Page 2 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

‘It’s imposter syndrome,’ said Mia out of the corner of her mouth.

Her manicured hand flashed. ‘Nothing wrong with it though, in my humble opinion. Shows you care. Means you want to get better with every book you write.’ She took a measured sip of her glass and waggled it.

‘I wish a lot of my other authors were more like you, sweetheart. Big-headed tossers some of them.’

Lola laughed.

‘It’s true!’ protested Mia. ‘I seem to spend half my time soothing their egos or being an agony aunt.’ She waggled her glass. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love being an agent. But sometimes, it would make life a little easier if they were more like my favourite redhead here.’

I shook my head and laughed. ‘You’re only saying I’m your favourite because you’re getting pissed.’

‘Nope. I know exactly what I’m saying.’ She reached out a hand and clasped mine with affection. ‘You’re a delight to work with, honey.’

Lola eyed me with a soft smile. ‘I agree with Mia. You deserve your success, Rosie. You’ve worked damned hard to get where you are. You enjoy it.’

I admired the huge, suspended version of my latest book cover as it dangled from the museum ceiling.

Those years of writing and submitting to publishers and agents.

The knock-backs or the stony silences when I didn’t receive a response at all.

The feeling of despondency whenever I did receive a polite ‘no’.

I could’ve decorated my bathroom with the rejection letters I’d received.

I gazed up again at the giant, bright cover of Snow, I’ll Always Love You .

‘My first few books hardly hit the big time,’ I cringed at the recollection.

‘Things didn’t start happening for me until a couple of years ago. ’

‘Yes, well, you’ve grown as a writer since then,’ said Lola. ‘And how’s that gorgeous husband of yours? No sign of him yet?’

My mouth melted into a soppy grin. ‘He’s great thanks. I’m sure he’ll be along soon.’ I glanced down at my watch again. ‘No doubt finishing something off at work.’

Joe.

My muse.

My heart performed a little skip of happiness. It didn’t seem like five whole years since we got married.

I met Joe Hutton six years ago, just after my twenty-sixth birthday. I’d signed my publishing deal for my first novel, You Make Lovin’ Fun . Joe had been and still was in the legal department at Jarred Roberts, and I remember feeling that electric shock the first time I saw him.

Blond, blue-eyed and looking more like a Californian surfer than a legal eagle, he’d chased after me from the off, and I’d made no moves whatsoever to run away.

It’d felt right from the first time we grinned at one another. Joe had captivated me with his drive, intelligence, sense of humour and blond, good looks.

I took another, considered mouthful of champagne.

From working as a librarian in Ealing, where I was born and grew up, to becoming a writer of best-selling, feel-good romance, marrying someone with a passing resemblance to Matthew McConaughey and living in the buzzy central London area of Hampstead, none of what had happened in my life felt as if it had happened to me.

It was like I’d watched all these wonderful things unfold and blossom for someone else.

Imposter syndrome was alive and well and living in my head a lot of the time.

Even now, frissons of disbelief shot through me.

‘You promised you’d let me know if Joe discovered he’s got an older brother,’ joked Mia over the top of her glass.

‘And I’ll keep my promise,’ I smiled. ‘You know he’s an only child like me, but he always says he’d love to investigate his family tree, if he wasn’t so busy with work.’

‘Well, you tell him to stop being such a sodding workaholic, Winters, and get cracking with that family tree research. I’m not getting any younger.’

‘You’re only forty-two!’ I laughed, incredulous. ‘And you’re stunning! You go on as though you were Methuselah.’

‘Sssh!’ hissed a horrified Mia. ‘It’s alright for you and Blondie here. You’re both ten years younger than me.’

‘Doesn’t matter what age you are,’ replied Lola into her glass.

‘Looking for The One at any age is a pain in the arse.’ She pulled a face.

‘I’ve deleted those dating apps. I’m fed up with meeting guys who never look like their photo, never ask me about myself or spend all evening mooning after their ex-wife.

’ She slid me a smile. ‘You and Joe keep me optimistic, though.’

‘None of those idiots were good enough for you, Lola.’

She laughed. ‘You never met any of them.’

‘Trust me. They weren’t.’

Mia wrinkled her nose, as the chatter and clinking glasses swirled around us. ‘Your mum, God bless her, had the right attitude. She had them all sized up in no time.’

I buried a smile as I thought about my mum, Tessa, again.

My dad, Jack, had passed away suddenly from a heart attack when I was ten, and she’d been the most amazing single parent for the last twenty-two years, giving me all the love, care, support and encouragement that I should’ve had from two parents.

They’d been married for eleven years when Dad died.

Eleven years of married life together. Not long at all, in the scheme of things.

God, I missed them both so much but Mum especially.

She’d seen my first few books being published, but had passed away suddenly two years ago, at the age of just fifty-eight, just as my novels were about to start making an impact.

I inherited my love of reading from her.

She’d been an enthusiastic and passionate secondary school English teacher.

My late maternal grandparents had shared a happy and fulfilling life together too. Guilt nibbled at me, as I thought about them. I’d been so busy I hadn’t been able to head up to Rowan Bay in the Scottish Highlands and make plans to sell their cottage.

My late Grandfather Howard had passed away five years ago, but I only lost my Grandma Tilda four months ago, in March. I’d always loved her maiden name of Winters and had adopted that as my pen name, and then in everyday life, rather than using my real surname of Ward.

Mum once confided in me that she thought Rosie Winters had a much prettier and more romantic ring to it as well!

Once the circus for this book release was over, I’d suggest to Joe that we take a break up there. We could maybe spend a romantic Hogmanay up in Scotland and then begin sorting things out, so we could put the property on the market.

The last time I’d been up there was in March for Grandma’s funeral. She’d been a very talented artist, and my mum always used to say she was convinced that was who I inherited my creative prowess from.

I used to love spending my school holidays with my grandparents up there, picking up shells that were studded into the sand down by the bay and hoping to catch glimpses of puffins, dolphins and seals.

I still swapped phone calls and letters with the charming old lighthouse keeper, Barclay Hogan, though.

The lighthouse was situated close to my late grandparents’ cottage, just up on the opposite cliffside, so Barclay had kept me entertained with his seafaring stories.

He always used to call me ‘Red’, and the name stuck.

Come to think of it, I hadn’t heard from Barclay for a couple of weeks. Joe and I could see him too, if we went to the cottage for New Year. We could drop by for a surprise visit.

I looked around for any sign of Joe and experienced another niggle of disappointment; I’d hoped he’d be by my side when I laid eyes on the book launch decorations.

Oh well. I knew he was crazy busy at work.

His schedule had become even more hectic over the past few months.

Nevertheless, my stomach wriggled at the thought of him arriving soon, to share this special evening with me.

All around me, people were nodding, smiling, chatting and congratulating me.

Champagne flutes winked under the lights and peals of laughter rang into the air.

I was asked about my book from journalists; are Bex and Nathan based on any real people?

Where did I get the inspiration for my latest plot?

What are the key themes? Who would play Nathan Dallas if my book were to be turned into a movie?

Was it true that my main male protagonists were based in some way on Joe?

I felt myself pink up. ‘Yes, it’s true. My husband does act as the inspiration for my heroes.’ My latest protagonist, the steely, sexy critic Nathan, was no exception.

The books I’d written before I met Joe hadn’t carried the same vivacious joy and vivid heroes.

They’d sold well, but it was only after falling in love with him, that my writing had become infused with real energy.

Even then, it’d taken a few more years before my career as an author really took off, my sales went into the stratosphere and I found my books swooping into the top five.

I never took for granted how fortunate I was.

A sumptuous array of festive-inspired finger foods appeared next and were circulated on shiny platters among the guests.

There were reindeer mince pies with twiglet antlers, mini-Christmas crackers stuffed with goats’ cheese, Christmas devilled eggs with fresh herbs, mincemeat Christmas trees, snowmen cheese balls, and lemon, garlic and herb baubles.

It was Christmas kitsch at its best and I loved it!

While we were taking great delight in savouring the cuisine, a trio of musicians appeared and set up in the far-right corner. Armed with a violin, cello and harp, they struck up classy renditions of traditional Christmas carols and even threw in some Mariah Carey.

If anybody here didn’t feel Christmassy by now, even though it was twenty-one degrees outside and the middle of summer, there was no hope for them! I could feel my face breaking into a huge smile, as I tapped my foot along to their version of Sir Elton John’s ‘Step into Christmas’.

My heart lifted in my chest.

I never realised I could feel this happy and content. Not after losing Mum. But with my next book eagerly anticipated, a brand new, two-book deal rumoured to be on the way and Joe by my side, the future was taking on a much rosier hue.

While Mia and Lola chatted to me, bringing famous and not-so-famous faces up to talk to me, my mind kept wandering to the book I’d just started writing. I liked to have my book delivery deadlines in my diary, so I had a date to work towards.

This one was about a grumpy, widowed romance writer who has to recruit a PA when he’s left to bring up his orphan nephew on his own.

A ripple of satisfaction took over. I’d been so lucky.

I was doing what I loved most in the world.

Writing romance. People wanted to read my books and I never got tired of it.

Our gorgeous apartment in Hampstead, with its polished, tiled floors, panoramic windows, wet room and balconies, was Joe’s and my haven.

Never in a million years did I think that I, Rosie Ellenor Ward, from a single-parent family council house in Ealing, would end up where I was: bestselling author Rosie Winters.

I plucked a second glass of champagne from a passing waitress. The warmth hit me, making me feel fuzzy and comfortable. Joe would be here soon, I was sure, and then I could show him the massive photograph of my big, red, curly head. I let out a small laugh into my champagne flute.

The John Madejski Gardens outside the V&A at the rear of the museum shone out from under the amber architecture. The large, oval pond shimmered under the evening sunshine.

I glanced down at my watch again. Where was Joe, I thought with a stab of irritation. This was getting ridiculous now.

I drained the rest of my champagne and set the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray, before fetching my mobile out of my bag again.

I pulled up his number and after a few rings, I heard his breathless voice rasp down the line. ‘I’m so sorry, darling. I’m just across the road. Honestly.’

I could just about hear his voice over a cacophony of parping horns, voices and the buzz of traffic.

‘I got caught by Charles while heading out the door.’

I could feel frustration tugging at my insides. ‘Joe, I appreciate you’re busy, but you know what these events mean to me and having you by my side. Can you please hurry up?’

Maybe it was a godsend that at that moment, Mia beckoned me over to speak to a magazine book reviewer.

It meant I didn’t hear a sudden, sharp screech of brakes and horrified screams.