Page 5 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Chapter Four

P ain iced up my veins as I reached our bedroom and made straight for our wardrobe.

My purple case was sat on the top of it.

Trying not to think too much about what I was doing; I produced Joe’s St Christopher from my jeans pocket and dropped it onto the top of my mirrored dressing table.

Joe’s parents could have that. Then I dragged my case from its resting place and dumped it on top of our king-sized bed.

The case sent our dark chocolate and gold scatter cushions flying to the floor.

I kept my attention trained on the chest of drawers as my trembling hands reached for underwear, socks, jumpers and jeans.

I yanked open the door of our shoe cupboard next. A lump in my throat caught me unawares. Pairs of Joe’s running shoes were nestled beside the black, shiny brogues he wore on our wedding day.

I scooped up my trainers, walking boots and a couple of pairs of my dressier winter boots. I reached for my travelling shoe bag and thrust them all inside and slammed the wardrobe door shut again.

Bronte came plodding up to me. She plopped her dear little bottom down by my feet. ‘Don’t worry, pumpkin,’ I assured her in an emotional croak. She was eyeing me in my coat with suspicion. ‘You’re coming with me.’

I whirled back up the hallway and into the sitting room, gathering up a few of Bronte’s favourite toys, before fetching her feeding bowl and water from the kitchen.

As if on autopilot, I retrieved her bag of kibble and some treats.

Her lead, harness and coat were next. I unhooked them from the peg in the hall cupboard.

I was doing everything with what felt like ruthless efficiency, but I knew that if I dared to stop for a moment and try to unscramble what I was doing, my insides would be crushed.

It was as though I was turning my back on my old life, but what else could I do? What other option had Joe left me?

I gripped Bronte’s lead, harness and coat in my bunched-up fists and took in Joe’s section of the wardrobe, with his assortment of shirts, suits, jeans and T-shirts.

I darted into the kitchen and dived into one of the cupboards where I kept black bin liners.

My throat wobbled but I rubbed my eyes and returned to the bedroom.

I yanked his clothes from their hangers and thrust them into the bin bags.

I would donate them to charity. His parents could also have his favourite cuff links.

A dead weight gripped my stomach. I still hadn’t told them about their only son’s affair.

I finished balling and stuffing Joe’s clothes into the rubbish bags, dumped them in the hall together with Bronte’s things, and turned back into the bedroom.

As I reached the doorway, my attention strayed to my writing room next door.

All of a sudden, my walnut, circular desk looked as destitute as I felt.

Foreign editions of my novels rested on the shelf above my desk and my stack of writing notebooks and glitzy pens sparkled beside my laptop. I had loved to watch the dappled sunshine, the silvery rain or the whirling snow from the window as I wrote.

I flicked a look at my silver laptop, which seemed to be waiting for me to flip up the lid and begin hammering away on the keyboard, conjuring up characters and places like I always did.

Despite my reluctance when I spoke to Mia, she had pleaded with me to sign a new contract, and I said I would think about it, not wanting to let my team down.

I’d already made good progress on book seven and was half a dozen chapters into the story.

But now… Cold fear stabbed me. I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t face it. Sitting there, extolling the beauty of falling in love, when my own husband had taken from me everything I believed in?

And I’d been racked with guilt over his death.

I thought I’d robbed us of our happiness, but his adultery had robbed me of my desire to write.

The happily-ever-afters, the breath-catching romance and golden futures; I’d been peddling this to my readers, who’d inhaled it with relish. But then came real life.

How the hell could I even contemplate throwing myself into my worlds of meet-cutes, enemies to lovers, and bubbling, passionate forced proximities anymore?

What was it Mia had said to me? That she wasn’t going to make me do anything I didn’t want to do? That my heart was broken and I had to mend? My back stiffened. This was me from now on. I had no heart left. I had nothing left.

I ignored my laptop, snatched up an empty box near my office door and picked up Bronte’s bits and pieces where I’d left them in the hallway.

I cradled the box in my arms with Bronte’s things jiggling about in the bottom of it, and made my way to our apartment door. I tugged it open and propelled myself towards the communal staircase. I’d come back for my case and the bags of Joe’s clothes.

I raced down the stairs, the sound of my trainers thundering on the steps and in my ears. I didn’t even want to hang around for the lift. I didn’t want to set eyes on my reflection again in its glass panels. I kept seeing me and Joe tangled up in bed together instead.

I pointed my car keys at my bright blue Mazda and watched it light up and open in the descending dark. I dumped the box of Bronte’s bits and pieces inside the boot.

I gave a shiver under my denim jacket.

My brain was clouded with pain. Where was I going to go?

Where could I go?

Chilly realisation took hold. I’d no idea. I didn’t know where I was headed.

A hotel? A bed and breakfast somewhere?

I wanted out of London, that much I knew.

Then it came to me, as pictures of my grandmother drifted into my head. Of course. Somewhere comforting and peaceful… Why hadn’t I thought of it before?

I could take Bronte to my late grandparents’ cottage in Rowan Bay.

It was situated hundreds of miles away and was a long drive, but it would be worth it. In fact, it would be perfect. Quiet solitude by a harbour in the Scottish Highlands. The cottage was just sitting there unoccupied anyway.

I’d spent so many of my school holidays there, combing the beach for shells, dolphin spotting, having windy, salty picnics and spending my pocket money on the assorted sea inspired paperweights and stationery in the local gift shop.

And seeing a friendly face like Barclay’s was just what I needed. He’d suggested I go visit him anyway.

The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I kept the spare key to the cottage in the top drawer of my bedside table.

I was tired of loss, and events being taken out of my control. I was sick of loving people and having them ripped away from me. At least this would be something that I was in control over. Leaving London would be my decision.

Joe had decided to cheat on me with another woman for the past three years. Now I was making this decision to leave what was left of our married life behind me. I had no idea what the future held for me, but at least I could do this right now.

No more trusting people or giving them my hopes and dreams, only for them to crush them. From now on, my life was just about Bronte and me. I had to protect myself. I wouldn’t allow myself to be vulnerable to loss, hurt and pain ever again.

I dashed back up to the apartment and scooped up Bronte. Still cuddling her to me, I hurried back down the hallway to the bedroom to retrieve the cottage front door key. I found it and stuffed it into my right coat pocket.

Then I rang Barclay. ‘I’ve decided to come for a visit. That okay with you?’

‘Don’t be daft, lass. Can’t wait to see you. I’ll make sure there are a few provisions in for you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘When you heading up?’

I straightened my back. ‘I’m setting off tonight.’

‘Well, you drive safe, Red. There’s no rush.’

I finished speaking to him, a rush of adrenalin powering through me. I’d head there now. More tears trickled down my face and I flicked them away.

I set down Bronte and deposited the black bin bags outside the flat door. Then I took off my rose-gold wedding ring and my diamond engagement ring and dropped them in a drawer in the hall cabinet before leaving the apartment and locking the door.

It was dark now and a chilly autumnal night, but it was as if I couldn’t feel anything anymore. I didn’t feel tired, only empty.

Bronte and I would hit the road now and take our time. There wasn’t any rush. I’d stop somewhere overnight; take a couple of stops. Bronte would need feeding and to do her ablutions anyway. If I took it steady, we could be there at a respectable time later on tomorrow morning.

An image of Joe appeared phantom-like near my car, with that bright smile of his and his exploding dimple.

I wrestled my phone out of my bag and located the number of the local cancer charity shop. They were closed but I left a message and details of my address, so they could come and collect Joe’s belongings.