Page 49 of The Scottish Island Inn

He rang off, and Sorrel found herself gazing in disbelief at her phone screen.

What?

I need us to forgive, forget and move on.

Us.

What did Simon have to forgive and forget? The use of ‘us’ irritated her. As if she was complicit in what Simon had done. No. That wasn’t fair.

Tam knocked on the door. ‘Hey. Sorrel. Are you okay?’

‘I’m okay.’ She opened the door, frowning. ‘Listen. I know this sounds weird. But I have to get back to the Inn, like, now. Is that okay?’

‘Sure. Is everything all right?’ Tam looked concerned. ‘I wasn’t listening in, I promise. But I heard the tone of your voice. Didn’t sound that happy.’

‘No, I’m fine. It was my ex.’ Sorrel picked up a towel and wrapped it around herself self-consciously. She’d been wearing a T-shirt and panties, and she felt exposed, being semi-naked in front of Tam. Even though they’d been intimate the night before, even though Tam had seen her naked so many, many times in the past.

‘Simon?’ Tam’s tone stayed neutral, but Sorrel still detected some tension there.

‘Yeah. He’s on his way to the Inn, apparently. Says he wants to give things another go. I need to talk to him. He’s never met my parents, obviously.’ Sorrel wanted to cry, distractedly gathering her clothes. She wanted to hurl herself into Tam’s reassuring arms and never let go. But she couldn’t do that. She had to go and meet Simon, and put up with his bullshit. She flailed around, pulling her clothes on in a panic.

‘Sorrel. Slow down…’ Tam reached for her, awkwardly, but the huge bed was in the way.

‘No… I have to go… I don’t want him to get there without me… Oh, damn it,’ she swore, realising that she’d put her top on inside out. She knew she was rambling, but she couldn’t focus, right then and there. The panic was all-consuming.

If she gave in to her feelings of helplessness now and dissolved in Tam’s arms, she wouldn’t have the strength to face Simon and tell him that it was over.

Because it was. It had to be. She loved Tam, and she always had. Her relationship with Simon had been nice at first, but it had been loveless for a long time. With the distance of being away, Sorrel had realised that all of Simon’s behaviour was definitely not loving.

‘I have to go. He’s going to get there before me. I have to see him…’ she trailed off.

‘Um. Sure, okay. Of course, we can head off whenever you’re ready.’ Tam turned away, pulling on his clothes from the day before.

All Sorrel really wanted to do in that moment was get back in bed with Tam and snuggle up to his broad chest, where she felt safe. But she couldn’t. There wasn’t time.

I’ll tell him in the car, she thought, as she ran water into the bath. I’ll explain everything.

But as it turned out, she didn’t have the chance to tell Tam anything.

TWENTY-SIX

When she got out of the bathroom, Tam was not in the bedroom.

It wasn’t as if there was anywhere to hide, so when she’d got dressed and run her fingers through her wet hair, Sorrel went downstairs.

She could hear voices in the rooms off the hallway and followed them.

She walked into a cheery dining room with six scrubbed pine tables and chairs and a bay window looking out onto the garden. The storm had passed, and now the sky was bright and blue.

Tam sat at a table, pouring tea into a blue-and-white-striped mug. A full Scottish breakfast sat in front of him.

‘Hey. I wondered where you’d gone.’ She sat down opposite him, a little shyly. The B&B owner that Sorrel remembered from the day before approached the table.

‘Morning!’ she greeted Sorrel cheerily. ‘What can I get you, dear? Full Scottish, full vegetarian or vegan, scrambled eggs on toast or smashed avocado. Or there’s fruit, yoghurt, granola and what-have-you over there.’ She pointed to a table in the corner, which held a delicious-looking array of breakfast goods.

‘Oh, I’ll just help myself over there, thank you. And tea?’

‘Tea it is.’ The woman nodded and turned to Tam. ‘When you’re done with that, dear, it would be great to get a quote like you said. I’m slowly developing the place, but a bit of good advice is rarer than hen’s teeth.’