Page 98 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

‘Becky Hollis. I’m a journalist with The Tribune newspaper.’ She offered Ruth a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘I understand you were an artist yourself back in the day.’

Ruth’s expression pinched under her powder. Her demeanour changed in an instant. She started to angle her body away from the journalist. ‘Yes, that’s right, I was. Now if you’ll excuse me.’

But Becky Hollis had Ruth in her sights. Her pixie face morphed into a frowning expression. ‘Weren’t you accused of trying to take credit for another artist’s piece of work?’

The reporter had raised her voice an octave. The thrum of conversation lowered in the gallery and clinking glasses stilled. There were still the panpipes playing, but even they seemed to lower in volume so they could hear what was going on.

One of Ruth’s manicured, pale hands flew to her throat. ‘I… I don’t know what you mean. I… I would never do anything like that.’

Undeterred, Becky continued with her barrage of questions. ‘The artist in question decided not to proceed with any legal prosecution, didn’t they, Ms Mangan? You were very fortunate.’

Mitch and I stared at one another.

‘It was all an unfortunate misunderstanding,’ struggled Ruth. ‘I explained all this at the time. Now, I really must…’

Becky Hollis was unrepentant. ‘Is that why you felt you had no option but to stop painting, Ms Mangan?’

The reporter pinned her to the gallery’s shiny, wooden floor with her relentless, kohl-lined, light eyes. ‘Because of what you did to sabotage…’ She rifled in her bag and pulled out her notebook. She flicked over a few pages. ‘Ah. Here it is. Tilda Michaels. You tried to pass off one of her paintings as your own, isn’t that right?’

I spun round to look at Becky Hollis. Ruth was struggling to look at me or at the other guests, who were all murmuring amongst themselves. Stunned, I managed to find my voice. ‘Did you say Tilda Michaels?’

Becky gave me a quizzical look, as though she’d only just spotted me standing there. ‘Yes. Why?’

My eyes blazed at Ruth. What on earth had been going on here? What had this woman done to my grandmother, out of pure jealousy and spite?

It was then that Ruth’s hand settled on her chest, like a speckled starfish. The colour seeped out of her cheeks, and as if in slow motion, she began to crumple.

‘Ruth!’ called out Mitch, dashing forward and catching the fainting woman in his capable arms. ‘Quick! Someone grab that chair, please.’

I wanted to drill Ruth Mangan with questions, make her realise that she hadn’t achieved anything by being so spiteful; I wanted to reveal to these people what this woman, with the perfect, shimmery, grey bob and husky laugh, was really like, what she was capable of.

And yet, staring at her now, gulping a glass of water in her trembling hands, flopped in a chair like a ragdoll, I knew I couldn’t do it. At least not publicly. Everyone was examining her as it was, like something that had been dug up during an archaeological find.

It didn’t seem right. I wanted to know the truth. I wanted her to know what I’d discovered about her. But looking at her now, hunched over and taking deep breaths, she appeared old and fragile. What would my grandma do in this situation? I really didn’t need to ask myself that question.

‘I’m fine,’ bleated Ruth to a concerned woman, who was wrapped in a fancy shawl. ‘It’s just a little warm in here, that’s all.’

Becky Hollis sidled up to me. ‘Why did you just ask me about Tilda Michaels? Did you know her?’

She seemed oblivious to the wan figure of the older woman in the chair in front of her.

My attention travelled from Mitch, who was now standing talking to Reece, to the puzzled guests. I turned my gaze to my grandma’s paintings observing everything from the four walls of the gallery, and then back to a shaken Ruth. She was gripping her glass of water. She raised her sunken eyes and they looked into mine.

The resentment and dislike had gone from them. Her gaze was wide, pleading, vulnerable.

I couldn’t do this. I didn’t like Ruth and I detested the way she’d treated my grandmother, but spilling everything out to this journalist, especially one who was showing no guilt or regard for triggering Ruth to faint. Well, it wasn’t right.

I attracted Mitch’s attention. He muttered something to Reece who nodded.

‘Sorry, I was mistaken,’ I said to an eager-faced Becky Hollis. I shot Ruth a brief look. ‘I thought I recognised the name of the artist you mentioned, but I’ve just realised I don’t.’

The reporter’s expression, like an eager bloodhound, faltered. ‘But… But you seemed to know her name.’

I shrugged. ‘Must have misheard. Sorry.’

She glowered at me from under her pink fringe before snatching up a canapé from a passing waiter and popping it in her mouth. ‘I’m not done yet. I want to talk again to Ms Mangan.’

‘I think it would be better if you left.’ Mitch reappeared beside me. His voice was composed but carried an element of steel.