Chapter Twenty
H er Edinburgh flat was like a hotel room. Temporary, sterile, half-lived in. The walls were nondescript Magnolia that wiped out any trace of personality. A generic floor lamp cast a harsh light over the room. In the kitchen corner, the spotless stove made it all look staged, as if it were waiting for the next tenant. Nothing here was Trish’s. Merely borrowed space.
Not even twinkly lights on the twenty-third of December.
Outside Trish’s small bay window, Edinburgh’s New Town stretched out in dark, brooding rows, all those grand Georgian facades looking down their stone noses, polished windows closed up tight as a drum. A snowy drizzle clung to the street, turning the cobblestones slick as mirrors, catching just enough streetlight to make it eerie rather than charming.
Trish sat on the floor, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. The faint, stale smell of cardboard lingered in the cold air. Her gear lay around her like fallen soldiers. The Leica she’d bought herself as a graduation present. The vintage Polaroid from her dad. The lens Jack had held for her that afternoon in the garden.
Stop it.
Since she wasn’t going anywhere, she grabbed another box and ripped off the tape with more force than necessary. Inside, her photography books nestled together like old friends. Cartier-Bresson. Adams. Man Ray. Leibovitz. Masters of their craft who’d never compromised their vision.
Unlike her.
Trish’s phone chimed. An email from Seraphina, probably.
‘Fuck you and your Highland fantasy bullshit,’ Trish muttered, echoing Jack’s words. They still burned, even a week later. But he’d been right, hadn’t he? That’s exactly what Wanderlust had wanted – some twee, romanticised version of Scotland. Tartan and snow and shortbread and men in kilts and a sexy postie.
God, she missed him.
His terrible jokes that landed like lead balloons but somehow still triggered her involuntary snort-laugh. How he brought her food when he thought she hadn’t eaten. How he’d helped her with her work. The way his bass became an extension of his hands. And that look in his eyes whenever he talked about his kids, a little dazed, like he still couldn’t believe how these incredible humans had happened to him. The way his words filled those small cracks of self-doubt she tried to keep hidden.
Emotion packed itself into her windpipe, part sob, part barbed wire.
The next box held her winter clothes. A soft grey jumper tumbled out – the one she’d worn that night at Hazelbrae. It still smelled faintly of wood smoke and spiced punch. Of Jack.
‘Get it together, Patricia.’
Trish tucked the jumper back in the box. The next one held old photo albums and small cases of printed photos. She poured them out onto the carpet, unwilling to face the fallout of her decision.
Her laptop sat on the kitchen counter. The Wanderlust email chain glowed on the screen. Seraphina’s ultimatum had been clear: either deliver the Highland fantasy they’d commissioned or consider the contract void.
So Trish had done what any self-respecting artist would do.
She’d told them to get fucked.
Well, professionally. With a baroque symphony of words about artistic integrity and authentic representation. But the message had been the same: take the real Scotland she’d captured or nothing at all.
They’d chosen nothing. And made sure everyone in their circle knew about her ‘difficult attitude’ and ‘inability to meet client briefs.’
Her phone had stopped ringing altogether. The industry wasn’t kind to photographers who bit the hand that fed them.
Smart career move, that. Really showed them. Two years of building a reputation gone in one principled email. And now, she could barely afford rent. If she didn’t land another job soon, she’d be pouring flat whites in a café just to scrape by. But every time she looked at those photos – the real Kilcranach, the real people – Trish knew she couldn’t have done it any other way.
She’d rather shoot third-class weddings in Edinburgh for the rest of her life. Even if it meant being right and broke instead of wrong and well-paid.
Now, here she was, still starting over. No big break in sight. She’d torpedoed her career. At least she had principles, right? She couldn’t stomach flattening Kilcranach into tourist bait. To turn Jack and the others into Highland caricatures. To package up their lived reality into something fake and marketable.
Her phone quivered against the carpet. Marla’s name lit up the screen.
(MARL 19:52) How’s the flat? Missing you xx
Trish’s fingers hovered over the keys. How to explain that Edinburgh felt like a hollow replica? That she kept expecting to hear Gwen’s laugh floating up from the pub or smell Mrs Bellbottom’s shortbread? That every damn Royal Mail van kept making her heart do this stupid, traitorous little leap?
She typed: ‘Flat’s fine. Miss you too.’
Delete.
Start over.
Story of her fucking life.
Trish sprawled on her living room floor, photos on her screen. Each one a story. Each one a piece of her heart. Thumbnails cascaded across the screen. She scrolled through them slowly and scanned the images, a small smile playing on her lips.
Then she saw them. The ones she’d forgotten about. The ones Jack had taken of her. Trish’s hand froze. She clicked on the first one, her lungs seizing like a spluttering projector as it filled the screen.
It was her, naked, lying on the bed in the castle. Like some Renaissance painting gone rogue, every vulnerability exposed in unapologetic detail. Her first instinct was to slam the laptop shut, pretend none of this existed. But she forced herself to look, to really see. Her eyes traced the curve of her own body, the way her hair spilled across the pillow, the way her lips were slightly parted.
She clicked to the next one. This time, she was grinning, her hand reaching out to him as if to pull him into the frame with her. She remembered that moment, the way he’d made her laugh, the way he’d made her feel so… all-around okay.
Trish kept clicking, each image peeling back another layer of that night. There was a tenderness in these shots that made her throat tight. She saw the happiness in her eyes, the contentment in her smile. She saw a woman who was adored, who was seen, truly seen, by the man behind the camera. A woman who felt safe enough to be herself.
Her body told a different story than the one she’d been telling herself for months.
Trish’s heart swelled, a warmth spreading through her chest. She reached out, her fingers skimming the lines of her own body on the screen, as if she could touch the happiness, the beauty, the love that radiated from the image.
How had they lost this? Somehow, they’d ended up here – her in Edinburgh, him in Kilcranach, with nothing but silence between them. Had it happened when she’d talked about maybe staying? The way his face had shuttered for a second? Or when she’d hesitated to tell him about the Wanderlust thing? Tears bled the images into watercolour ghosts. She’d had something real, something rare, and she’d let fear poison it. They both had.
Her phone lit up. Not a text, an unannounced call. Like in the Middle Ages.
‘I’m staging an intervention,’ Marla announced without preamble.
‘Hello to you, too.’ Trish adjusted her glasses. ‘No need. I’m fine.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Really, I’m—’
‘If you say “fine” one more time, I swear to God…’ Marla’s voice crackled through the speaker. ‘I had a very interesting chat with Niall.’
A stone dropped in Trish’s stomach. ‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, oh. Apparently, Jack’s been playing like a tone-deaf orangutan.’
‘That’s…specific.’
‘You’re both miserable.’ Marla’s tone grew soft. ‘And you’re both too stubborn to admit it.’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘No, quantum physics is complicated. This is just you being a silly cow…ard.’
The truth of it seared along her nerve endings. ‘I’m not—’
‘Remember what you told me?’ Marla cut in. ‘When I was too locked in my own damn pride to admit my feelings for Niall?’
Trish’s neck prickled with a slow, burning awareness. ‘That was different.’
‘Was it? Let me quote you: “I’m not your friend only to tell you what you want to hear. Sometimes I have to tell you the things you need to hear. Even if you don’t like it”.’
‘Using my own words against me?’
‘Hey, if it works.’ Marla paused. ‘Talk to me, Trish. What’s really going on?’
Trish’s fingers traced the edge of a photo on her screen – Jack in his Santa suit, eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘I… After Marc…’
‘What about Marc?’
‘It wasn’t just the breakup itself.’ The words came slowly, like pulling teeth. ‘Ten years of shrinking myself to fit into his narrow view of who I should be. I muted my voice, dulled my ambitions, and avoided anything that might challenge his fragile ego. And the second I finally started to reclaim myself, to shine a little, he walked away. That’s what broke me. Not just losing a relationship but having lost myself. The whole thing wrecked my optimism.’
‘Oh, love. I know. We’re taught to make ourselves small, to be palatable. To apologise for taking up space, for wanting, for being anything more than a supporting character in someone else’s narrative. It’s a kind of violence, what relationships like that do. They don’t just break your heart; they fracture your sense of self. And rebuilding? That takes more courage than most people understand.’
‘Yeah. And Jack…saw me.’ The syllables wrestled with each other. ‘That day at the opening, when everyone else was celebrating or dealing with the chaos, he found me. Or I found him. And he just…got it. No questions, no judgment. Only understanding. We talked and laughed, and it felt like a never-ending hug.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
A rough laugh clawed its way out. ‘The problem is, I’m terrified of messing it up. Of ruining everything – his life, my life, your life…’
‘My life?’ Marla’s words bristled with sudden confusion. ‘What the hell are you on about?’
‘You’ve built something amazing there, Marl. This community, your business with Hazelbrae. If Jack and I tried and it went wrong…’
‘Oh my God.’ Marla’s laughter burst through the phone. ‘You absolute muppet.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You think I care about that?’ Marla’s voice wobbled between laughter and tears. ‘Trish, babes, I’d be over the moon if you and Jack got together. Even if you fucked it up spectacularly.’
‘But—’
‘No buts. I was only worried because Jack’s been hurt before. And so have you. Very recently, might I add. That’s relationship quicksand. But listen to me. This place? It’s built on messy relationships and complicated histories. Small-town life, what can you do? Mrs Bellbottom used to have a secret fling with Hamish’s sister. Linda’s first husband runs the football club. And don’t get me started on the great sheep-farming feud of ’98.’
‘That’s different—’
‘It’s the same.’ Marla’s voice turned fierce. ‘Being human with other humans is always messy. That’s what makes it special. We don’t exist in a vacuum. We exist with each other. We fuck up, we make up.’
‘I’m panicking,’ Trish murmured.
‘Good.’ Marla’s voice softened. ‘That means it matters.’
‘But what if—’
‘Stop. Stop trying to be perfect. Stop hiding behind your camera. Life isn’t a magazine spread or a shoot, Trish. It’s chaotic and complicated, and sometimes it hurts. But it’s worth it.’
Trish blinked hard, but the tears spilled over. ‘I think I pushed him away.’
‘No, you both pushed each other away. Because you’re both afraid of the same thing – being seen and then judged for not being enough. That’s a deadlock if ever there was one.’ Marla paused. ‘In the time I’ve known Jack, I’ve never seen him smile like he smiles at you. Now stop being an idiot and talk to him.’
Her advice landed like a stone in a pond, rippling outward.
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Don’t overthink. Love you!’
‘Love you, too.’
The call ended, and silence pressed against Trish’s skin as she sat surrounded by moments she’d captured but been too afraid to live.
Her laptop stood on the coffee table, cursor blinking on a blank email. She should write to him. Explain everything.
No. She didn’t have his e-mail address.
I could ask Marla and Niall… Not tonight.
Trish opened her old punk playlist. If she was going to have an emotional breakdown being eaten alive by her doubts and fears, she might as well have the right soundtrack.
Maybe a simple text…
Hey Jack
Delete.
Hi. What’s up?
Delete.
I’m sorry…
Delete.
Hours ticked by. The sky outside her window deepened from dark grey to deep purple. Street lights cast long shadows across her floor as she paced, phone in hand, thumb hovering over his number.
Tomorrow. She’d call him tomorrow. Or the day after. Probably after Christmas.
She lay on the floor amid the scattered photos, letting The Clash fill her flat with raw, honest anger. The music matched her mood, all rebellion and yearning and fear wrapped in electric guitar.
Ten o’clock. Eleven. Midnight crept past.
The cursor kept blinking. The blank email stayed blank. Her courage stayed buried under layers of what-ifs and maybes.
One in the morning found her still there, surrounded by memories captured in print but not lived.
The doorbell rang.
Trish froze. One in the morning. Nothing good ever came from doorbells at one in the morning.