I’d blundered through his funeral in his hometown of Chorleywood in Hertfordshire just over a week later, supported physically and mentally by Mia and Lola, and with Joe’s devastated parents, Nancy and Jeremy, trying and failing to be brave.

They were buttoning up their emotions and caging them inside, ready for the tsunami of grief to release itself when they least expected it.

My dead eyes hadn’t appreciated the rainbow of flowers at the crematorium. Not even the wonderful floral depiction of a pair of running shoes, from his buddies on his regular park runs, or the floral football in Joe’s beloved Aston Villa’s colours of blue and claret, kindly sent by my friend Barclay, the lighthouse keeper.

Joe had loved eighties rock music, especially Def Leppard, and as his casket had slid behind the curtain to the sounds of his favourite track of theirs, ‘Love Bites’, I knew every ounce of optimism for our future together had died with him.

There was still all this love and longing for him thrashing around inside of me and yet Joe wasn’t here to receive it. There was nowhere for it to go; it just kept reverberating around.

Often, I’d hear a series of desperate, ragged gasps that would make me jump. Then I’d realise the sound was coming from me.

I’d rung Barclay up in Rowan Bay a few days after Joe’s death and somehow managed to tell him about what had happened and given him the funeral arrangement details.

Barclay’s normally raspy, mischievous voice had sunk into despair at the news. ‘My heart isn’t what it was,’ he’d apologised. ‘I probably won’t make Joe’s funeral.’

‘Don’t worry, Barclay. I understand, and so would Joe.’

I hadn’t wanted to see anyone since it happened, except for Mia, who insisted on having the spare key to the apartment. I’d tried to cocoon myself away with Bronte in our home, which was located on the top floor of the building, overlooking the stunning, frilly-green landscape of Hampstead Heath.

Whenever the entry buzzer rang out, Mia would deal with callers, answer my phone and field contact from the press.

For the first few days after Joe had died, Mia stayed over. She tidied up, made me snacks and persuaded me to eat something, even though I wasn’t hungry. I was so grateful to her. The prospect of having to pretend I was coping, made me feel even more exhausted. Even the idea of speaking to Joe’s parents was one I couldn’t contemplate. He had his dad’s smile and his Mum’s animated, blue eyes. They inadvertently carried Joe with them, in echoes of their mannerisms and I couldn’t handle it. The realisation made me ashamed. They’d lost their only son and were going through torment too.

The only time I managed to leave the flat was to take Bronte for a walk a few times a day, and even that was a struggle. I couldn’t look at the glossy, sun-stroked trees, hear kids bursting into fits of giggles or listen to people complaining about the rising cost of a pint of milk. Every snapshot of life or joy emanating from others was like a knife wound to my chest. Didn’t they know Joe was gone? Didn’t they understand what loss and pain felt like? What burning guilt was? If I hadn’t been such a bossy cow…

* * *

It was the beginning of September now and two long, heart-breaking months since Joe’s death.

Mia had dropped by after completing another grocery shop for me, and I was sitting on the sofa, with Bronte at my feet, clutching a cold mug of tea and staring into space.

She’d been packing the items in my fridge. Usually, she’d try to fill the air with chatter, but not today. ‘You, okay?’ I asked her turned back. ‘You seem a bit preoccupied.’

Mia turned round. She was clutching a jar of apricot jam. She set it down on the breakfast bar and reached for her bag. She pulled out a letter. ‘This arrived for you at the agency.’

She came over and handed it to me, before sinking down beside me on the sofa. Her silky, beige trousers whispered as she moved.

I set my cold mug of tea down on the coaster on the glass coffee table in front of me. ‘What is it? Who’s it from?’