Page 91 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

No. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face going through all that again. I couldn’t wake up each morning like I had been after Joe’s death, turning over my emotions again and again and picking at a wound that I thought was healing, only for it to open and hurt me again. What if I lost Mitch? What if he let me down? I’d be putting myself through the same cycle of hurt and grief again.

When would I ever learn? I’d promised myself I would keep a lid on my feelings for him. I was convinced I could do that. But here I was, allowing my emotions for Mitch to spill over and now look what was happening! His glamorous wife had turned up and they were no doubt cosied up together right now, with the bay romantically serenading them.

I tried to mentally push Mitch back into the recesses of my mind. I had to try and move on.

The words filled my head. If Mitch decided to reunite with his wife, it might be better for me to leave Rowan Bay. I couldn’t imagine the awkwardness, living here in the cottage and so close to them.

If they gave their marriage another chance, then selling this cottage would be the best option. I liked living here. It was everything London wasn’t: green, peaceful and with the bay swishing like a silver curtain. But staying here, gazing up at the proud, white and blue column of the lighthouse each day, knowing Mitch and Romilly were all loved up together in the bothy, it would be too much.

I gave a tearful blink. Decision made. If Mitch and his wife were reuniting, I’d put the cottage up for sale.

I’d start over with Bronte elsewhere. I’d always carry the memories and my love of Rowan Bay with me, but I’d take them somewhere else. Put all this mess and mayhem behind me.

I forced a jovial smile down at Bronte. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go get some air.’

* * *

I didn’t see Mitch or Romilly for the rest of the day.

That night, I got ready for bed. The beam from the lighthouse cast itself over the top of the choppy harbour water, like liquid gold.

They’re up there together, hissed an inner voice. What were they talking about? What were they doing? Were they snuggled up by the fire, with the flames popping?

I hitched the duvet up over my head and clamped my eyes shut.

* * *

It was raining the next morning, the raindrops splatting on everything. All but small, irritating patches of snow remained.

As Bronte and I ventured out, swathed in our cosy waterproofs, my eyes insisted on pulling themselves towards the lighthouse. I so wished I could stop looking up there, but I couldn’t help myself.

I swore under my breath, cursing my vivid imagination. Were they in bed, having a lie-in? Had they decided to reconcile?

It was like I was deliberately torturing myself. Had I turned into a masochist?

It was only a few weeks now till Christmas. The prospect of that filled me with dread. The scenery had changed here, from a picture-perfect Christmas card, with pretty snowflakes dancing from the sky, to rain-slicked rocks and cliffs, which looked as deflated as I felt.

If I was going to put the cottage on the market, I’d get Christmas and New Year out the way and then hit the ground running with a valuation in early January. There was no point in hanging around Rowan Bay longer than I had to. I’d also tell Reece of my plans, and Barclay, of course.

In the meantime, I could start looking at a few properties to get a feel for what was out there, although I had no clue where I wanted to go. I’d also have to decide what to do about the flat in Hampstead.

I watched Bronte weave amongst the trees in the woods. If Mitch had experienced a change of heart and decided to get back together with Romilly, then we’d have to tell Ruth Mangan the truth about him not being the artist of my grandma’s paintings.

Yes, I wanted to have my grandma’s work out there, but I was going to insist to Mitch that we put an end to our plan.

Having to be close to Mitch would be too painful, especially with Romilly around. And Romilly could inadvertently put a spanner in the works by saying the wrong thing. It wouldn’t be worth the aggravation. It would be like treading on eggshells the whole time in the run-up to the exhibition, and after everything that had happened, I didn’t fancy the stress. The best thing would be to put plenty of space between Mitch and me. It was the only way.

Keeping up this pretence of him as the talented painter would be too protracted and hurtful when I knew he was off to give his marriage another chance.

I’d had enough of mayhem and disorder, but I couldn’t turn back time.

It was down to me now to sort out my life and start taking some grown-up decisions.

Bronte and I ambled amongst the wet dankness and moss.

I was glad I’d stopped writing though I reassured myself for the hundredth time. You can’t keep flogging a dead horse. How could I ever return to romance writing, when my real-life heroic inspiration had turned out to be a fraud?

I buried my chin deeper into the high collar of my quilted winter coat.