Page 53 of Journey to the Scottish Highlands

My protective shield experienced a sudden wobble under Evan’s questioning. ‘What about them?’

When he gave me a quizzical look, I blanched. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude.’

‘No. It’s ok. That’s the journalist in me rearing his head. You don’t have to tell me anything.’

Evan guided us into a car park situated at the side of a pub called The Whiskey Jar. I remembered that was where Dane said Disciple were staging their gig.

Evan turned off the engine and rested both his arms on top of the steering wheel. His sleeves were rolled up a little, and I could see a smattering of dark hair. My stomach flip-flapped around. Dear God, woman!

Something was pulling at me, encouraging me to talk to Evan; to open up and reveal a part of me I liked to keep hidden. Vulnerability. This was a sudden, scary sensation. Part of me wanted to jump out of the car and not say anything to him, but the patient, soft expression in his eyes was hypnotising.

I sighed. ‘It’s fine. Really.’ I picked up my bag by my feet and cradled it in my arms for something to do.

Snapshots of my mum and dad drifted like gossamer in front of my eyes. They didn’t register with any sort of emotion. Maybe a touch of sadness at what they felt they hadn’t been able to do for me – what they thought they couldn’t do and give to each other – but nothing else. ‘You can tell you’re a reporter.’

‘Like I said, please don’t feel you have to tell me anything you don’t want to.’

I lifted my right hand from the top of my bag where it was resting and flapped it. ‘No. It’s ok.’ I gathered myself. ‘I’m not close to my parents.’ I hesitated, gathering my resolve to delve deeper into my past life. Outside the car, the pub lights shone like torch beams into the descending darkness. ‘My mum got pregnant at eighteen and decided she wasn’t cut out for motherhood, so my maternal grandparents brought me up from the age of three months old.’

The chatter of pub goers outside disturbed our conversation for a brief moment. We heard the pub doors clanging open and shut.

‘I’m sorry, Daisy.’

‘Oh, don’t be. I had the most wonderful childhood thanks to them.’ I shrugged my shoulders. ‘You don’t miss what you’ve never had.’

‘What about your dad?’ he asked.

‘Oh, he disappeared down to London as soon as my Mum told him she was expecting and never came back.’ I glanced out of the windscreen at the glowing pub. ‘He was a struggling actor, and my mum wanted to become a singer.’ I let out an ironic laugh. ‘They were both so frustrated with their lot and never achieved what they wanted to in life.’ I delivered a small smile. ‘I think that’s why I’m so hell-bent on being successful. I want to make something of my life and not live like my mum does. She wallows in regret all the time, and it’s eaten her up.’

‘Do you see your parents?’

I shook my head. ‘My mum very occasionally, if she’s got nothing better to do, but my dad never kept in touch. He got married and has four kids of his own now. Lives in the south of England somewhere. Ironic really. Dad of the year when it suited him.’

‘Well, they’re missing out on so much, not having you in their life.’

I drank him in. I couldn’t believe I’d just sat in a strange pub car park and revealed so much of myself to a guy I’d only known for three days. If someone had said to me I’d do just that, I would’ve thought they were nuts. No way would Daisy Madden, struggling actor, very independent, have even considered that. I could feel a shaky smile tugging at my face. ‘That’s a lovely thing to say.’

‘It’s true.’

I noticed the way Evan’s mouth arranged itself when he was thinking; how it tilted up at one corner, almost like he was bemused. What would his lips taste like? How would his mouth feel on mine?

I fidgeted in my car seat. ‘So, enough about me. How about you, Evan Lord?’

‘What about me?’

‘What’s your story? You seem to get on so well with your parents. Still, I’m not surprised; they’re amazing.’

Evan toyed with his dad’s car keys. ‘Yes, they’re great. Very kind and supportive.’

‘And Dane?’

A strange flash of something passed across Evan’s expression. ‘He’s self-obsessed.’ His lips curled. ‘Life’s a game to him a lot of the time.’

I waited for Evan to elaborate but he didn’t. He cranked open his driver side door and clambered out. ‘Time to go and have our eardrums assaulted for the next ninety minutes.’

We entered the pub doors to be greeted by a sea of bodies, with varying degrees of length of hair and ages. Rock T-shirts were being sported by the vast majority of the crowd.

The interior of The Whiskey Jar consisted of sea green and grey walls, with a semi-circular bar with mirrored panels behind it.