Page 15

I leave before she can ask any more questions, and I continue my wander, crossing a beautiful old bridge, passing a pretty church and cemetery, and coming to a path that leads out of town and into a wood. I follow it, through the trees and up to a war memorial on the slopes of a hill overlooking Bannock.

There’s a bench, which I sit on, and I take in the view, admiring the charming town set in a beautiful valley—or rather, a glen, the Scottish word. A few clouds have drifted overhead, but it’s still dry, and it’s so peaceful here, away from the noise and stimulation of London.

I peek into my cake bags. As Morag suggested, I could have one now and one later. Which to go for first: snowball or cream bun?

Deciding the cream won’t keep as long, I opt for the bun, and when I bite into it, I can’t stop myself from moaning. It’s so good!

I should savour it, enjoying each bite, but it’s gone before I know it. I push the snowball to the other side of the bench, resisting the temptation to start on it too.

I return to admiring the view. As peaceful as it is, this stillness is alien to me. It’s in my nature to fill every moment. “Work hard, play hard” has always been my philosophy.

Grace is good at just being—being present, being mindful—but it’s something I struggle with. Any free moment I have, I normally whip out my phone and do something on it.

I’ve got my phone on me, of course, but I’ve been avoiding it, save to speak to Grace. I haven’t wanted to be confronted with messages from wedding guests or maybe even from Harry himself.

Part of me knows it’d be a bad idea to get my phone out now, that I’d be better off continuing my detox from my London life. But another part of me reckons, if I’m going to deal with this at some point, it may as well be now.

That’s why I turn my gaze from the beautiful, peaceful scene before me to a screen. I scroll through my notifications, searching for Harry’s name, dreading that I might see it. But there’s nothing from him—no messages, no missed calls—and somehow that’s worse.

Until a few days ago, we lived together, supported each other, shared a bed, and now . . . nothing. How could he go from wanting to spend the rest of his life with me to wanting no contact at all?

As I feared, my phone is spoiling my mood, but for some reason I don’t stop. I check social media, knowing that friends and acquaintances will have been talking about what happened. I suddenly need to know what they’ve been saying.

The very first post I see floors me. Tears of anger and self-pity prick at my eyes, and my phone shakes in my hand, my body shuddering. That crushing feeling returns, that weight, that difficulty breathing . . .

The post is by Rebecca White, a casual friend—or rather, a supposed friend. We weren’t super close, but I invited her to the wedding. The photo is of her looking stunning in a red dress. The text begins: What a waste!!! The gist is that Saturday was a really shitty day for her because, after buying a brand-new dress and getting her hair and make-up done, the wedding she was due to attend was cancelled last minute.

Oh dear, Rebecca, how awful for you!

Nowhere in the post does she express any concern about me. It’s all about her.

This was a mistake. I put my phone away, but the damage is done, my state of mind ruined. My breathing comes in rapid, ragged pants. I try to get a grip, to calm myself, but it’s no good. If only Grace were here.

And then . . . it starts raining. It actually starts raining.

Yes, it’s Scotland, and the weather can change quickly here, but it was so bright earlier. So caught up was I in my phone, I didn’t notice the clouds getting darker. I don’t have an umbrella or waterproof jacket with me, and I’m up on a hill, completely unprotected from the elements.

I sniff, tears trickling down my cheeks, mixing with the rain spattering against my face.

CHAPTER SEVEN

ALLY

I’m in the small office behind reception, trying to concentrate on supplier invoices, but instead, my mind keeps drifting back to our new guest, Emily Thomas.

It’s hard to believe that stuck-up London woman with her designer everything is the same lass I kissed when I was twelve, the only girl I ever took into the “secret den”. Back then, she had been so nice, so sweet, and she and her dad—although Londoners—had been outdoorsy types. What happened to her? And most importantly, why has she come back?

Oh, and how am I supposed to concentrate on supplier invoices with all these questions going around and around in my head?

“Ally? Are you in the office?” a low voice calls.

“Aye. Come on in, Aidan.”

A moment later, my best mate, Aidan, appears at the door. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, and with a perpetual half-grin, he’s been my closest friend since we were babies. My maw and his maw were best pals too, and they got pregnant at the same time.

I’m about to tell him the crazy news about our month-long guest when I spot his sling.

“What the hell? Is this a joke?”