Page 6 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Chapter Five

I lowered Bronte onto her pink-checked blanket on the back seat and secured her in her harness and seatbelt. Her little, furry face peered back at me.

I gripped the steering wheel. My knuckles tensed. I didn’t feel like me anymore. I didn’t think I would ever again.

I picked up my phone once more from the passenger seat and located Mia’s number. I didn’t give her a chance to say anything when she picked up. ‘Just to let you know I’m about to head off to Scotland.’

‘What? Now?’

‘Yes. To my late grandparents’ cottage.’ I swallowed hard, the stars misting over through the windscreen. ‘I need to get away for a bit, Mia. Bronte and me.’

‘I get it,’ she said softly. ‘I do. But please. Let me drive you there. Can you hold fire till tomorrow morning? I’ll come straight over first thing.’

I realised I was shaking my head, even though Mia couldn’t see me. ‘No. Thanks. I need to be on my own.’ I gulped. ‘You understand, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Of course I do.’ She hesitated. ‘Just take it steady, okay? There’s no rush. Just please let me know you get there okay and keep in touch, otherwise you’ll be in my bad books.’

‘I will. Just please don’t tell anyone where I am. I’ll call Joe’s parents and tell them I’m going away for a while, but I’m not even telling them where I’m headed.’

My heart felt like a piece of ripped paper, twisting and turning in the wind.

‘I won’t tell anyone anything, Rosie. Not if you don’t want me to. And don’t worry about your apartment. I’ll hang on to the spare key and keep an eye on the place.’

‘Thanks. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.’

Mia’s voice splintered down the line. ‘Don’t be daft.’ I could hear her fighting back tears. ‘Please give Bronte a hug from me.’

‘I will.’ I paused. ‘Can you tell Lola about all this for me? She’d want to know.’

‘Of course I will. Don’t worry about that.’

I finished the call and jabbed the button that controlled the driver-side window. I took a few greedy gulps of the night air and rubbed my face. Then I clicked the window closed again.

Behind me, Bronte let out a little whimper. She could sense my ping-pong of emotions.

I reached one arm into the back seat and ruffled her warm head. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart.’

I pushed my automatic into drive.

And then, dismissing the tears trickling down my face with the back of my hand, I concentrated all my attention on the road ahead and vanished into the night.

* * *

I managed to put a couple of hundred miles between London and us, before more huge waves of weariness and heartbreak gnawed at my bones.

Even Bronte, snuggled down on the back seat, looked in desperate need of a proper sleep. She let out a couple of Scooby-Doo type yawns.

I located a Premier Inn just outside Leeds which welcomed dogs, and eased into the car park.

For a few moments, I just sat at the wheel, staring out of the windscreen at the streetlamps and the concrete space I was parked in. I couldn’t even remember arriving here.

Bronte let out a couple of irritated barks, which snapped me out of my stillness. I attached her lead and let her have a good wander around. Then I checked us in and gathered our things from the boot.

Our accommodation was small but clean, with dark wooden furniture, red, plump cushions on the king-size bed, and the lights from Leeds dazzling through the long, hessian curtains.

I glanced down at my watch. It was approaching one o’clock in the morning.

I peeled off my jeans and stripey sweater and tossed them onto the floor.

I fed Bronte her kibble and once she’d hoovered up the contents from her bowl, she jumped up beside me and pushed her squirming body against me on the bed. I wrapped both arms around her and buried my face in her coat.

A weariness gripped me. I threw on an old T-shirt and slipped under the bed covers. I was slumped against the pillows in a snotty, crying mess and despite thinking I’d never be able to sleep again and certain I had no more tears left, I finally fell into fits of restless sleep.

* * *

I lay in bed the next morning, staring listlessly up at my aertex guest room ceiling.

Pictures of Joe burned in my chest. It was as if I’d undertaken last night’s journey here in a mixed-up, hallucinated fog.

Bronte was still curled up beside me on top of the bed, her ears sagging as she looked at me out of her mournful eyes.

I didn’t want to get up. I just wanted to cocoon myself under these covers and push everything away, wallow in my desperation and anger.

But I got a whiff of my fruity armpits and decided that wasn’t an option.

I was struggling to think about anything, let alone getting myself sorted out.

The day was stretching in front of me like one long empty tunnel.

It was dark and there was no chink of light to brighten it up.

I showered and washed my hair on automatic pilot and threw on my clean, baggy, electric blue knitted jumper and jeans.

I scraped my red curls back from my pinched face into a messy ponytail trying not to linger in front of the steamed-up bathroom mirror.

God, I looked horrific– pale and blotchy.

I didn’t feel hungry for breakfast, but I’d paid for it last night in my rush to get to my accommodation, so after feeding Bronte and whisking her out for a quick walk, I returned her to the room and slipped down to the dining area.

I took a napkin and stashed a blueberry muffin, a banana and a cereal bar inside it.

I didn’t want anything else. I didn’t even fancy any of those, but I thought I’d better try and force something down.

I’d been pecking and nibbling at food since Joe had died, and Lola and Mia had repeatedly warned me that I’d hospitalise myself, if I carried on this way.

I’d already lost weight as it was. I’d always possessed a curvy, ample bottom, which Joe loved, but that was beginning to disappear under my jeans.

I thought there were lots of things Joe had loved about me.

Turned out I was wrong. He’d certainly loved the standard of living my books had been able to provide for us.

I screwed up my eyes. Even my face, leaning towards heart-shaped, was sharper.

When I returned to the room, I took Bronte out for another pit stop before we checked out and set off on the road again.

I sat hunched behind the steering wheel, my fingers digging into the leather.

The sky was bulging with tumultuous clouds.

Upon arriving at a set of traffic lights, I shot one hand into the back seat and gave Bronte’s ears a good ruffle.

She responded by lashing my hand with her warm, flicking, pink tongue, which made me want to dissolve into an emotional, self-absorbed puddle.

The car was too quiet. It was like I was trapped in a silent bubble of torture. The silence was making me think too much. I couldn’t focus on anything else except Joe and Greta.

I blinked and forced my attention on the road again. I knew where I was headed for now but what was I going to do with myself? What were my intentions once I reached Rowan Bay? I’d always written, but now…

I switched on the radio, keeping the volume at a steady, low hum, trying to drown out the noise in my head.

Oh brilliant. Road works at Newcastle.

We started to crawl along with other cars, vans and lorries wedged side by side like building bricks.

When we eased to a standstill, I fetched my mobile from my bag beside me on the passenger side and reluctantly switched it on.

I had kept it turned off since speaking to Mia and departing from Hampstead last night.

I didn’t want to have to explain to anyone what I was doing, where I was going and why.

I eyed myself in the rear-view mirror. The traffic started to move off again, a giant snake of metal, and so I took the opportunity to park up at the next service station to let Bronte relieve herself and to give my in-laws a quick call.

‘Darling, how are you?’ asked Nancy with concern.

I took in the grey and marble sky through my car windscreen and the motorway services which were rather attractive: all potted plants and shrubs, surrounding a modern-looking glass building with a café, newsagents and a mini supermarket.

There was a big, lit-up pumpkin outside the entrance, and stickers of ghosts, mummies and witches plastered on the double doors.

It wouldn’t be Halloween for several weeks yet.

Funny how everybody else’s lives were just pushing on as normal.

So many people were desperate to move time on, whereas I would’ve done anything to wind it back.

‘I’m just outside Newcastle,’ I said, refocusing.

‘I stayed in Leeds last night. Now we’ve parked up for a bit to talk to you. ’

‘We?’

‘Bronte and me.’

From behind Nancy, I could hear Joe’s Dad firing questions at Nancy. ‘Is Rosie alright?’

I jammed my lips together. I didn’t want to cry again. I didn’t want to make them worry or feel any more wretched than they already did, but I was struggling. I had to tell them about Joe. I couldn’t keep this festering up inside me, pretending to be the grieving widow.

‘Yes. Um fine. Well, not fine, but you know.’

‘Where are you going?’ burst out Nancy.

‘To Scotland. For a bit of a break.’

‘On your own?’ Nancy’s voice was wracked with concern. ‘Look, why don’t you come back to London? Stay with us. You and Bronte. Take all the time you need to get yourself together. You can relax here, decide what you want to do.’

I was touched by their kindness and concern, but the last thing I wanted to do was stay at theirs and be surrounded by more reminders of Joe.

‘I needed to get away,’ I started, blinking. I had to tell them about Joe. I took a breath. Just tell them, Rosie. Get it over with. ‘I received a letter.’ I paused. ‘From Joe’s mistress.’

There was so much silence down the line, I thought the reception had cut off.

‘Sorry?’ Nancy’s voice was confused.