Page 64 of Journey to the Scottish Highlands

‘But I can appreciate what it must be like for Cayla. What’s happening with the situation now?’

‘The girl in question got excluded, and quite right too, but Cayla is still carrying the after-effects.’ Josie slipped on her denim jacket. ‘Gillian keeps asking me to try and have another word with Cayla; talk her round and make her realise how amazing she is and what potential she has, but I think she thinks I’m only telling her what her mother wants her to hear.’

Josie studied me. ‘Hold on. What about you?’

‘Me?’

‘She probably thinks I’m some old luvvie fart, whereas you seemed to hit it off with her, especially with the Twelfth Night love-in.’

I blinked at her. ‘You think I might have more luck?’

Josie shrugged as we strolled together out of the empty gym hall. ‘Worth a try. Would you at least give it a go? See if Cayla might listen to you?’

I conjured up images of her performances of Olivia. I remembered getting sneered at myself by that nasty piece of work Gideon Turner and his cohort who didn’t understand my love of drama. They used to say I thought I was better than everyone else just because I wanted to pursue acting. The truth of it was that I knew what I wanted to do from an early age, and nothing would dissuade me.

I thought again about Cayla. ‘Ok. I can’t promise I’ll succeed, but yes, I’ll chat with her.’

Josie gave my arm a squeeze. ‘Let’s go and tell Gillian. She’ll be delighted! And thank you!’

* * *

I pulled up outside number 12, The Grove in Forrest Bank just before five o’clock that afternoon.

Gillian had said Cayla would be home by then, but she wouldn’t tell her I was coming. I didn’t know in hindsight whether that might be a good idea or not.

Maybe it was. If she thought I was coming to deliver a pep talk, she might decide to go straight back out again before I arrived.

The house was a spotless, white, pebble-dashed, detached affair with a cheery, bright red front door and a small but well-tended front lawn, fringed with flower beds bursting with pops of spring blooms.

I parked Marlene in the street and clambered out.

The late afternoon air was languid and peaceful, tinged with lazy sunshine.

No sooner had I locked my car and started to make my way up the brick path than Gillian yanked the front door open and hauled me inside. The air smelled of apple air freshener. ‘Thank you so much again, Daisy. I can’t tell you what it means to me and Morris, my husband.’ She gestured around. ‘He’s at work at the moment. He works in IT.’ She stopped and let out a nervous giggle. ‘Sorry. I’m babbling. It’s not every day I have a famous actor in my house.’

I let out a snort. ‘That’s really sweet of you to say that, Gillian, but like I said before, I’m not famous.’ And I never would be, if the likes of bloody Fox had their way and the lack of acting roles continued.

I refocused on Gillian and her daughter.

The hallway consisted of a polished, pale, wooden floor, with an ornate, heavy, cherrywood sideboard and a couple of vases of fresh flowers. Family photographs lined the walls.

‘Cayla’s up in her room,’ said Gillian in a hush. ‘Come on. This way.’

Gillian swept up the carpeted staircase, and I followed. I wasn’t quite sure what Gillian wanted me to say to Cayla, but I’d already decided to just wing it and hope that I could reignite some of her acting spark.

Gillian had changed out of her businesslike blouse and skirt from the morning. She was now dressed in a loose, denim shirt and Capri pants.

We reached the top of the stairs, and Gillian lowered her voice again. She pointed at a closed, white, panelled door ahead of us. Cayla’s name was painted in pink italics on a lilac, ceramic plaque.

‘Just please try to convince her not to give up on her dream,’ said Gillian in a hush of desperation.

‘I’ll do my best,’ I assured her. ‘Her performance this afternoon was breathtaking.’

Gillian’s eyes misted over. ‘I just wish she’d believe in herself again.’ She tugged at the hem of her shirt before she knocked on her daughter’s bedroom door. ‘Sweetheart, can I come in?’

There was a monosyllabic grunt.

Gillian waggled her plucked brows at me and opened the door.