Page 5 of The Scottish Island Wedding

‘I am happy, sweetheart. But we don’t know much about him. We haven’t even met his family!’

‘I don’t think they’re that close,’ Heather replied. ‘That’s why it’s so nice that he has us.’

‘Okay… But please don’t marry this boy without knowing what he does when the bad things happen. Because if you do, you could wake up one morning in a year or two’s time and realise that you married a cruel man or an angry man, or worse, and then you’re stuck.’ Catriona had warned her.

But Heather couldn’t listen. The dream was unfolding in front of her; a wedding at the castle, her handsome lawyer knight who cared so much about the world that he had begun an environmental charity with a friend.

A man like that would never hurt her.

A man like that will hold me as I leap.

Matty will never let me fall.

THREE

SUNDAY 12 DECEMBER

‘And dip, and turn, remember the feet… wonderful!’

Heather had managed to reschedule the dance class they’d missed, and now, she and Matty were twirling around the dance studio in Bracadale under the close watch of Elsie Biarritz, the owner of the studio.

Heather and her sisters had gone to dance classes at Elsie’s studio when they were children – tap, ballet and traditional Scottish dancing – and the twins, Heather and Violet, in particular, had always loved it. They had kept up with ballet and tap into their late teens, and Violet still danced when she could, even though her job took her all over the world. Sometimes Heather would see a clip of Violet dancing bachata in the Dominican Republic, or salsa in Cuba on the sisters’ group chat.

The sprung wooden floor creaked under them, in exactly the way that it had always done. Everything was exactly the same as it had always been at Elsie’s studio, even Elsie: she probably had aged, Heather realised, but she was just as spry and bright-eyed as she always had been. Petite and lithe, Elsie was dressed in a wraparound ballet top and yoga leggings, with a scarf tied around her grey hair, which was braided into two long plaits and wound around her head. She was Swiss, but had lived on Skye for more than thirty years, coming to the island on holiday once, and then, like many people who wanted to move away from the hustle and bustle of life elsewhere, deciding to come and live there permanently.

Heather and Matty were learning the waltz for the wedding: Heather had wanted something graceful and traditional, even though she’d been tempted by videos she saw online of various wedding dance crazes. She’d shown Matty one where the groom, his best man and two of the groomsmen had performed a very impressive rehearsed street dance routine for the bride, who watched delightedly from her seat. Matty’s response had not been favourable.

‘I’m not much of a dancer. I’ll learn a waltz for you, baby. But that’s as far as it goes,’ he’d said, his brow furrowing in concern as he watched the video. ‘I want to manage your expectations here. I am no Patrick Swayze.’

‘You’re my Patrick Swayze,’ she’d said, fondly.

‘Now, my dears… remember, one, two three, one, two three… The waltz, she isn’t as slow and floaty as you think, eh? No, we are dancing the Viennese waltz… she moves at quick tempo. Elegant turns, sweeping steps… finesse, finesse, finesse!’ Elsie clapped her hands in time to the music. Heather followed the steps, loving the feeling of Matty’s hand on her waist, his other hand holding hers so gallantly. She felt as though she was in one of the old black and white movies that she loved. Closing her eyes, she imagined that she was wearing her wedding dress, being spun around the ballroom at Balhennie Castle, while hers and Matty’s friends and family looked on.

The group chat she had with her five sisters, Violet, Bluebell, Blossom, Primrose and Sorrel, had been very busy as the wedding had got closer. For months, Heather had been excitedly updating everyone on all the details that she and their mother had put into place for the wedding, down to the napkin colours and the groom’s cake that Heather had organised with Farid and Dom, their friends who ran one of the cafés in Portree.

The six Balhennie sisters had all been named after flowers found in Scotland; they sometimes joked that if there’d been a seventh sister, she would have been named Thistle. Catriona always defended her choice of names, saying that the flower names were beautiful, just like all her daughters. And every one of you is beautiful in your own way, she’d add, mistily. Each one of you has your own special loveliness, your own special talents, your own path to tread in life.

After she’d warmed down from the waltz, Heather took out her phone to update her sisters.

Heather: Good morning @everyone from the dance studio >video attachedphoto of Heather hugging Elsie<

Violet: @Heather Awww

Heather looked up from the group chat to see Matty frowning at his phone. Elsie had gone to take a brief break; her little cottage was attached to the studio. Heather remembered being taken in there sometimes as a child for tea at Elsie’s table and chairs, which were painted a light blue and covered with hand-painted daisies. Heather also remembered that there was a large bright pink shelving unit and that the floor was tiled with a red poppy design. Somehow, it all worked. Or, at least, the young Heather had thought it did. She wondered if the kitchen was still as chaotic and cute as it had been.

‘Hey. Is everything okay?’ she asked quietly.