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“Oh . . . nothing, really. Well, my phone does this thing where it goes into ‘driving mode’ when I’m in a car. I think it’s a safety feature, but it does it even if I’m a passenger, so sometimes I miss notifications.”

“Miss anything interesting?” David asks.

“Nah. Just . . . a message from a yoga client. I’ll get back to her now.” Grace taps at her phone then looks up again. “Actually, I’m peckish. David, do you want to come off at the next exit, and we’ll grab something to eat?”

“We’re almost in England,” I point out. “Why don’t we get something in Carlisle?” I don’t want to drag this out—I want to leave Scotland. I’ve already decided I’ll never be coming back.

“Hmm . . . no. ‘Peckish’ was an understatement—I’m famished! David, come off here, please.”

“Carlisle is only ten minutes away!” I protest.

“David,” Grace says sternly, “come off here!”

David looks at his sister uncertainly then glances over his shoulder at me. “Er . . .”

Grace leans across and flicks the indicator switch. “David, take the exit! Now!”

Swearing under his breath, David does, and we leave the motorway at an exit signposted gretna green. The name rings a bell, but I can’t think why, probably because my mind is so addled by all that’s happened today.

“What the hell was that about?” David hisses.

“Sorry, but I really am hungry,” Grace says sheepishly.

David glances at me again and raises his eyebrows. I offer a small shrug. I’m not pleased, but I keep my mouth shut. After all, Grace and David are doing all the driving, and they came to Scotland to visit me. They also came back for me when I asked them to, even though they’d already started their journey home. If Grace needs a break, who am I to deny her one?

Leaving the motorway behind us, we come onto a pretty tree-lined street with fields on either side.

“Look!” Grace points to a brown tourist sign showing the way to famous blacksmiths shop attractions and foodhall at gretna green. “That sounds perfect! We’ll go there. Let me just finish this message to that client.”

As she goes back to typing on her phone, David drives us into a small picturesque village, and I try to remember why this all sounds familiar. A famous blacksmith? Gretna Green? I’m sure I’ve heard of this place, but why? I’ve definitely never been here before.

Soon, we come to a crossroads, at which stands a whitewashed stone cottage with black doors and window frames. A sign reads gretna green famous blacksmiths shop since 1754. Behind the original cottage, on the other side of a courtyard, are a restaurant and bar, a museum, and shops, all with similar whitewashed walls.

“Well, here we are.” David pulls into a large car park—big enough to have a section for coaches—and finds us a space.

Clambering out, I catch sight of an information sign titled history and romance, and just like that, anxiety hits me like a blow to the stomach. I remember why I’ve heard of this place. I’m a wedding planner—of course I’ve heard of Gretna Green. It’s famous for weddings.

“We can’t eat here,” I stammer. “Let’s go somewhere else—anywhere else.”

Grace waves away my concerns. “It looks fine, and besides, we’re parked now.”

“What’s wrong?” David asks me.

“This place . . .” I gulp. “It’s where young couples used to elope.”

“Huh?”

The details are coming back to me. I’ve read articles about Gretna Green. I’m always looking through wedding magazines to keep up with the latest trends, and this place comes up again and again.

“A few hundred years back—in the eighteenth century, I think—an English law was passed that prevented people under twenty-one from marrying without their parents’ permission. It led to many young and lovestruck English couples running away to Scotland, where the laws were different. Once over the border, this was the first village they came to. A quirk of Scottish law allowed anyone to conduct a wedding ceremony—not just a priest—and so the village’s blacksmith took it upon himself to marry the young couples who arrived here. Once wed, they returned to England as husband and wife, and there was nothing their disapproving parents could do about it.

“The laws have long since changed, but many people still come here to be married. Gretna Green is famously associated with love, which is why . . .” My breath hitches, but I force myself to carry on. “. . . which is why can we please go somewhere else?”

“I’m so sorry,” David gushes. “I’d no idea. Of course—”

“It’s fine!” Grace interrupts. “We won’t stay long.” She’s already walking towards the buildings. “We’ll just grab something to eat then be on our way again. There’s no point going anywhere else.”

David blinks with surprise then hurries after his sister. “Er, Grace?”