Page 25 of Journey to the Scottish Highlands

‘Another acting job?’ asked Evan with interest.

I set the teapot down. ‘No. It wasn’t. It was a reminder from my opticians to get my eyes tested.’ I folded my arms. ‘I’ll contact the hospitality agency when I get back to London and ask for whatever shifts they can give me.’

‘Oh, come on, Daisy. Don’t you think you’re jumping the gun a bit?’

My jaw clamped shut. ‘Are you kidding?’ I shook my head, exasperated. ‘In the acting profession, you’re only as good as your next role, and you can go months and months without any money.’ I shook my topknot, exasperated. ‘I wonder what it feels like to wield the sort of power that critics like Fox have? To be able to make or break people’s careers with just a few sentences?’

I picked up my knife and fork again and proceeded to cut into the tomato with relish. A part of me was imagining it to be Fox’s head. ‘I bet he really gets off on it, the tosser.’

Evan eyed me across the table as the sound of clinking cutlery echoed around us. ‘I read the review of Sinister online. He was complimentary about your performance.’

I made a snorting sound, which drew a few curious looks from other guests. ‘Complimentary? Did you read the same review of Sinister that I did? He said my acting was competent; satisfactory but unable to rescue a car crash of a show. That’s hardly glowing.’

Our tense conversations screeched to a halt, as Evan’s breakfast and coffee arrived at the table. As soon as the woman disappeared, Evan picked up his knife and fork. ‘Look, if it’s any consolation, I watched Sinister, and I thought you were great. In fact, I thought you were the best thing about it.’

My fork stilled half way to my mouth.

‘I wouldn’t have recognised you, though, if you hadn’t explained who you were. I think it was the platinum blonde bobbed wig you wore for the role.’

‘Thank you,’ I managed, surprised.

Evan sliced into his bacon. ‘And I just want to apologise on behalf of those journalists who don’t take their jobs seriously enough. It shouldn’t be about hurting people or making them feel less than they are.’

I took a sip of my tea, studying him across the rim. ‘I think you’re right. It’s just, you have no idea what it’s like to put all your energy into something and then find it’s been trashed.’ I lowered my cup and held it in my hands. ‘When I heard I’d got that role in Sinister, I couldn’t take it in. I was beyond thrilled. All the hard work and trailing around auditions, to finally secure a spot in a new TV drama like that.’ I set my cup down on its saucer with a decisive rattle. ‘And now, the names of the cast are being treated like a bad smell.’

We spent the next few minutes eating in comparative silence. All around us, there was the clink of teacups. Some gentle violin music wafted from the speakers.

‘What sort of journalist are you? I mean, what do you write?’ I asked, finishing off my scrambled egg.

‘I’m a freelancer. I tend to write topical news features. Anything from pieces about dating apps and romance scammers to the increasing popularity of women’s football and how politicians use social media.’ Evan took a mouthful of coffee. ‘I’m lucky. I know a lot of editors, so I tend to have a good in when it comes to having my pitches accepted.’

I drained the remainder of my tea and pushed my almost-finished breakfast plate away. ‘And would you ever be tempted to follow in the likes of Fox’s footsteps? Become a critic, in the loosest sense of the word?’

‘Never say never…’ Evan began.

Of course. Why did I ever think otherwise? Any glimmer that this man was different to the bombastic idiot at the lunch yesterday withered inside me. I might have guessed as much. I shot up from my chair. Birds of a feather flock together, echoed the voice of my late grandmother. She always used to say that. Looked like she was right. ‘I’ll see you outside in half an hour. I want to leave here no later than quarter past nine. Please don’t be late.’

And with that, I stalked off to check out and ring Grandpa to give him my estimated time of arrival.

* * *

Marlene was packed up. Evan and I had both checked out of the bed and breakfast, and he was now back in the passenger side.

Sunday morning sunshine, like patches of soft, golden marmalade, pooled on the tree tops. It bathed the stirring Ambleside and brought out the keen ramblers and water sports enthusiasts.

A nearby stream slid over the rocks in a twinkly silver ribbon as we prepared to drive off.

I’d rung my grandpa and told him that he could expect me in around five hours. He was delighted, saying he’d have the kettle on and couldn’t wait to hear about London and my next acting roles. My stomach had dropped when he’d said that, and I’d changed the subject.

I’d also told him that I was dropping someone off in Forrest Bank on the way back to Strath Ross. As soon as I’d said it was a male passenger, my grandpa had asked, ‘Och, handsome, is he?’

I’d gripped my mobile tighter to my ear back in the guest room. ‘No. Ok, yes, well, I suppose he is, but he’s not my type.’

My grandfather had then proceeded to ask me his name and occupation and what his prospects were. I think he was trying to suss out if he was good breeding stock. ‘Nothing like that, Gramps. Just a favour, that’s all. He couldn’t fly up to Scotland because of all the technical problems.’

My grandpa’s voice brightened even further. ‘Scottish, is he?’

‘Yes, he’s actually from Forrest Bank, but he’s spent a lot of time in London.’