Page 7 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

‘It turns out Joe was having an affair with this woman for three years and kept promising he’d leave me for her.’

There was a strangulated noise from his mother. ‘No… No… That can’t be right. You don’t know what you’re saying.’

I lifted one hand from the steering wheel and rubbed at my forehead. ‘It’s true, Nancy. If you don’t believe me, contact Mia. She has the letter.’

There were more startled protestations from Nancy. Sherelayed the information to Joe’s dad, who also proceeded to insist that this was all utter nonsense.

I’d heard enough. I couldn’t handle this right now. ‘Like I said, contact Mia. I’m sorry, but I have to go now. Speak soon.’

I slumped my head back against the driver’s-seat headrest. Around us, other cars were easing to a halt into the unoccupied spaces.

Retired couples, harassed business people and lorry drivers were milling around, availing themselves of the toilet facilities or returning to their vehicles with take-away cups of coffee and sandwiches.

Behind me on the back seat, Bronte was making light work of the chew stick I’d given her.

There was the intermittent sound of crunching and snapping.

The mention of Mia had brought me to another uncomfortable truth.

It wouldn’t be fair to make her think that I was planning to write again, that my previous outburst about not wanting to be an author anymore had been some impulsive whim and that given time I’d come round.

I had to tell her that part of my life was over.

She was my agent. But she was also my friend.

She needed to know. Of course, she’d be shocked and saddened, but she’d have to understand.

She would come to accept it in time, I reassured myself.

The writing light inside of me had been blown out.

The revelation of Joe’s infidelity had seen to that.

How the hell could I ever write anything again, let alone a romance, when the love of my life had made me think I mattered but it turned out I hadn’t?

Joe had been all my heroes rolled into one.

Writing didn’t exist for me anymore.

My passion and heart for it had died the day Greta’s letter and those photographs arrived.

I had to be truthful and honest, even if that meant disappointing other people. Writing romances didn’t sit right with me anymore, and I wouldn’t be able to face myself in the mirror if I didn’t believe in what I was writing.

Up until this point, I’d been so invested in my characters, their lives and their experiences that they’d felt like old friends.

I’d always had faith in love– up until now.

My books were all about the happily-ever-afters and the belief that love conquered all.

No matter what obstacles or difficulties I threw at my beloved characters, they always found a way to be together.

If only real life could be that way.

Despondency thumped in my chest. I took a steadying breath.

Come on, Rosie. Just tell her. It would be like ripping off a plaster.

Painful for a few seconds, but then the irritation would subside.

Okay, probably far longer than a few seconds.

Knowing Mia, her agony would last weeks.

I eased into it first by telling her I’d just spoken to Joe’s parents and told them about his affair.

‘Jesus. Still, you did the right thing telling them, Rosie. I’m sure they’d much rather hear something like that from you, than someone else. What did they say?’

‘Not much. They sounded stunned. In denial. I told them to contact you if they wanted to see the letter.’

‘Of course. No problem.’ She let out a rush of air. ‘They’re probably appalled and embarrassed. Their golden boy turning out to be not so wonderful after all.’

I glanced at my eyes in the rearview mirror. ‘Look, Mia, there’s something else I need to tell you. I won’t be writing again. Not anymore.’

Mia sounded like she was struggling to breathe. ‘Look. I can’t begin to understand what you’re going through right now, but please don’t make any hasty decisions.’

‘It hasn’t been hasty. I’ve been thinking about nothing else.’

Mia’s silence down the line was so prolonged I wondered whether she’d passed out.

When she did try to recover herself, her voice struggled. ‘Dear God. You’re serious, aren’t you?’

I jammed my lips together and shifted in my car seat. ‘Yes. Very.’

Mia blustered so much into my ear; she sounded like she was choking. ‘But… But… I thought you just needed time, and hell, no one would blame you if you did.’ She paused. ‘Rosie, don’t rush into anything. You aren’t thinking this through properly.’

‘Oh, believe me, I’ve mulled it over so much I thought my head was about to explode.’

There was a desperate rasp. ‘But we’re on the verge of signing a new contract with Lola, and you said you’d started writing a new book. Listen, take all the time you need after signing the contract and we can work on…’

My frustration fired up. ‘The light has gone out, Mia. I don’t want to do it anymore.’

She let out a frantic squeak but I pushed on. ‘I know it’s not what you wanted to hear, but I have to do what’s right. No more falsehoods.’

‘What falsehood?’ Her tone became more conciliatory. ‘Listen to me. What Joe did had nothing to do with you. He was the one who chose to have an affair.’

I swallowed and clamped my eyes shut.

‘But your readers can’t get enough of your stories. It’s an escape for them.’

‘Precisely. It’s not real. What I write are fairytales. I’ve made my money from something that doesn’t exist and I don’t want to do it anymore.’

‘But… But…’ Mia’s desperation seeped down the line.

‘But it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do.’ She puffed out frustrated air.

‘Rosie, take some more time to think this over, okay? I know Lola’s keen to get you to sign on the dotted line, but I’ll speak to her.

Lay everything out. Then after you have taken some more time, we can talk again and iron out the contract. ’

I shook my head, even though Mia couldn’t see me. ‘I don’t need any more time to think it over. I know what I’m doing.’

‘So, what are you intending to do if you’re giving up being an author?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ I conceded. ‘I’ll have to see what the future holds.’

The future.

It was stretching out in front of me, like this endless black hole that was swallowing me up and there was no light at the end of it.

My idea had been to get my next book written and then suggest to Joe we try for a baby.

I could hear Mia shuffling some papers around on her desk. ‘What am I going to tell Lola? She and Jarred Roberts are going to be speechless over this. You’re one of their highest-earning authors!’

‘Just tell her the truth.’

Mia let out a defeated sigh. ‘Yeah, that’ll do it.’

I eyed the cloud-clotted sky. ‘And it’s not like you don’t have a stable of other successful authors, Mia. That goes for Lola, too. Anyone would think I was the only writer around.’

Mia started to protest, but I steeled myself. ‘I’ll set off again now, okay? Can you update Lola for me please. I really don’t want to have to talk to a lot of people at the moment.’ I hesitated. ‘Any calls from the Press?’

‘A couple of journalists have rung, asking what your future plans are and how you’re doing.’ Mia’s voice softened. ‘But don’t you worry about any of that. We’re more than capable of handling all that on your behalf.’

Her kindness made me want to weep again. ‘Thanks. I’ll be in touch again soon. Take care. Bye.’

I ended the call.

I tried not to dwell on what Lola would say when Mia dropped the bombshell that I wouldn’t be writing again.

Oh, they’d probably think I was just grieving.

Mia would say to Lola to let me sound off, advise her to make murmuring, reassuring noises at me while I did and then tell me that they’d give me however long I needed to get my writing back on track.

But they could say all that in neon lights, on printed T-shirts and hire out Wembley Stadium with a marching band. It was no good.

I forced my eyes open.

Cars were drifting backwards and forwards out of the parking spaces. Small children were squealing at their parents that they needed the bathroom.

I decided I’d had enough of trying to explain myself for now and switched my mobile off again.

I dropped it back inside my bag on the passenger seat and stretched my arm over to pat Bronte.

She’d demolished her chew stick and was sitting upright on her blanket, like one of those Chinese waving cat ornaments.

‘Okay, poppet,’ I sighed, switching the key in the ignition. ‘Time to hit the road again.’

* * *

Durham, Newcastle, Edinburgh; they all zipped past in a cacophony of houses, retail parks, dew-tipped fields, the Angel of the North, tantalising glimpses of Edinburgh Castle and its stunning, craggy, grey stone facade, before Bronte and I finally reached Rowan Bay.

It was as if the last twenty-four-hour drive had happened to someone else.

Bone crunching weariness criss-crossed with a strange sense of relief.

Bronte was slumbering, in the back seat of the car, as we approached the brown tourist sign proclaiming that we’d arrived in Rowan Bay.

There were pine trees lacing each side of the road before they petered out to reveal a swell of water to the left, rippling silver in the early afternoon autumn light. Beyond that, magnificent sharp rocks erupted at every turn, making their way down to the water’s edge.

I drove on, for another couple of miles, until the centre of Rowan Bay opened out to reveal its myriad bijoux shops.

There were the usual seaside-type gift shops, selling everything from miniatures of the local lighthouse and postcards, to shell ornaments and even Rowan Bay clotted fudge. There was also the usual sprinkle of small, local supermarkets and newsagents.

Pictures of my grandparents and me meandering up this street, savouring ice cream cones, filtered through my mind like an old movie.