A Secret Scottish Escape
Julie Shackman

One More Chapter

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

Copyright © Julie Shackman 2021

Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Cover illustration © Carrie May / Meiklejohn

Julie Shackman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008455774

Ebook Edition © May 2021 ISBN: 9780008455767

Version: 2021-04-01

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Thank you for reading…

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About the Author

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Chapter One

“Mac, you’ve done it again!” I grinned into my mobile. “You’ve forgotten your notebook.”

I glanced round to where his leather-bound journal was lying on the glass coffee table. Beside it was a framed photograph of the two of us by the shores of our local loch.

Mac’s chestnut hair was streaked with the faintest slivers of grey and we had been laughing as we took the impromptu selfie. His hooded, pale blue eyes were crinkling against the sunshine and I was nestling against him, my freckles popping across my nose and over my cheeks.

My dad, Harry, would often cast wary looks at Mac whenever he visited us. “Doesn’t the age gap bother you, Layla?” he would hiss out of the corner of his mouth. “I mean, the old goat’s only a year younger than me.”

I paused before I spoke again into my mobile, my rose-gold morganite engagement ring flashing as I moved my hands. “So, anyway,” I continued, pulling my attention back to Mac’s voicemail. “I hope your meeting with your agent goes well, even though you have left your notebook behind. Ring me when you’re done. Love you.”

I rang off and headed back to my desk, an old oak affair that sat at the furthest end of my cottage sitting room. Through the cream-painted sash windows, I could see the spooling waters of Loch Harris in the distance.

On a clear April morning like this, the odd smudge of an angler’s boat could be glimpsed between the tangles of woodland that surrounded it. Clumps of daffodils were springing out of the ground, like lemon trumpets.

Loch Harris was the epitome of craggy and mysterious Scottish beauty, with its sprinkling of old stone cottages, churches with stained-glass windows, and an eclectic handful of shops. It was a popular destination for tourists, thanks to its myriad dramatic walks, as well as the expanse of mirrored loch and the magical spectacle of Galen Waterfall, located only fifteen minutes’ drive away.

Mac and I lived together in what had originally been my family home, before my family had been blown apart. When I was seven my mother, Tina, decided that life owed her far more than Loch Harris could ever give her, and she swept out of our lives.

For the past twenty-two years, she had been this unfamiliar, strange entity who sent me the odd birthday and Christmas card from her life in London – and, to be frank, I was more than happy to keep the arrangement that way.

Dad had raised me alone, albeit it with the support of my late paternal grandparents.

I still remember, despite the absence of my mother, this little whitewashed cottage reverberating with the sound of music. From an early age, I recall my dad’s assorted albums littering the carpet in the sitting room and him proudly cleaning the record sleeves. “Forget any jewels,” he would say to me. “These are all the treasures you will ever need.”

Eric Clapton was my dad’s hero – hence him naming me after Clapton’s most famous song.

When I had mentioned to Dad that I wanted my own place, he’d been content to leave the painful memories of my mum behind and had insisted I stay in the cottage. He took up residence in my late grandparents’ home, which was just a little further down the lane.

I scooped a hunk of my wavy, light brown hair behind my ear and used the mouse to scroll down the new messages that had materialised in my email inbox.

I had a couple of deadlines looming: one was a book review for a Glasgow evening newspaper, and the other was writing up an interview I’d conducted with a debut crime writer from the Netherlands for an online magazine.

Procrastination was the enemy when you were a freelance writer.

I reached over to snatch a pen from my tub and saw Mac’s spidery, dark handwriting. He’d jotted down a random note on a scrap of paper.

Hendry raised the gun, his knuckles white. Fragments of sunrise highlighted the flickering silhouette of the murderer…

Mac was working on his next political thriller, currently titled Injustice.

The success he had been having for a number of years now was impressive, but even the great Mac Christie, with his debonair smile and easy charm, doubted himself at times.

He would sit and write in the spare bedroom and I often heard his fist thump on his writing desk, followed by a cacophony of swear words raining out through the door.

I fiddled with my engagement ring before opening YouTube and clicking on some of my favourite songs to listen to as I worked.

Whereas Mac could only write in silence, I found I worked most productively when I had heart-tugging lyrics soaring around me.

“Do you have to have that cranking out at that volume, Layla?” Mac would yell from across the hall. “This isn’t the O2 arena.”

I often indulged in daydreams in which I owned my own music venue. When I’d confided in Mac about it, he’d said, “Urgh! Not all that manic rock, surely? I could understand a sedate jazz club, but not the sound of someone being unceremoniously tortured for four minutes.”

“If it’s too loud, you’re too old,” I had teased back.

Mac had abandoned his desk and pulled me towards our bedroom, where he’d proceeded to show me how youthful he actually was.

After having rattled off a very complimentary review of the historical romance I’d been asked to read, I padded out of the sitting room and into the kitchen to rustle up some lunch.

My dad, though a landscape gardener by trade, was very handy, and had transformed the dark wooden fitted cupboards we’d suffered with for years into the wash of palest lemon we had now, ably assisted by a few of his local tradesmen friends.

I had dotted several potted plants on the deep brown worktops, ranging from sprouts of heather to trailing ivy, stationed an old-fashioned yellow silk lamp in the corner, and chosen a stainless steel oven and fridge to replace our original white goods that had seen better days.

My bare feet slapped on the burnished wooden floor as I drifted from the cupboards to the fridge. Mac hadn’t returned my call. Maybe he hadn’t received my message?

I cranked open the fridge door, reaching for a loaf of seeded bread, smoked salmon, and some leafy salad.

A sharp knock at the front door managed to fight its way over the sound of Stevie Nicks singing about paper flowers.

Through the frosted glass, I could make out the shimmery silhouette of a tall man.

A grin broke out across my face.

“Mac,” I started, tugging at the handle. “Have you forgotten your key as well?”

I blinked several times at the sombre eyes of Tom, our local policeman.

A kind-faced policewoman, whom I didn’t recognise, lingered at his back.

Chapter Two

My fingers clawed at my engagement ring. “There must be some mistake.”

Tom laced his fingers together. “I’m so sorry, Layla.”

I lurched from the chair and paced up and down in front of the two concerned police officers. “No. I don’t believe this.”

They stared up at me from the sofa, empathy etched into their expressions.

“But none of this makes any sense,” I stammered, my mind careering in all directions. “Mac was meeting his agent in town. Why would he be in some hotel in Stirling?”

My heart felt like a cold lump sitting in my chest and the colours of my sitting room were beginning to swirl into a smudgy claret and grey haze.

Tom stood and patted me on the arm. His companion, who had introduced herself as Constable Emma Nicholson, gave me the briefest of sympathetic smiles. “I think you should take a seat, Layla.”

I stared at her for a moment before nodding slowly and lowering myself back into my armchair.

Emma glanced at Tom out of the corner of her eye. There was an embarrassed silence. “Mac wasn’t with his agent when he suffered the heart attack.”

My brows knitted together. “Sorry, I don’t understand.”

Tom and Emma exchanged another brief look, which made my breath judder. What was going on?

“Mac collapsed in a room at the Brookman Hotel – and there was someone with him at the time.”

Tom’s words pierced me and the breath caught in my throat. “Are you trying to tell me he was with another woman?”

Emma’s pale blue eyes blinked. “Yes. Yes, he was.”

Tom dropped his light gaze to my wine-red carpet and then looked back up at me. “Mac was with Hannah Darley-Patrick.”

This was ridiculous. None of it was making sense. “No,” I struggled. “That can’t be right. She’s his ex-wife.”

Tom and his companion said nothing.

“What were they doing?” I rasped, silently chiding myself over the stupidity of my question.

There was yet more silence.

I surprised myself by letting out a gravelly laugh. It sounded alien, as though it didn’t belong to me. “Oh no. They were in bed together, weren’t they?”

Emma inclined her head. “I’m very sorry, but yes, it would seem so.”

I dragged my palms down the front of my jeans and shot out of my chair again. “This can’t be happening,” I murmured, my engagement ring flickering on my finger. “So, you’re telling me my fiancé had a fatal heart attack while he was shagging his ex-wife?”

Tom and Emma sprang up from their seats to stand in front of me. “We’re so sorry, Layla,” emphasised Tom again.

Shock and anger were battling it out inside of me. “Not as sorry as I am.”

Emma hovered in front of me. “Is there someone we can call for you? You shouldn’t be on your own right now.”

I traced my disbelieving fingers up and down my arms. I tugged needlessly at the hem of my jumper. “Harry,” I muttered. “You could ring Harry.”

“Harry Devlin is Layla’s Dad,” explained Tom to Emma.

“And Faith,” I added in desperation. “I want Faith.”

As I muttered those words, the irony wasn’t lost on me.

Mac and I had first met when I was assigned to interview him for a lifestyle magazine almost two years ago.

He was this louche, charismatic, older man with a ready smile and a prominent nose that only seemed to enhance his character.

Mac had flirted outrageously with me from the beginning of the interview, and as I was departing the Edinburgh restaurant where we’d met for lunch, he’d snatched my mobile from my hand and entered his number.

I remember feeling warm and fuzzy with flattery and admiration for this political thriller writer, and after allowing a couple of days to pass, I had rung him.

After a few dates, Mac insisted on visiting me in Loch Harris and was swept away by its silvery waters and swathes of forestry.

He said he had been energised by its beauty and I was delighted when he announced he was renting one of the plush new holiday apartments that had sprung up close to the town.

My dad had been sceptical of Mac from the beginning, especially when he learned that he had been married before. “But there’s a twenty-five-year age gap between the pair of you,” he would protest. “He could be your father.”

“But he’s not, is he? You are.”

I recalled Dad sucking in the air through his teeth. “And now you’re moving in with him?”

“Correction, Dad. Mac is moving in with me.”

My father had pushed his tanned hands into his combat trouser pockets. “Stop being so pedantic.”

Then he had reached out and given me a protective hug. “This must be boosting the old codger’s ego no end, being seen with a gorgeous twenty-nine-year-old.”

“Old codger?” I laughed. “Really?” Dad’s sombre expression made me laugh louder. “Mac’s only fifty-four, Dad, not ninety-four. And you’re only a year older than him.”

A flush appeared across my dad’s weather-lashed cheeks. “He’s been married before, love.”

“Well, so have you,” I pointed out, trying not to pull up images of my mother.

Tina was like this faceless silhouette at times, who had lingered on the outskirts of my life, before she’d taken off to London, leaving my shattered Dad and her confused young daughter behind.

The less I thought about my mother, the better I always felt.

“That’s an entirely different situation,” argued my dad.

“No, it isn’t. He’s over fifty, Dad, just like you. At that age, baggage is only to be expected.”

Now, that baggage – in the shape of Hannah, his ex-wife of twenty-four years – had reared her head in all its severe, black-bobbed glory.

Once Tom and Emma had departed my cottage, I slumped against the front door.

My attention fell on my engagement ring. The rose-gold band seemed to grin up at me. It might as well have sprung from a Christmas cracker.

What had meant so much to me was now taking on a meaningless, cheap hue.

As Mac’s life had drained from him, he hadn’t been here in Loch Harris with me. He’d been thrashing about in a hotel bed with her.

Chapter Three

“I could kill him!” thundered Dad into his mug of tea.

Faith, my best friend, folded her arms. Her three gold bangles jangled together. “Well, something tells me that’s going to be rather tricky, Harry.”

“You know full well what I mean.”

When I emerged again from the bathroom, snuffling into a hankie and still sporting a face that resembled a melted waxwork, Dad and Faith dumped down their respective mugs of tea and rushed towards me.

I gazed past Faith’s shoulder, the grey and blue twists of the loch visible out of my kitchen window. “Why was he with her? What was he doing with Hannah when he was supposed to be meeting his agent?”

Faith shoved a lock of her strawberry-blonde hair back behind her ear. “There’ll be time to mull over all that later. Right now, you just need to focus on yourself.”

“But how can I? I’ve just found out that my fiancé died while he was shagging another woman! And not just any woman at that…”

My dad’s lips morphed into a hard line. I noticed he was wearing his favourite Pink Floyd T-shirt.

“Have you heard from her? The ex?” he asked.

I dabbed ineffectually at my eyes with a corner of my hankie. “Not yet, but I’m sure I will at some point.”

My dad and Faith exchanged wide-eyed glances. “You don’t have to speak to this Anna, if you don’t want to, love,” he said.

“At least not yet,” added Faith.

“Her name’s Hannah, Dad. And how can I not speak to her? She was the last person to see Mac.” A dry croak shot out of my mouth. “Well, I say see, but we all know what they were doing and it wasn’t a sodding crossword!”

Dad gathered me into his arms. He smelled of damp earth and there were faint traces of dirt under his fingernails.

I let out a series of heaving sobs, until I was able to take a few breaths. “You need a haircut,” I mumbled into his shoulder.

Dad’s chest lifted. “I was going for the rugged landscape gardener look.”

I jerked my head up and eyed his collar-length salt and pepper waves. “Actually,” I conceded, rubbing my red nose, “it does quite suit you.”

Dad’s arms tightened again around me. “You do know we’re both here for you, don’t you? Anything you need, you just have to ask.”

Visions of Mac’s hooded blue eyes drifted in and out of my mind. I reached up and kissed Dad on the cheek. “I know.”

Then I flinched as Hannah’s powdered and pointed expression interrupted me again. She refused to leave me alone. Everywhere I turned in the cottage, I could see her and Mac in bed, going at it like two battery-operated bunnies.

I made an attempt to gather myself together. I knew what Faith and Dad would say to my suggestion, but decided to air it anyway. As far as I was concerned, it was just putting off the inevitable. “Actually, there is something I need.”

“What is it?” asked Faith.

I swivelled my wet grey eyes on her. “I really do need to speak to Hannah. Now.”

Dad and Faith’s appalled expressions followed me out of my sitting room.

“What are you doing?” asked Faith gently. “What are you looking for?”

I ventured into our bedroom further down the hall, deliberately averting my gaze from our bed, with its coffee and cream covers and two vanilla-coloured scatter cushions. There was the faintest ticking noise from the alarm clock.

Lying on top of the white bedside cupboard on Mac’s side was his contacts book. “I knew it was in here,” I mumbled.

“What is?” pushed Dad, lingering in the doorway. “Look, darling, you’ve had a terrible shock. Why don’t you go for a lie-down and I’ll bring you a fresh cup of tea?”

I shook my head. “That’s the worst thing I could do. When I close my eyes, I just see them together.”

I rifled through the alphabetical pages until I came across Hannah’s mobile number under her new married name. A thought struck me. Not only was I wounded by all this, but her new husband Mark would be too.

But the selfish, furious part of me didn’t care.

Dad heaved a concerned sigh. “Layla. Think about this. It’s not really the right time—”

“So when will be the right time, Dad? You tell me when will be the right time to ask my fiancé’s ex-wife why he was in bed with her when he died?”

There was a weighty silence.

“My mobile is up on the mantelpiece,” I said to Faith, heading out into the hall. “Just by that photo.”

Faith hesitated for a moment before walking past me into the sitting room and reaching past the grinning picture of Mac. She handed the phone to me.

Mac’s gaze sprung out of the picture frame. He had such a ready smile. The lights of New York were popping behind him.

Ignoring the silent pleading of Dad and Faith, I set my phone down on the coffee table and rifled through the pages again until I located Hannah’s number. A ball twisted in my stomach at the sight of Mac’s spidery, dark handwriting.

My cheeks were hot and tear-stained. “Faith, you couldn’t make a fresh pot of tea please?”

She inclined her head, as if accepting defeat. “Of course I can, and I’m making you some buttered toast too. No arguments. You need to try and eat something.”

While the dial tone began ringing in my ear, Faith encouraged Dad to join her back in the kitchen. “Come on, Harry. Layla has made up her mind.”

Dad shot me a concerned look. “Oh, I can see that.”

I watched the pair of them meander back into the kitchen and begin pottering about with mugs. I knew they were worried, but ignoring what had happened wasn’t going to help anyone, least of all me.

My thoughts were rudely interrupted by the sudden husky tones of Hannah bleating, “Hello?”

Chapter Four

“Hello?” she repeated again. “Who is this?”

“It’s me. Layla,” I said, as I began to pace.

“Layla,” she repeated in a flat tone.

I clung to the silence for a moment before a surge of resentment swept over me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the oval mirror above the fireplace and wished I hadn’t. I looked like a negative of the real me – pale with soulless eyes. I managed to force out the first few words that popped into my head. “You owe me an explanation.”

I needed to hear what had happened. I needed to hear it from Hannah.

“I don’t think now is the best time to discuss this,” she replied evenly.

Anger flared in my chest. “So, when would be the best time? How about over afternoon tea? Or would 3 p.m. next Wednesday suit you better?”

“There’s no need for sarcasm.”

My fingers clutched my mobile tighter to my ear. “Don’t you dare stand there and tell me how I should be feeling right now.” I dragged a hand through my wayward hair. “I’ve just been told that my fiancé died while shagging his ex-wife. I think I win in the emotional stakes, don’t you?”

A cracking sob seeped down the line. I scrunched my eyes up tight and opened them again. Early afternoon sun was washing over my bare toes.

“I’m so sorry,” she swallowed. “The last thing Mac wanted to do was hurt you. But we had so much history and you can’t extinguish twenty-four years just like that.”

Realisation punched me in the stomach. “Is this your way of telling me this wasn’t a one-off?”

From the kitchen, Faith clattered down her mug and Dad’s eyes widened.

“Let’s not … let’s not talk about this now, Layla,” faltered Hannah. “It’s all too raw.”

Her audacity was breath-taking. Didn’t she realise what she’d done? “You are in no position to stand there and dictate to me.”

Tears jostled at the back of my eyes. “How long?”

There was a sniff and then the sound of rustling.

“I asked you a question.”

Hannah’s sigh was like a gust of wind. “Eighteen months.”

My shoulders stiffened under my pink jumper. Faith searched my expression from the kitchen, but I just stared back at her. “But that means all the time that Mac and I were together…”

“He loved you, Layla. He really did. But Mac and I shared so much while we were married…”

I lowered my mobile, not able to drag my eyes away from the engagement ring glistening on my left hand.

Hannah’s disembodied rasp intruded again. “Layla? Layla? Are you still there?”

Chapter Five

Faith’s fingers, slicked with pink polish, tapered up and down the sleeve of my black jacket. “Are you ready?”

My shoulders slumped. “Not really.”

“I expect you’re not. That was a stupid question.”

Dad, his crisp, white shirt emphasising the rich chestnut of his tan, came towards me and hovered.

I gave a brief nod and then we rustled down the hallway in our funeral garb. As I passed my hall mirror, I stole a quick glance. There were smudges of hurt clouding my eyes. Perhaps it was because I’d pulled my hair back in a bun, but my jaw appeared more pronounced. Still, that was no surprise. I hadn’t been eating properly since Mac had died just over a week ago.

I applied a shaky extra dash of lipstick before pressing my lips together and exhaling.

The funeral car negotiated the country lanes like a shiny black snake. The familiar bursts of hedgerows and curve of Loch Harris blended into each other like a Monet watercolour.

How was I supposed to feel? Was I supposed to be angry? Heartbroken?

Dad clutched my hand as he sat beside me on the back seat, his coarse skin acting like a comfort blanket. I appraised his navy suit through a watery smile. “You look very dashing, Dad.”

He rolled his eyes up to the roof of the car. “Well, I couldn’t turn up at a funeral in my Motorhead T-shirt, could I?” He raised a finger and traced it around the inside of his collar.

Beside my dad, Faith leaned forward to look at me. She’d tamed her blonde locks into a chignon and was tugging at the hem of her dark skirt.

“Mac fell in love with Loch Harris from the first moment he saw her,” I blurted. “Ironic really that he turned out to love the place more than me.”

Dad and Faith squirmed in their seats.

“He thought it was such a gorgeous place that he said he wouldn’t mind being buried here. I didn’t think it would happen for a long, long time. I thought we would have years and years to explore together.”

Faith slid her arm across and folded her fingers around mine. “You’ll get through this. We’re here for you.”

I nodded, not convinced in the slightest. “Did you manage to reach Mum?” I stuttered after a pause. “Did you tell her?”

Dad’s freshly shaved jaw tightened. “I rang her and left several messages, but she hasn’t got back to me yet.”

“OK. Thanks.”

I turned back to the window, blinking.

I don’t know why I had even bothered to ask Dad such a stupid question. Of course she wouldn’t be at the funeral. No doubt she had many more pressing issues to deal with – like organising yet another of her charity lunches in some swanky London hotel.

What would it be this time? Raising money for traumatised hamsters? Highlighting the plight of the middle classes, who hadn’t had a holiday for three months?

I could feel resentment tightening in my chest as we approached the church. Pity Tina didn’t consider her own daughter a priority, or the funeral of her almost son-in-law.

She had only met him once, when I’d accompanied him on a book signing to London three months after we’d started dating, and Mum had insisted on meeting up for a bite of lunch afterwards.

I recalled the way she had openly flirted with him, dangling her strappy heel off the end of her foot and remarking in that raspy way of hers, “He’s far more my age than yours, darling!”

More painful reminders of Mac gripped me again, silly things that I took for granted – his languid, confident walk, the way he would bark with laughter at Monty Python…

What a bloody mess it all was.

We eased to a halt in front of the red scalloped porch and granite steps of Loch Harris church. They led up to a gothic oak door studded with two imposing Celtic crosses.

I flinched at the sight of the mourners dotted around the church entrance. They were hunched in conversation or milling around the cemetery in quiet contemplation, black coats flapping gently and the odd hat surfacing amongst the sea of heads.

I recognised the long and lean angles of Mac’s literary agent, Garth Keller, who was offering polite smiles to Mac’s fellow author friends and various members of his publicity team.

Mac’s parents had both passed away some years ago, so family members were in short supply, however, I was sure I’d glimpsed Mac’s younger sister, Lois. She was sporting a Spanish-style, black lacy affair on her head.

A glimmer of a flash made me shuffle forward in my seat. Dread pooled in my stomach. “Photographers.”

Dad jerked his head round and peered out of the rear windscreen. “There’s only a couple of them, love.”

“A couple is enough.”

Faith flapped her hand dismissively. “Don’t you worry about them. Garth said he’ll take care of it.”

“Garth? So, you’ve spoken to him then?”

Faith offered me a smile. “I rang him a few days ago. I hope you don’t mind. Mac’s publicity team said a couple of reporters owe them a favour or two that they would call in.”

I blinked. “Is that why the details of Mac’s death seem to have been buried – if you’ll pardon the pun?”

Faith nodded, shooting my dad a glance. “I know Garth Keller can be an arrogant swine, but he has his uses.”

I jumped back as the driver materialised at my window and eased open the car door. I felt like a new-born fawn, all shaky legs and startled eyes. I gulped in the earthy scent of lavender heather and damp grass.

Dad and Faith emerged and stood either side of me, and I paused for a moment on the gravel. A shimmer of late morning sun was striking a helmet of sharply cut raven hair over by the church door.

Hannah.

I dropped my head and eyed the engagement ring on my left hand. “Why am I still wearing this bloody thing? It doesn’t mean anything. Not anymore.”

Dad slid his arm around my waist and gave me an affectionate squeeze. “There will be plenty of time for starting over. Just let’s get through today.” His grey eyes flickered over me. “Ready?”

I eased the ring from my finger. Its absence left behind the faintest trace of pale empty skin. Dad and Faith exchanged charged stares as they watched me fire open my quilted clutch bag and push the ring inside it.

“Now I am.”

Chapter Six

I tried not to focus on Mac’s pale oak casket through the polished glass of the hearse.

He had never been a hearts and flowers type of person, and considering he had been having sex with Hannah when his heart gave out, I hadn’t had the urge to spend lots of money on a lavish wreath for him.

Dad had joked darkly that he could lay his hands on a “bloody great clump of giant hogweed”, and although rather tempting, I decided in the end to go for a simple, circular wreath decorated with purple and lilac flowers that included liatris, freesias and tulips.

The florist had interwoven it with lime green eucalyptus and aspidistra.

My floral tribute was seated at the front of Mac’s casket, with a riot of white and yellow lilies, tied with navy and green tartan ribbon, positioned on the other side. Its trumpet-shaped blooms were pressing against the window and almost obliterated the view of Mac’s casket from that side.

I could guess who that ostentatious display was from.

Sat beside my floral tribute was one from Lois, Mac’s sister. She had opted for an open book, crafted from yellow and white carnations, altogether a more modest and tasteful affair.

I could see myself reflected in the hearse glass, all pressed-together lips and wide eyes.

“Layla!”

Lois rushed towards me, her pale face etched with relief at seeing someone she recognised. She gathered me into her arms. Then she took a step backwards in her black kitten heels. She clutched both my hands in hers. “How are you bearing up?”

My brow furrowed. “I honestly don’t know what I’m feeling right now.”

“I’m not surprised.”

She offered greetings to Faith and Dad who were standing behind me. “I think nearly all these people are Mac’s literary associates.”

“Well, not quite all,” I observed, indicating Hannah who was holding court amongst a small group.

Lois narrowed her dark eyes. “Oh, her! I’m so sorry she’s here. I didn’t want her to come but—”

“It’s fine,” I interrupted. “Well, that’s a lie. It’s not fine, but she was his wife for twenty-four years.” I swallowed a ball of resentment. “And she was with Mac at the end. Well, under him at least. Or maybe she was on top? Who knows…”

My voice splintered and Dad pulled me into a fierce hug. “Don’t go there, darling. It’s not worth it.”

Faith nodded beside me. “Harry’s right … Oh shit. Cruella is coming over.”

Hannah was stalking across the gravel, parting the fellow mourners like a praying mantis in a black velvet trouser suit, needle-thin heels, and a Missoni hat. It was decorated with a silk crochet scarf of gold and turquoise that fluttered out behind her as she moved.

I could feel my jaw tightening.

“Hello Layla,” she murmured, through a slash of red lipstick.

I inclined my head. “Hannah.”

“I think we should go in for the service now,” ground out Faith as she delivered a swift glare at Mac’s ex-wife.

Dad took me by the arm but I gently unfurled his fingers from my sleeve. “Why?” I asked her. “Why get engaged to me if he was still hankering after you?”

Lois, Faith, and Dad swivelled their icy attention to Hannah.

Hannah’s ruby nails clutched at her tasselled purse. “He loved you in his own way,” she rasped in theatrical tones. “He really did. But I was an itch that Mac still needed to scratch.”

“Oh please,” burst out Faith, taking a protective step in front of me. “Spare us all the old clichés.”

“It’s the truth,” insisted Hannah. “Mac loved being seen with a much younger woman. It boosted his ego. But when it came to a meeting of minds—”

“So that’s what happened last week,” snorted my dad, folding his arms. “You and Mac were having an intellectual debate when he keeled over.”

Hannah fidgeted. “You know that isn’t what happened.”

“I don’t know why you insisted on coming along today,” hissed Lois, aware of the curious looks from the other mourners drifting past. “Couldn’t you have put other people first for once in your life?”

I snatched a steadying breath, and from the corner of my eye, I noticed a man about Mac’s age observing our exchanges with more than a passing interest.

He appraised me from under silvery brows. Was he a journalist?

I turned my head away. That was the last thing I needed. “I’ve had enough of providing the pre-funeral entertainment.” I turned to Lois, Faith, and Dad. “Let’s go into the church.”

Hannah took a step forward, her heels grinding into the pink gravel. “We just couldn’t help ourselves. I’m sorry.”

I stared at her, incredulous. Dad and Faith were ushering me further into the cool air of the church, when the man with the impressive eyebrows stepped into my line of sight. “I’m so sorry to interrupt you Ms Devlin, especially today of all days, but I’m David Murray, a friend of Mac’s.”

He smiled kindly and slid his fingers down his slate-grey tie.

“Can’t this wait?” insisted my dad. “Layla has a lot to deal with right now.”

“I appreciate that, sir, but not only was I Mac’s friend, I’m also his legal representative.”

David Murray glanced over at Hannah. “Once Mac became a successful author, he insisted I ensure all his financial affairs were in order.”

He fixed me with an earnest look. “Your late fiancé was most insistent that his final wishes be carried out immediately, should there be any…” His cut-glass timbre tailed off and he jerked his thatch of steel hair in Hannah’s direction. “To limit the chances of there being any dubiety, shall we say.”

I blinked at him, not processing what he was saying. “Mr Murray, I don’t understand.”

“Please. Call me David.” He gave Faith and Dad a smile. “I’d really appreciate a word with you after the service.”

I flapped my hands in defeat. “Yes. Why not? I mean, there’s bound to be lots of loose ends to tie up.”

“Are you sure?” asked Dad. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Layla, especially not today.”

I grasped my clutch bag tighter to me. “I know, Dad. But the sooner I can try to put all this mess behind me, the better.”

Chapter Seven

I was relieved to escape the confines of the church once the service had trickled to its end with a rousing rendition of ‘Amazing Grace’.

The smell of beeswax and candles was making me feel nauseous.

As I emerged, blinking, into the sunlight, golden shots of colour lit up the stained-glass windows. The shards of ruby and buttercup seemed to bleed into one another.

Mac was interred within sight of the Loch Harris Fells, and as soon as Reverend Callan concluded proceedings at the graveside, Faith and Dad melted away, together with the other mourners, to give me some privacy.

I stared down into the grave, at the gold plaque winking up at me from the coffin lid.

MacKenzie Terence Christie

Born 18 January 1965

Died 2 April 2020

My emotions were running riot. What was I supposed to feel right now? Was I supposed to throw myself down on the grass and let out wretched sobs? I felt cheated, angry…

My thoughts travelled to the surprise party I had been planning for Mac’s next birthday – a New Year’s bash out on Loch Harris, with a hired boat, a ceilidh band, and fireworks.

A dry laugh threatened to erupt out of my throat.

“Layla, we are so sorry.”

“Layla, if there is anything we can do…”

I jerked my face up from the graveside to see a cluster of Mac’s writing buddies surrounding me with hesitant yet concerned expressions. Did any of them know about Mac and Hannah? Were they pitying stares?

“Let’s get you in the car,” interrupted Dad, guiding me through the throng. He addressed the group of solemn faces. “Thank you very much for coming and please feel free to join us at the wake.”

Murmurs followed us as he led me away. “I’ve asked Lois to join us in our car so we can all go to the wake together.”

Catching sight of my slumping shoulders, Faith excused herself from speaking to Reverend Callan and hurried towards me. She pinned me to the spot with caring hands. “Just put in an appearance and we will leave whenever you want to, OK?”

I answered her with a watery smile. “Thank you. I don’t think I could have got through all this without you and my dad.”

My father sighed. “We’re a team Layla, you and I. We always have been.”

We approached the black Daimler, where Lois was hovering. “Thanks ever so much for insisting I travel with you.”

Dad flapped away her gratitude. “Don’t be silly. I suppose we’re all family – in a way.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Or at least, we were meant to be.”

Ignoring the tilt of Hannah’s grey hat amongst the throng, we all clambered into the car and focused on the avenue of trees and the assorted mourners drifting back to their parked vehicles.

Images slipped past the window, and with that came the realisation that Mac was gone and all I was left with was the empty promise of an engagement ring rattling around inside my clutch bag and a lasting image of him collapsed on top of his naked ex-wife.

As if reading my thoughts, Lois shifted round in the front passenger seat to look at me. She didn’t say anything. Neither did I. We swapped meaningful stares.

Dad and Faith were bunched up beside me on the back seat. Faith’s silk shirt was a little rumpled and I noticed that my dad had loosened his tie.

I was so conflicted, so charged, that I couldn’t even muster up the energy to think about Mac’s solicitor friend. Whatever it was, I would do it. All I wanted was to see the back of this dappled morning in April.

During the funeral arrangements, Lois had mentioned The Aldebaran, an old hotel on the outskirts of Loch Harris, as a possible venue for Mac’s wake.

“Mac always said the place had so much character,” explained Lois. “He even said it had influenced him for the setting of his next novel.”

And so it was that I found myself, my dad, my best friend, and the woman who had almost become my sister-in-law being driven into the semi-circular car park of The Aldebaran.

I was relieved to see we had arrived first.

“I think we all deserve a bloody big drink,” exclaimed Dad, thanking the driver. He linked arms with me and Faith, and Lois followed up the rear.

The architecture of the hotel was dove-grey brick that twinkled prettily under the west coast light. Sash windows blinked out like inquisitive eyes, and underneath the canopied green and blue tartan entrance sat two fat shrubs in cream pots.

We all filed in and were directed by a member of staff to the right-hand side of the chrome reception area.

A function room boasting the name ‘Selkie’ was laid out with tables adorned in starched white tablecloths, and members of the hotel staff were placing platters of miniature seafood canapés, assorted sandwiches with tuna, brie, and egg, mini tartlets, and focaccia onto the tables.

On a smaller side table was an array of freshly baked fruit, plain, and cheese scones, lemon shortbread, and slices of cheesecake.

I gratefully accepted a glass of white wine offered by a passing waiter and took a generous mouthful. The crispness hit the back of my throat. Faith came up to join me, also clutching a glass of wine.

“I like the name of this room,” I commented. “Did you know selkies were mythical Scottish creatures who could transform themselves from seal to human form and back again?”

Faith picked up a plate and napkin. “So they say.”

“Kind of ironic really. That’s what Mac was doing. He was leading a double a life with Hannah and I knew sod all about it.”

Faith’s pink mouth popped open to reassure me, but I waggled my wine glass. “I just want to get this bloody charade over with.”

Murmurings made us both swing round. The remainder of the mourners were wandering in, exclaiming politely at the midnight-blue carpeting, ivory walls, and chandelier dripping from the ceiling.

“You need to eat something,” ordered Faith, thrusting the napkin and plate into my free hand. “Go on.”

I pulled a face and tried to summon up some enthusiasm for two goat’s cheese and red pepper tartlets. Faith frowned at my plate. “Is that all you’re having?”

“Who are you now, my mother?”

Faith pushed an escaping hair back into her chignon. “You can ill afford to lose any more weight.”

“I’m hardly fading away before your very eyes,” I answered, pointing to my bottom.

“No, but your face is definitely thinner than it was.”

I rolled my eyes up to the cornice ceiling and plopped a tomato and mozzarella sandwich onto my plate. “Happy now?”

“Not really, but I will be when I see you actually eat it.”

I nibbled at one of the tartlets, realising I was hungrier than I thought. I moved on to the other tartlet, and was about to take a bite of the sandwich when David Murray appeared at my shoulder. He was carrying an apologetic expression. “I’m so sorry to trouble you again Ms Devlin…”

Dad, who had returned with Lois – both carrying cups of freshly brewed coffee – stopped short. “Do you have to do this now?”

I put down my plate and ran a weary hand over the top of my head. “It’s fine. Whatever it is, let’s get it over with.”

David Murray nodded and smiled. “Thank you.”

He shot out a hand and indicated towards the function room doors. “There’s a quiet spot just past reception. We can talk there.”

He strode ahead of me and held the doors open. Dad, Lois, and Faith watched me leave.

There was the faintest tinkle of pan pipes seeping through the public address system as I straightened my skirt and sat on the quilted sofa opposite. A hunk of chestnut coffee table separated us and out of the floor-to-ceiling window, I could see assorted flowerbeds and soaring lawns.

“I’ve been taking care of Mac’s legal affairs for years,” began David Murray, steepling his fingers. “He was always very clear on what he wanted.”

My skin prickled. “Yes, that’s very apparent.”

David eyed me for a moment. “He did love you, Layla.”

“But evidently, not enough.”

David Murray dragged a hand down his face. He had kind, hooded eyes and a soft expression. “He and Hannah had such a unique relationship…”

I let out a growl. “If you’re here to defend him, I don’t want to know.” I shot up from the sofa. “In time, I might be able to forgive Mac, but right now, I can hardly bring myself to say his name.”

David rose to his feet. “I understand.”

“Do you? Do you really?”

He beckoned for me to sit down again. “Please, Ms Devlin.”

I blew out a cloud of frustrated air and sank back onto the sofa. “If you have papers for me to sign, I will need to discuss anything with Lois. She is his sister, after all, and the only family Mac has left.”

David Murray swished open his suit jacket, revealing a flash of caramel silk lining. He plucked out a slim white envelope and offered it across the table.

My breath fluttered in my chest at the sight of Mac’s terrible handwriting. He had written my name in black ink on the front of it. It was all leaning letters and exaggerated loops.

“Mac told me that were anything to happen to him, you were to be given this straight after the funeral.”

I took the envelope and stared down at it.

“He said he hoped it would explain everything.”

I was aware of my heartbeat pounding in my ears and of the faint clatter of coffee cups in the background.

I turned over the envelope a few times in my hands, feeling its smooth straight edges. I knew Mac had always loved a touch of the dramatic, but this…

I looked across the table at David Murray, trying to read his expression and failing. He gave the briefest nod of encouragement and I switched my attention back to the mysterious envelope in my hands. Then I surprised myself by feverishly ripping it open.

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