Page 3 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Chapter Two

M y head was constantly rattling like a box of tools.

I’d been hollowed out; my heart smashed into a million jagged pieces that I had no inclination to gather up and try to piece back together again.

In his rush to get to my book launch, Joe had made a dash for it across the busy road and not seen the lorry bearing down towards him. The driver had slammed on his brakes but it was too late.

Joe was killed instantly.

The poor lorry driver, a fifty-something father of three from the North of England, had been riddled with guilt and sought counselling after the accident. He’d written to me, the tumultuous state he was in evident in his erratic, emotional handwriting.

I’d gripped the lined writing paper, scanning the words but not allowing my brain to process them.

I didn’t blame him. It hadn’t been his fault: Joe was dashing across that road, still gripping his mobile as he hurried to get to me. That had been all my doing.

I’d been nagging him, only thinking of myself, hassling him to get to the museum. To get to me.

Meanwhile, I had morphed into a lifeless dummy after Joe’s death. My head whirled like a carousel. This must be some sick joke. He wasn’t gone.

I’d blundered through his funeral in his hometown of Chorleywood in Hertfordshire just over a week later, supported physically and mentally by Mia and Lola, and with Joe’s devastated parents, Nancy and Jeremy, trying and failing to be brave.

They were buttoning up their emotions and caging them inside, ready for the tsunami of grief to release itself when they least expected it.

My dead eyes hadn’t appreciated the rainbow of flowers at the crematorium.

Not even the wonderful floral depiction of a pair of running shoes, from his buddies on his regular park runs, or the floral football in Joe’s beloved Aston Villa’s colours of blue and claret, kindly sent by my friend Barclay, the lighthouse keeper.

Joe had loved eighties rock music, especially Def Leppard, and as his casket had slid behind the curtain to the sounds of his favourite track of theirs, ‘Love Bites’, I knew every ounce of optimism for our future together had died with him.

There was still all this love and longing for him thrashing around inside of me and yet Joe wasn’t here to receive it. There was nowhere for it to go; it just kept reverberating around.

Often, I’d hear a series of desperate, ragged gasps that would make me jump. Then I’d realise the sound was coming from me.

I’d rung Barclay up in Rowan Bay a few days after Joe’s death and somehow managed to tell him about what had happened and given him the funeral arrangement details.

Barclay’s normally raspy, mischievous voice had sunk into despair at the news. ‘My heart isn’t what it was,’ he’d apologised. ‘I probably won’t make Joe’s funeral.’

‘Don’t worry, Barclay. I understand, and so would Joe.’

I hadn’t wanted to see anyone since it happened, except for Mia, who insisted on having the spare key to the apartment. I’d tried to cocoon myself away with Bronte in our home, which was located on the top floor of the building, overlooking the stunning, frilly-green landscape of Hampstead Heath.

Whenever the entry buzzer rang out, Mia would deal with callers, answer my phone and field contact from the press.

For the first few days after Joe had died, Mia stayed over.

She tidied up, made me snacks and persuaded me to eat something, even though I wasn’t hungry.

I was so grateful to her. The prospect of having to pretend I was coping, made me feel even more exhausted.

Even the idea of speaking to Joe’s parents was one I couldn’t contemplate.

He had his dad’s smile and his Mum’s animated, blue eyes.

They inadvertently carried Joe with them, in echoes of their mannerisms and I couldn’t handle it.

The realisation made me ashamed. They’d lost their only son and were going through torment too.

The only time I managed to leave the flat was to take Bronte for a walk a few times a day, and even that was a struggle.

I couldn’t look at the glossy, sun-stroked trees, hear kids bursting into fits of giggles or listen to people complaining about the rising cost of a pint of milk.

Every snapshot of life or joy emanating from others was like a knife wound to my chest. Didn’t they know Joe was gone?

Didn’t they understand what loss and pain felt like?

What burning guilt was? If I hadn’t been such a bossy cow…

* * *

It was the beginning of September now and two long, heart-breaking months since Joe’s death.

Mia had dropped by after completing another grocery shop for me, and I was sitting on the sofa, with Bronte at my feet, clutching a cold mug of tea and staring into space.

She’d been packing the items in my fridge. Usually, she’d try to fill the air with chatter, but not today. ‘You, okay?’ I asked her turned back. ‘You seem a bit preoccupied.’

Mia turned round. She was clutching a jar of apricot jam. She set it down on the breakfast bar and reached for her bag. She pulled out a letter. ‘This arrived for you at the agency.’

She came over and handed it to me, before sinking down beside me on the sofa. Her silky, beige trousers whispered as she moved.

I set my cold mug of tea down on the coaster on the glass coffee table in front of me. ‘What is it? Who’s it from?’

I turned over the white envelope. It was addressed to me, c/o Mia. I didn’t recognise the handwriting. It was small and neat, controlled.

I slipped my hand inside and pulled out the letter. What came with it was three glossy photographs of Joe with another woman. I stared down at the images. She was tall and athletic-looking, about my age, with feline, jade-coloured eyes and long, straight, dark hair.

In the first photograph, they were in some posh restaurant, snuggled up together and raising glasses at the camera. In the second, they were wrapped around each other, on what looked like a white sanded beach. He was in long swimming shorts and she was sporting a black and white bikini.

The third photograph was a selfie. They were gazing into each other’s eyes, on the verge of kissing.

My head was reeling. My attention snapped from the pictures and back up to Mia, over and over. ‘What are these? What’s going on?’

‘Read the letter.’ She rested one concerned hand on my knee.

I turned my confused attention to what it said.

Ms Winters,

I’m so sorry for your loss, but I had to contact you.

I’m not doing this out of any sense of spite or revenge. I’m doing it because you have a right to know what Joe was really like; how he used both of us and how he lied to get what he wanted.

My name is Greta Vincent and for the past three years, Joe and I were in a relationship.

The words shifted and swirled in front of my eyes. I jerked my head up to look at Mia. ‘Is this some sort of joke?’ My voice was cracking.

Mia’s face was etched with sympathy. ‘Sweetheart, you need to read this. I’m so sorry.’

My heart bounced harder and faster against my chest. I couldn’t comprehend what was going on. There must be some mistake.

Trying to steady my breathing, I turned back to the contents of the letter.

We met in a bar in Marylebone at Christmas time. We were both there attending leaving parties for our respective companies. We got talking and he told me that he was in an unhappy marriage. I fell for him quickly and he said he wanted to leave you and start over with me.

But every time I broached the subject, he said he would tell you everything when the time was right– but that time never came.

I spent three years of my life waiting for him, foolishly believing his lies and convincing myself that you were some sort of evil ogre who wouldn’t give him his freedom. But after Joe died, I found out the truth. I read about your happy marriage and how much you loved him.

He played us both.

Do you know he was late for your book launch because we’d been together that afternoon? And he even lied to me about that. When I asked him why he was in such a rush to leave, he said he’d received an email from an upset author and had to go and discuss some urgent legal issue that had arisen.

Joe was incapable of telling the truth.

My hands shook as I held the crisp, vanilla notepaper. Her address and phone number in the top right corner melted in front of my eyes. Where did she live? Was that Fulham?

I struggled to comprehend what was playing out in front of me.

I’d been blaming myself. I’d been carrying around this guilt, like a chain around my neck since the moment he’d died, thinking I’d been the reason Joe was killed.

It turned out he’d been in bed with his mistress right before he was knocked over.

Realisation hit me like an express train. All the times he’d been late home or had to go on business trips; the meetings that dragged on well into the evening. It had been lies. He’d been with her. Living another life.

And to think Joe had been my writing inspiration for my sweeping romances. I’d been infused with happiness and creativity because of him. And yet, it turned out, all I’d been writing was a tissue of lies. I’d been deceiving my readers.

My life was crumbling all around me again. For a second time. My marriage and my career had turned out to be untruths.

Mia removed the letter from my vicelike grip. ‘I’ll deal with this.’ She snatched up the photographs scattered over my lap and stuffed them and the letter back in the envelope. ‘This is between you and me. No one else will ever know about this. You have my word.’

She dumped the letter on the arm of the sofa and moved to bundle me into her arms, but I sprung from the sofa, as though thousands of volts had charged through me.

I folded my arms. Everything had been a lie.

I’d imagined it all. My happy marriage to the man I loved and my successful romance novels.

Faintly through the fog, I heard Mia’s voice. ‘You will get through this. You have so much to live for– your family, your writing…’

A dark cloud of decision took hold. I couldn’t do anything about Joe’s infidelity, but my career and what I did in the future were something I was in control of, it was something that I could make or break, unlike my marriage.

Joe had done that all by himself. My jaw wobbled.

The thought of writing again made nausea lodge in my throat.

No, that was done. Over. No more of Rosie Winters, the romance author.

‘I’m never writing again, Mia. My heart isn’t in it anymore, especially after that.

’ I jabbed one shaking finger at the letter beside her.

‘You’ve had the most awful shock. The last couple of months have been a nightmare for you and then this sodding letter arrives.’ She shook her dark hair. ‘You need to give yourself time. There’s no pressure, sweetheart. There’s no rush to sign any new contracts.’

My eyes flashed with a combination of hurt and fury at her. ‘I’m not signing any more contracts. How can I write any more romances after this?’

In one swift move, Mia was beside me and taking me in her arms. Bronte was studying both of us from where she was still curled up on the rug. ‘I’m not making you do anything you don’t want to do. Your heart is broken. You have to mend.’

‘What? After finding out my dead husband has been cheating on me for three years?’

I inhaled the scent of her lemon perfume. Her bouncy, dark hair tickled my nose. And I clung to her for what seemed like an eternity, with racking sobs escaping from my chest.