Page 3 of The Secret Castle in the Highlands

So, despite most of my salary going on my expensive London rent, I’d managed to transform my bijou flat into a supportive space to paint and savour my love of art. This was like a gift to me post-divorce: the freedom and the change of scene; the solitary independence. I hoped that my moving on signalled a new life for myself and that I could finally finish my portrait of the Scarlet Highwayman. That in itself would be an accomplishment for me.

Speaking of which, my Scarlet Highwayman portrait was sitting on one of my larger easels in the far-right corner. I’d already finished sculpting his strong jaw but had wanted to capture a deeper intensity to his mouth and take another considered look at his chin. I’d paint with some music on, as the raindrops chased each other down the windows and with the heady scent of my palette of vibrant and more muted colours. I even loved to swirl my paintbrushes in the jar of water.

For a day job I worked as a receptionist in a small art gallery, Artisan, just ten minutes’ walk from my flat, which I really enjoyed, but it also brought home the fact that I was a struggling painter, still searching for recognition. I’d been sixteen when my artwork of the Scarlet Highwayman had been chosen for that exhibition. I’d managed to sell the odd piece to friends and acquaintances, but it was so sporadic.

Artisan tended to concentrate on more traditional pieces, such as moody portraits and smudgy watercolours of majestic landscapes, although more recently, Mr Hanson, the owner, had relented and featured the odd glass installation.

I’d worked there for almost a year, and the calmness and beauty of the art had anchored me when Nick, my now ex-husband, abandoned me for one of his lithe photography students.

I glowered down at my stubborn case, which was still refusing to close, and decided instead to indulge myself with a hot chocolate and undertake a bit more work on my portrait. I’d also take it back home with me, so I could continue to work on it back in Port Starr; I might have more inspiration there. I could always return to the laborious task of packing for my trip home tomorrow.

Port Starr railway station was every bit as antiquated as I remembered, with its white picket fence, a rockery bursting with heather and a crackly public address system.

I stumbled out of the train carriage like a Christmas nativity donkey, weighed down with my case, my Highwayman portrait in its protective canvas under my arm, and a bulging hessian shoulder bag. I’d managed to pack two of my smaller sketchpads, a set of travelling paints and an assortment of my chalks and coloured pencils to satisfy my creative demands while on holiday.

When I staggered past the ticket office on the way out, I made the mistake of checking out my appearance in its windows. Oh hell. My long pale blonde hair was fighting to escape from its high ponytail, and I had tired smudges under my blue eyes. My mouth usually carried a permanent hint of mild amusement, but today it was pulling down at the corners.

As other passengers weaved and darted around me, grateful to also escape from their six-hour carriage confinement, I dropped my luggage around my feet and took a greedy glug from the bottle of water I’d bought on the train. Then I spotted my brother, Caleb, with his dark-red hair and lopsided smile, hovering by his white Golf in the station car park.

With both his rich hair colour and hazel eyes, he looked so like my dad at that age, whereas it was often commented that I had the same, almost Nordic appearance as Mum.

I squinted through the Sunday-afternoon concoction of weary travellers and brisk March air. We waved at one another and then Caleb strode over to assist me with my luggage. I waggled my case at him. ‘Sorry it’s not Louis Vuitton.’

My big brother gave me a hug and planted a kiss on top of my head. His eyes softened when he looked down at me. ‘You know what I think about material possessions.’

‘Yes, easy for you to say when you’re a successful cartoonist.’

Caleb seized my bags and marched back towards his car. ‘I wouldn’t use the word “successful”, Popps.’

‘At least you’ve actually got commissions for your work.’

As I watched Caleb carefully lay my things and my Highwayman portrait into the boot of his car, I thought about the paltry sales of my artwork and my shoulders slumped further. I did wonder sometimes if the odd sales I made to people I knew were post-divorce pity purchases.

Caleb tugged open his driver-side door and rattled his car keys. ‘You should have more belief in your talent. You also need to get your paintings out there more.’ He cocked one eyebrow at me as he slid on his seatbelt. ‘Nobody is going to buy your work if they don’t know it exists.’

I sank into the passenger seat. ‘That’s easier said than done.’

Caleb indicated right and swung out onto the main road, fringed on either side by sparse trees. ‘Just have a think about it. I’m sure your Mr Hanson could use some of his art contacts to get your foot in the door somewhere.’

Mr Hanson had assured me I possessed real talent, but I worried he’d only bought one of my chalk landscapes of Port Starr because he felt a little sorry for me too. This feeling was compounded when Matilda, one of the other receptionists, bought my A5 textile of a little girl feeding pigeons in Leicester Square. I squinted at my brother out of the corner of my eye. He looked like a big, friendly fisherman in his cream cable-knit sweater.

Caleb drove slower along the cobbled high street. Shop awnings fluttered and there was the odd hardy tourist in fleece and walking boots, browsing the assorted glow of shop windows. It was in complete contrast to London, with its perpetual buzz and noise. Everything in Port Starr carried an air of sleepiness and lethargy when it was out of season.

I turned to Caleb. He was being far quieter than usual.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Aye. Why?’ he replied a little too quickly.

‘I don’t know. You aren’t as animated as normal.’

‘That’s funny, seeing as I’m a cartoonist.’

I shot Caleb a glance as he indicated right and negotiated the incline towards Mum and Dad’s place.

I noticed that Mum had replanted the two conifers into red square tubs flanking the front door. It was a home of pale greystone and sloping roof, with a double chimney breast and modest patches of front and back garden. If you took a stroll down the slope of grass to the snaking dry-stone wall, you could catch a tantalising glimpse of Port Starr’s ribbon of sand. On a clear day, if you positioned yourself in the right spot on the cliffs, you could see cormorants rising and falling with the navy-blue North Sea shimmering between Scotland and Norway.

We clambered out of the car. While my brother fetched my things, I surveyed Mum and Dad’s home. It only seemed like yesterday that Nick and I had bounded up to that white, frosted front door, to tell them we were engaged. Anger bolted through me at the memory.