Page 19 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle

‘Our one-year anniversary.’ Harini followed Freya into the bedroom.

Opening a drawer and taking out a pile of underwear, Freya said, ‘I thought you and Coretta had been together longer than a year. Congrats, by the way.’

Harini laughed. ‘No, it just feels like it sometimes – but don’t tell her I said that.’ Her gaze fell on the open suitcase. ‘Of course!’ She slapped a palm to her forehead. ‘It’s the summer holidays, isn’t it? Are you going somewhere nice?’

‘Yes and no.’ Freya dumped the armful of underwear on the bed and began to sort through it. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ll have to miss your party. I’m going to Skye for a while.’

Harini gave her a cautious look. ‘How long is a while, and why don’t you sound happy about it?’

‘It isn’t a holiday, unfortunately. My dad’s broken his hip, so he needs looking after.’

‘Oh, no! I’m sorry. Is he OK?’

‘He will be. He’s in hospital at the moment, but I’m hoping they’ll discharge him soon.’

‘Is that why I haven’t seen you around for a few days?’

Freya nodded. ‘I’ve spent the past week there, and I’m driving back tomorrow. I only popped home to pack.’

‘Would you like a hand?’

‘That’s so sweet of you, but I can manage.’

‘How long do you think you’ll be gone?’

‘I’m praying it won’t be more than a couple of months, but it depends how quickly he recovers.’

‘If there’s anything I can do…?’ Harini said.

Freya stopped what she was doing and gave her a hug. ‘I’m sorry to miss your party.’

‘There’ll be others. You know us – we don’t need an excuse.’

As Freya showed her out, she made a mental note to send the pair some flowers. In fact, she’d order a bouquet now, before she forgot.

While she was choosing a suitable card to go with it, Freya realised that she and Hadrian had been dating for almost two years, but their one-year anniversary had come and gone without so much as a whimper. Maybe neither of them had noticed it because they didn’t actually live together, she mused.

Pausing, a blouse in her hand, Freya pulled a face: the prospect of sharing a home with Hadrian failed to send her into paroxysms of joy. She liked her own company too much, needed her own space. And Hadrian was too fastidious for her liking, which was why he tended not to spend the night at hers, preferring his own penthouse in Dalston. She had to admit that his flat was very nice. Situated in a modern building, it was minimalist and stylish, but what she loved most was the light. Hadrian had turned his spare bedroom into a studio and had paid a fortune to have a hole punched in the roof and a skylight put in. It was a room she seldom entered, as he liked to keep his creative life separate from his private life – something Freya found difficult to understand.

Her creativitywasher life, and vice versa, and she could no more compartmentalise it than she could split herself in half. And that was why Hadrian found her in her studio, when he called to pick her up to go to dinner a couple of hours later.

Despite his reputation, Mack was selective about who he slept with. He didn’t hop into bed with every woman he asked out. There had to be some kind of connection, and this evening, he wasn’t feeling it. The woman’s name was Tori (short for Victoria?), and she was pretty, vivacious and a mature student – if twenty-nine could be called ‘mature’ – doing a degree in marine something-or-other.

Mack felt every one of his thirty-five years this evening, as demonstrated by the suspicion that he was getting too old for putting himself about like a twenty-year-old. It didn’t help that he was stone-cold sober, whereas Tori was necking vodka back like it was going out of fashion.

She was getting steadily plastered and the more alcohol she consumed, the flirtier she became. Mack had nothing against a woman being flirty – heck, he usually encouraged it – but tonight, with the noise and busyness of a rammed Portree pub around him, all he wanted to do was go to bed. On his own.

It was only ten to ten, and the night was still young, but his heart wasn’t in it.

‘Where did you say you were staying?’ he asked, raising his voice to be heard. She’d mentioned it already, but he’d forgotten. When she told him, he realised it was a five-minute walk away.

‘Shall we go?’ he suggested, hoping that once they were outside, she would be happy to call it a night.

‘Let’s have another first. Mine’s a vodka.’ She finished her drink and waggled the glass at him. ‘And why aren’t you drinking?’ She pouted.

‘I’m driving, remember?’

Leaning closer, her lips a hair’s breadth from his ear, she said, ‘Driving where?’

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