Page 8 of Winter Magic at Hollybrae Castle

‘I don’t think that’s as reassuring as you think it is. I think you’re so het-up about the window calamity that you’d have responded even if the ad had read, “Hello, please line up to be brutally murdered. Will pay well!”’

‘Of course I wouldn’t.’ I root around for the long-sleeved tops that I layer under my work clothes on cold nights spent putting window designs into place. I don’t know how cold it gets on the Mull of Kintyre, but judging by the Paul McCartney and Wings music video, it looks like it might be cold, damp, and misty. Although with excellent pipe bands, so that’s something.

‘Lula, please, listen to sense. You can skip the rent for however many months you need to. Brian and I will cover all the bills, as long as you’re alive. You don’t need to do something so impulsive.’

‘That’s lovely of you, really it is, but I want to do this. It’s… exciting. It’s new. It’s a chance to get away and do something that’s not installing corporate window designs on one of the busiest streets in the country and having them scrutinised by Head Office in case you’ve put an item one inch out of place from the template they sent you. My absence won’t even be noticed at Calloways. My opposable thumbs are the only thing that gives me an edge over some random mammal there, but this is a chance to do something personal – something meaningful.’

‘Then go and stay with Mum and Dad and decorate their house for Christmas while this all blows over. Not with some stranger in a remote place where you’re unlikely to ever be seen again. I bet they won’t even find your body.’

‘You’re being overdramatic.’ I pick up my umbrella and hold it in front of me like a sword. ‘And I’ll be ready if he does try to murder me.’

‘It’s not funny!’

‘I know, but I know, okay? I know it could be dodgy, and I’ll be careful. I liked him, Mira. He seemed like me, but male and Scottish and castle-owning. Everyone has told a little white lie at work that’s come back to bite them in the backside, and⁠—’

‘Most people deal with it themselves and don’t employ strangers to make it worse! It’s such a ridiculous idea that it must surely be a cover for something more sinister.’

The earlier thoughts of the Paul McCartney and Wings music video make me remember that the Mull of Kintyre also looks windy, so I go back to the wardrobe to get out my big coat while Mira sighs again. ‘You can’t seriously be doing this.’

‘I’m excited, Mira. You know I’ve always wanted to see Scotland, and I’ve been wanting a break from window dressing, but you can’t do that when you have a job at somewhere as prestigious as Calloways. The perfect opportunity has fallen into my lap. Be happy for me, and enjoy Christmas with Brian and Rocco without me getting in the way.’

‘We don’t mind having you here. We always said we’d live together when we were older.’

‘Yeah, not with your husband and son though. I mind being here, and I need to make a change. What this Oliver Bracewell is promising for a month’s work is ridiculously generous. It’ll give me a chance to turn things around and figure out if I’m heading in the right direction.’

Mira sighs in resignation as she pulls her phone out and types his name into her notes app. ‘I want every bit of info you’ve got about this man. Tell everyone where you’re going. His name, address, map coordinates, even that What Three Words app. And make sure he knows that everyone knows where you are. I expect a proof-of-life check-in at least twice a day, and if I don’t get it, I will be sending the police immediately. No one’s going to murder my little sister on my watch!’

I promise her that I’ll check in regularly and send photos, and that I’ve already phoned Mum and Dad to tell them I won’t be coming for Christmas this year. I’ve left out the sideline in pretending to be married to a stranger and just told them I’ve got a job decorating a castle, and Mum got terribly overexcited when I told her where it was in relation to her favourite Christmas song, and her excitement has seeped into me too. I am excited. A little bit daunted too, but nothing truly wonderful happens without making you excited and nervous in equal measure, does it?

4

The taxi driver peers at me in the rearview mirror. ‘You look like you’ve had a long day, lassie.’

Long is an understatement. It’s Sunday evening and having got the 8.04 a.m. train out of London Euston this morning, I’m finally on the last leg of the journey as the taxi chugs along the Kintyre peninsula on quite scary single-track roads that are only wide enough to admit one vehicle, and I have no idea what we’ll do if we come across someone travelling in the opposite direction. Having said that, in the eight miles since the taxi picked me up from the airport, after a somewhat hairy ride on what seemed like a little seaplane with only three other remarkably unperturbed passengers, I haven’t seen a single other human, and the only reminder of civilisation is the odd pylon or cattle grid, wild sheep grazing at the sides of the road, and a bird circling above that I’m reasonably certain is a golden eagle.

I had no idea there was anywhere quite so remote on the mainland, and it certainly doesn’t feel like we still are on the mainland. Even though Oliver made it as easy as possible by pre-booking everything in advance, there is a lot of travelling involved between getting from the south-eastern end of the country to the north-western end of it.

The taxi driver is a bearded older gentleman with a jolly, Santa-like quality to his red-cheeked face, helped along by the fact he’s wearing a Santa hat even though it’s not December yet. Along the way, he points out random roadside trees that are filled with Christmas decorations – wintery bare branches hung with oversized baubles or trunks wrapped with lights. There might not be many people here, but the locals are certainly good at getting into the festive spirit, and there’s something about this place that just makes it feel like Christmas.

The sky is turning darker and there’s a low-hanging mist all around us. I can count on one hand the number of other houses or farms we’ve passed, lights glowing across the distance and wreaths of festive greenery hanging on doors. From flat fields edged by tumbledown walls to hills of gorse and heather surrounded by winter-browned ferns. The sea is in the distance to my right, and there’s a real sense of remoteness here, in a bleak kind of way, and it really does feel like we’re on the very edge of the British Isles.

Even so, as we dip downwards between valleys of trees and emerge on the flat again, I feel that hum of excitement at the sight of a spire, standing tall amongst the evergreen branches. Surely anywhere that is this hard to get to has to be worth it, right?

The taxi turns another bend and climbs a hill until a clearing comes into view. It’s surrounded by tall, evergreen hedgerows grown from holly trees dotted with red berries, a stone wall, and an imposing set of open iron gates, and beyond them, a tarmac driveway leading up to Hollybrae Castle in all its glory.

Even having seen a photo, I was unprepared for how overawing it is in real life. Wow.

It’s like a cross between a fairytale castle and somewhere an Agatha Christie murder mystery would be set, and I still have to pinch myself that this is real life. I get to spend Christmas in a place like this.

The taxi eases to a stop in front of the gates but doesn’t turn into the driveway, and I’m still staring at the building in wonder. In the most remote place I’ve ever been, there’s this incredible old castle that feels oddly out of place. This is the sort of area you’d expect to see crumbling cottages and dilapidated farms, not this majestic feat of nineteenth-century Gothic architecture.

The driver hesitates before he moves to get out. ‘Do you want me to wait? I don’t like leaving you abandoned all the way out here.’

‘No, it’s okay. I’m expected.’

‘An invited guest of the lord of the manor, eh?’ He’s got such a strong accent that he’s been nattering for most of the journey and I’ve been able to do nothing more than guess at translations.

‘He’s not a lord, is he?’ I open my door and jump out too, sudden flashes of lords and ladies running through my mind. Pretending to be the wife of a normal guy is one thing, but pretending to be the wife of a lord? That’s quite another, especially for someone as unrefined as me.