Chapter 2
Chapter Two
‘P ortree! We’re here, lass!’
My eyelids shot open and I let out a sharp scream at the coach driver’s moon-like face, which was bearing down on me from the aisle.
He made a chortling noise, which sounded like a gurgling drain. ‘Come on now, Sleeping Beauty.’
I squirmed myself upright in my seat and reached for my bag beside me. ‘Thank you.’
Peering through the coach window, I could just about make out the silhouette of a harbour, with several houses painted in ice cream colours, strung along on the opposite side of the road. Little boats were moored, wriggling around in the heavy mist.
It was supposed to be the start of spring next month, only you wouldn’t think it, looking out over the landscape. My heart felt like a balloon deflating.
I buried myself deeper into my coat as the driver fetched my wheelie case from the side of the coach.
All the other passengers had already vanished, so it was just me and the driver, who I’d just noticed from his lapel badge, was called Rory.
There was the odd piece of traffic making its way along the main street and an inquisitive gull flitting through the afternoon pea souper, but no one else seemed to be around at the moment.
The masts of the boats let out eerie creaks as they rocked on the surface of the water.
I gripped the handle of my wheelie case tighter.
Rory glanced over his shoulder at me, as he proceeded to clamber back into the driver’s side. ‘You alright, lass?’
I gawped around myself at the empty car park with increasing irritation. I hadn’t expected a huge welcoming party, with brass band and streamers, but at least one person here to greet me would’ve been nice.
‘Yes. I’m fine, thanks,’ I managed.
Rory frowned, not looking like he believed me. ‘Well, as long as you’re sure? You’ll find Skye to be a very welcoming community.’
I tapped my feet to keep warm and managed a smile. Yes, I’m struggling to wade through the throng of people here to welcome me right now , I thought to myself.
He raised one hand, giving me a military-style salute, before wheeling the coach around and disappearing out onto the main road. I gave him an awkward wave back, as I watched the rear lights vanish like amber pin pricks.
Great. Just great.
Here I was, on my lonesome, on the Isle of Skye, swathed in mist like something out of a horror movie and with only an arrogant seagull for company.
I unzipped the pocket on the front of my wheelie case and dragged out the ‘itinerary’ Justine’s assistant, Brandy, had emailed me last week. It was all rather sketchy and sounded a bit boring; lots of fresh air and traipsing around.
Justine had explained that her editor friend, Primrose, at Caldwell Publishing had been on a business trip to the States and was only just back, so I’d receive more details about what was involved, who would be my guide etc., once she recovered a bit more from her jet lag.
I squinted around myself again and then up at the gun-metal sky.
Dear God.
Three weeks of freezing my tits off! How the hell was I going to get through this?!
I yanked my sparkly pink beret out of my coat pocket and clamped it on.
I glowered down at the itinerary papers again, the brisk sea air buffeting my cheeks.
I knew I hadn’t imagined it. According to this, I was supposed to be met at the coach by the glamorous-sounding Iona Carrington from PR firm, Skye’s The Limit.
I frowned. I’d never heard of them. Since entering into the realm of social media influencing, I’d got to know rather a lot of the PR and marketing companies, but Skye’s The Limit didn’t ring any bells.
I scowled out from under my beret. Where the hell was she?
I hopped from foot to foot, hoping my eyelids wouldn’t freeze shut. There was still no sign of anyone, just the odd throb of cars trundling along the road and the gentle slosh of the waves on the shingle.
My heart lurched with a sudden longing for London buses, stony-faced commuters and shiny windowed boutiques. Why had I ever agreed to do this job? Well, I didn’t actually agree to it, I realised. Justine had basically told me in no uncertain terms that I was doing it.
I dumped my shoulder bag down by my feet and plucked out my mobile phone. If this Iona Carrington didn’t arrive within the next few minutes, I would be making a very irate phone call to my agent.
My fingers zinged with cold, so I searched around in my coat pocket for my gloves. Relieved to find them, I wriggled my hands in and dashed off a quick text to my aunt and uncle, saying I’d arrived safely and would chat later. That’s if I wasn’t admitted to A an Iona?—’
‘Carrington,’ supplied the young woman, her face etched with awkwardness. ‘Aye, I know. She’s me. I mean, I’m her.’
I stared down again at her dowdy clothes and then back up at her flushed face, stripped of make-up.
This was Iona Carrington? No. It couldn’t be.
I opened and closed my mouth. ‘You’re from Skye’s The Limit Public Relations?’
‘Aye. That’s me.’
I struggled to find some words and tried not to let my gaze linger on her old jeans. ‘Oh. Right.’
Iona reached for the handle of my case and proceeded to tug it along.
I hitched my bag further up my shoulder and hurried to keep up with her.
We were walking? She hadn’t brought a car? Or a chauffeur?
‘Have you ever been to Skye before?’ she called into the mist from over her shoulder.
Her cheery voice hauled my attention back. ‘What?! Are you joking? No!’ I realised I’d sounded sharp. ‘Sorry, I mean. No, I haven’t. This is my first time.’ And hopefully my last if I have anything to do with it.
She flashed me a shy smile. ‘It isn’t always like this. When the sun shines, it’s spectacular.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I murmured into the sea air.
She jerked her head back at the pastel-coloured houses nestled near the harbour. ‘They’re one of the reasons why Portree’s so famous. You’ll see them in so many photographs of the place.’
I tightened the belt around my coat.
‘So how long have you worked in PR?’
Iona negotiated my wheelie case out of the car park. Her expression flooded with colour again. ‘Och, a little while.’
My brows furrowed. ‘So, who were you with before?’
‘Before?’
I kept pace with her as the traffic lights flickered to green. ‘Which PR agency did you work with before you set up on your own?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Didn’t what?’
‘I didn’t work in public relations before.’
An icy sliver of worry pierced my chest. I drew up outside a gift shop, its window display bursting with cuddly Highland cattle, Isle of Skye tartan lambswool scarves and cute Skye Terrier mugs.
Iona clung to the black handle of my case. ‘This is my first foray into PR.’ Her green eyes shifted everywhere except towards me.
My morbid curiosity was firing on all cylinders. I tried to stem my growing tide of dread. She wasn’t experienced in public relations? At all? I gave her a suspicious glance. ‘What did you work as before?’
Iona pushed on with my case, leading me up a winding side street. ‘A lifeguard.’
I almost let out a bark of laughter. Was I trapped in some sort of weird social experiment? Or perhaps I was in one of those prank TV shows? ‘A lifeguard?!’
‘Aye. Well, that was in between helping my brother out in his shop.’ She set her shoulders and tried to exude more confidence. ‘So, I’m used to dealing with people.’
A hot lava of disbelief flowed over me.
Jesus.
This just got better and better.
All I wanted to do was spirit myself back to London.
‘Where’s my hotel?’ I sighed, struggling not to dwell on my situation. ‘I hope it has a spa.’
Iona rattled on, past a bow-windowed shop selling Skye sea-salted chocolate and demerara shortbread. She swallowed. ‘A spa?’
‘Yes. You know, somewhere I can maybe get a massage and a facial.’
She picked up a sharper pace.
The bite of the wind and the combination of the clinging mist made me think I could freeze to death on the spot if I didn’t keep moving, so I swiftly moved to catch up with her. ‘I think I’m staying at a hotel called The Gorse?’
Iona dropped her head and pushed on. She didn’t look at me as she admitted, ‘The Gorse isn’t a hotel, Ms Freeman. It’s a bed and breakfast.’
I screeched to a horrified halt behind her. ‘A bed and breakfast?’
Iona pushed a loose blonde hair away from her flustered face; she was looking as frazzled as I felt. ‘Aye. It’s just up the lane here.’ She examined my stricken expression. ‘Did you not take a look at the place online before you came here?’
‘No,’ I ground out. ‘I didn’t have time.’
Iona moved off again, her red coat the only splash of colour in the gloomy haze. Was this bloody mist ever going to lift?
‘So, it doesn’t have a spa then? Or a beauty salon? What about a nail bar?’
Iona’s mouth broke into a grin. ‘At The Gorse? Goodness me, no. It’s not big enough to swing a cat in there.’
When Iona noticed my crest-fallen expression, her smile evaporated.
She let out a self-conscious cough and scurried on with my case, leading me to the right of the road. ‘But it has won numerous hospitality awards over the years,’ she offered.
The Gorse bed and breakfast was crouched between the local hairdressers and a haberdashery and was a lime green pebble-dashed painted affair. The windowsills were white and the yellow and cream tartan curtains inside peeked out, completing the look.
Good God. If I didn’t have a migraine when I arrived, I did now.
A wood and gold painted sign proclaiming The Gorse Bed and Breakfast creaked over our heads.
A biting fury enveloped me. Wait until I get back to London. Brandy would be getting it in the neck from me. I bet she’d been sitting behind that oval glass desk of hers, laughing into her Stella McCartney shirt sleeve when she’d booked me into this liquorice allsort!
Avoiding my disappointed stare, Iona negotiated my wheelie case up the few steps and cranked open the frosted white door.
A blast of warm air hit us in the face, as we headed into reception.
There was an old mahogany writing bureau on the right in the navy-carpeted hall, on top of which sat a lit fringed lamp. On the left was a short, steep staircase.
Further down from the cherry-wood reception desk and to the right, was the empty dining room. There were jugs of heather on each of the circular tables, cushioned chairs, and paintings of fishing boats and castle ruins running along the pale lemon walls.
A slim, older woman with layered, short, silver hair appeared, followed by another younger woman with a throaty laugh and modern, quaffed dark hair.
‘I’m Julie Allwood, and this is my mum, Kathleen.’ The younger woman beamed from behind her trendy, dark-framed spectacles. ‘Welcome to The Gorse. We’re the owners of this place. It’s very nice to have you.’
‘Thank you,’ I said through a rictus grin. At least they were very friendly and welcoming.
‘You’re here with us for the next three weeks, is that correct?’ said Kathleen, clapping her hands together in a decisive fashion.
Lucky me! groaned the voice inside my head.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Julie darted behind the reception desk and tapped at the computer’s keyboard. ‘You’re in guest room four, Ms Freeman.’ She dived one hand under the desk and retrieved my room key, passing it over.
I studied what she’d handed me: a large silver key suspended from a plastic, oblong keyring. Even my goddam key looked like something out of a horror movie. Suitable for locking up victims in dungeons, perhaps.
‘Your room is up the stairs and just along on the right,’ bubbled Julie. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful stay.’
I doubted that very much, but forced a wane smile nonetheless.
Iona led the way, hoisting my case up the flight of stairs. She puffed as she negotiated the incline. ‘My goodness, this is rather heavy.’
I threw her an embarrassed look. ‘I didn’t know what to bring clothes-wise, so threw in an assortment.’
‘Anything warm and waterproof is best at this time of year.’
I pulled a face as she turned away, giving me a view of the back of her haphazard ponytail. ‘Warm and waterproof’ sounded horrific, conjuring as it did the image of practical outerwear with no hint of fashion in sight.
We reached room four, and I slid the dungeon key into the lock. It required a bit of a wriggle around, but with a little effort, the door sprang open to reveal my accommodation.
It consisted of a double bed, topped with a couple of lemon and ice blue cushions and a small ensuite bathroom dotted with lighthouse and boat ornaments.
More paintings of the sea and water-lashed rocks decorated the walls.
If we both held our breath, we could just about fit in.
Iona deposited my case on the floor at the foot of the bed while I looked around despondently.
Sensing my dark mood, Iona sidled towards the door to make a sharp exit. ‘Well, I’ll give you peace to get settled, Ms Freeman. I’ll be back about two o’clock with Arran and we can get going with the photos.’
I flopped down onto the edge of the bed, dejected, and tossed my beret behind me. I snapped my head round, realising what she’d said. ‘Sorry? What photos?’ All I wanted to do was drown myself in a bucket of hot tea and sleep for the next ten hours. ‘And who’s Arran?’
‘Arran McColl. The photographer. He’ll be taking the photos of you modelling the jewellery.’ She frowned at me. ‘You know, from Stars in the Skye jewellery? Your agent, Justine Carrow…’
‘Carew,’ I sighed. ‘Justine Carew.’
‘Och. Right. Yes. Sorry. Well, she emailed me this morning to say you’d be happy to pose in a few of their designs and put the photos on your social media.’
I felt blurred at the edges. The endless coach journey and doll’s house bed and breakfast were beginning to take their toll. ‘Fine. OK.’
I threw myself backwards on the bed, crumpling its neat, nautical bedding. I was still wearing my heavy coat. ‘What time are the make-up artist and hairdresser arriving?’
Iona gulped. ‘Pardon?’
‘For this jewellery photo shoot? When are hair and make-up going to be here?’
When Iona’s face heated up and she didn’t reply, I shot up from the bed, like the monster in Frankenstein after receiving ten thousand volts. ‘You haven’t booked anyone?’
A flood of deeper colour enveloped Iona’s creamy white skin. ‘Oh no…’ She looked like she wanted to evaporate on the spot. ‘I forgot. I know it isn’t a good excuse, but it’s been so hectic setting up Skye’s The Limit PR and helping out my brother in his shop.’
Despite her error, I found I actually felt sorry for her. She looked on the verge of dissolving into tears. ‘Can’t some of your staff help you out? How many people do you employ? You need to delegate, Iona.’
She became fascinated by the cushions on the bed. ‘I don’t have any staff. At least not yet. It’s a one-woman operation at the moment.’ She fumbled with the end of her ponytail. ‘But I have lots of flair and enthusiasm, Ms Freeman. Anyway, cheerio, and see you back here in about an hour at two o’clock. Justine mentioned you’re a dab hand with the make-up brush so hopefully it won’t be too difficult for you to get yourself ready.’
I started to hyperventilate as she shot out the door in a panicked blur of red.
Burying a blood curdling scream, I hurled myself back on top of the bed again.
What the hell had I got myself involved with up here?!
Justine and Brandy had a lot of explaining to do.