Page 17 of The Scottish Island Wedding

Heather gave Sorrel a look that she hoped her sister would understand as please help. Sorrel gave her an imperceptible nod.

‘Well, I know that Heather has an appointment with the hairdresser, don’t you, babe?’ she asked, giving Heather a look that meant, I’ve got you, now play along.

‘Oh. Yes, I do.’ Heather stood up. ‘I should get going.’

It was a relief not to sit at the table with Elizabeth and her relentless list of demands any longer.

‘Right you are, dear. I suppose we need you to look your best for the big day…’ Elizabeth frowned. ‘But we need to get through my list, and time is ticking,’ she added, watching her go.

‘That’s okay, Elizabeth. I can go through it all with you,’ Sorrel was saying as Heather left. ‘Think of me as Heather’s consigliere.’

‘Consigli – what?’ Elizabeth replied.

‘It’s a mafia reference. It seemed appropriate. Now. What’s next on the list?’ Sorrel replied sparkily. Heather, leaving the room, had to chuckle. She mouthed thank you to her sister as she closed the door.

Nothing that had happened so far fitted inside the carefully curated vision of a wedding Heather had made for herself. Her mother-in-law was horrible. Her husband-to-be had lied to her and then disappeared. People were fighting. Everything she had planned so carefully with her mother – something they’d loved doing together – was in danger of being set alight and burned to the ground.

Matty owes me the honeymoon of a lifetime for putting up with this, Heather thought as she walked away from the closed door. If there aren’t diamond-encrusted egg cups at breakfast and my own personal swim-up pool bar staffed by a shirtless Henry Cavill, I’m out.

Outside the drawing room, Heather took out her phone and pressed Matty’s number. She waited as the phone rang and rang.

Slowly, Heather walked to the end of the corridor and let herself into the study; a cosy room full of ancient, leather-bound books. A cinnamon- and clove-scented oil diffuser stood on a table, filling the room with a festive and welcoming smell. The fireplace looked like it had been lit earlier, and still smouldered; for a moment, she watched the glow of the red coals.

Matty didn’t answer.

Heather let the phone ring out and then pressed the call button again.

Nothing.

She turned away from the fireplace, going to the long patio doors that led out to the castle gardens, opening one of the doors and stepping outside into the frigid air.

As she stood there, she watched the midwinter sun dapple the trees at the edge of the beautifully manicured castle lawns. The gardens had been designed by a famous Victorian garden designer; people came from all over the world to see them. She’d been looking forward to having some of her wedding photos taken out there. The photographer she’d organised had said that the natural light would be perfect, with her white dress against the dark green of the fir trees.

Listening to Matty’s phone ring and ring, Heather had the gut-wrenching realisation that the wedding she had been planning so carefully for the past six months might not happen at all.

She went to the messaging app where the sisters kept a group chat open, needing some reassurance. Had she made an error of judgement somewhere along the line with Matty? Maybe. But her judgement was at least good enough to know that she could always go to her sisters for support.

Heather’s sisters were a constant; she knew they would always be honest and prioritise her.

Heather: Hey @everyone. Having a bit of a crappy day here.

The chat lit up.

Blossom: Hey @Heather. How are the in-laws? Sorry I’m not there yet. Packing up, be with you soon.

Bluebell: @Blossom they are legit terrible. Have terrorised Heather for not skiing.

Blossom: Oh no! @Heather I’m so sorry. Teething troubles, I’m sure.

Violet: Oh, hell no @Heather so sorry.

Heather: @everyone They’re the Campbells of Glenorchy. From the TV show.

Blossom: @everyone WHAT

Bluebell: @Blossom YEP

Violet: Are you serious??! @Heather