Chapter 3
Chapter Three
O nce Iona vanished, I rustled up a cup of tea with the kettle in my room, and cradled it as I peered out of the window.
The steel grey mist didn’t seem to be lifting. It was like a blanket, wrapping itself around everything.
Bloody hell! I didn’t see how this photographer would be able to take great images of me decked out in jewellery in this weather. I’d have to make sure I captured some close-up, arty images of the pieces for my own social media.
I whirled away from the craggy harbour, which I could just about see from my guest room window, and let out a morose sigh at my reflection in the dressing table mirror.
My dark brown eyes blazed back at me, complete with shadows of tiredness smudged underneath, while my straightened hair was threatening to morph into its natural curls.
After gulping down the rest of my tea, I stepped into the shower and blasted myself with a stream of hot water. Then I fired my hair up into a high ponytail and re-applied my make-up. Seeing as Iona hadn’t booked the services of a beautician or hair stylist, that would have to do.
Then I rummaged around inside my case, wondering what to put on.
I frowned towards the window, framed by lemon and blue curtains, and the miserable mist outside. At this rate, I should’ve packed fur-lined knickers and thermals. Goodness knows what Iona had arranged for me to wear for this promo. That was if she’d remembered to co-ordinate something.
It all seemed to be going tits up already and I’d only just got here. Nice of Justine to have informed me I had this jewellery promo almost immediately after stepping off the coach. No doubt she hadn’t wanted to tell me because she knew I was still pissed at her for making me come here in the first place.
I threw on my claret jeans and long-sleeved polo-neck top and got lost in my phone. River Banks had posted new photos of herself languishing by some Cypriot swimming pool plugging the new Techno mobile.
I was busy cursing her under my breath, thinking how unfair it was that I was stuck here while her shoulders looked more sun-kissed by the second, when there was a hesitant rap on the door.
I opened it to be met by the pale-faced Iona and a jolly-looking giant of a guy in a black anorak. He was armed with assorted photography equipment and reminded me of a big, red-haired puppy.
Iona introduced him to me as Arran.
‘Ready to be decked out like a Christmas tree, Ms Freeman?’ His accent was a brisk, warm, Scottish rumble.
‘Sorry?’
‘With the jewellery from Sparkles in the Skye? We’re all so awfy proud that Iona here managed to secure your services.’
‘Well, I didn’t exactly,’ bumbled a flushed Iona. ‘Ms Freeman’s agent is a friend of a friend of one of the owners of Sparkles in the Skye and…’
‘Yes, all very fascinating,’ I remarked. Even though I’d already styled my hair and done my make-up I asked for a couple more minutes for a final touch-up. I grabbed my bag, camera and phone and reached for the bright pink waterproof that was in my case. I slipped it on and jammed the phone into the back pocket of my jeans. I just wanted to get this over with.
Once outside The Gorse bed and breakfast, I found myself being led back down the cobbled lane, towards the harbour.
‘What will I be wearing?’ I asked Iona, trying not to show my apprehension.
Iona puffed out her chest with pride, reminding me of a little robin in her coat. ‘Oh, that’s all in hand. I liaised with Sparkles in the Skye and we agreed on an outfit for you.’ She pointed one finger up ahead towards the car park. ‘It’s hanging up in there, waiting for you.’
The slosh of the waves could be heard almost as much as the nervous, frantic drumming in my ears as I took in an old black and white transit van. Skye’s The Limit PR had been painted in silver along the side of it, with the caption Release your Potential – the Skye’s the Limit! emblazoned underneath.
Looking very pleased with themselves, Iona and Arran swapped smug smiles.
Iona clanked open the double doors of the van to reveal a cream garment bag swinging from a rail.
Arran started setting up his equipment and exchanging cheery pleasantries with the odd local strolling past.
‘The selected pieces of jewellery are in here,’ Iona said, gesturing to a black leather case with three drawers. ‘They’re the newest designs they’d like you to promote.’
I reached for the swinging suit carrier and tugged it from the van rail, stepping away from the vehicle. ‘So, where do I get changed?’
Iona’s smile faltered and I followed her widening sea-green eyes back towards the van.
No. She was joking. She must be.
I gulped back a ball of disbelief. ‘You aren’t serious? You want me to get changed for a photo shoot in the back of this thing? It looks like it should be condemned.’
‘Well, it’s either that or you’ll be standing starkers in the middle of Portree,’ piped up Arran.
The very thought made my Londinium skin bristle with panic.
I swore I would disembowel Justine and Brandy. At the same time. With a teaspoon and no anaesthetic. For twenty-four hours straight. And pissing well record the whole thing and post it for the world to see.
This whole trip was turning out to be a disaster from start to finish. I’d already been faced with amateurish, shoddy and chaotic planning and I’d only just arrived. Not to mention the sodding weather!
Arran grinned at me, which only infuriated me even more.
Iona studied her walking boots.
I peered into the van. Well, what was I going to do? Either I got inside this hell hole or I stripped off in the middle of Portree and gave everybody an eyeful.
Gathering my resolve, I clambered inside and clanged the van doors shut behind me.
Here I was, hunched over in the back of a dingy transit in Scotland, while River shitting Banks was swanning around the Mediterranean. I pushed raging, jealous thoughts about River aside.
The interior of the van was dark, but I could make out a couple of white and silver dream catchers dangling from the rearview mirror. A miniature cuddly toy of Minnie Mouse was propped up at the corner of the windscreen. I could also smell a scent like fresh washing. I suspected Iona had been around the interior of the vehicle, spraying something pleasant to try and make a sow out of a proverbial pig’s ear.
I gathered my resolve and began throwing off my waterproof, jeans and polo-neck. If I took too long, I’d be in danger of freezing to death.
I yanked down the zip on the suit hanger to reveal the outfit but all I could make out in the gloom were glimpses of sparkly silver.
I took the garment and slid it over my head and it slithered down my body like a waterfall. It felt OK. At least that was something.
It had a sequinned belt, so I fumbled around and managed to tie that. Over in the corner of the back of the van was a pair of pale ballet pumps, so I put them on. I gave my ponytail a flick and jerked open the double doors of the van again.
Iona and Arran were chatting and upon hearing my tapping feet, they stopped and whirled round.
A car—now empty of driver and any passengers—had just parked up next to the van and I caught a glimpse of myself in its windows as I shuffled past.
I froze.
What the hell?! I looked like a turkey, ready for cooking on Christmas Day!
On closer inspection and in full daylight, the dress appeared to have been made out of an old tablecloth, with tin foil layered over the top of it. It had short, puffy sleeves—not conducive to this weather—and a frilly hem.
I hoisted up the abomination, stricken with embarrassment, but Iona was enthralled.
‘Oh Ms Freeman. You look wonderful.’
I gulped, gesturing the length of me. I seemed to have lost the ability to speak.
‘Aye. You look like a shooting star,’ added Arran.
‘I do so want to slaughter someone,’ I ground out through my teeth. I raised one incensed finger and pointed at what I was wearing, but Iona ignored me and darted past, back towards the van, to retrieve the jewellery.
‘We need to shake a leg,’ announced Arran, examining his chunky wristwatch. ‘Time is money and I’ve got a photo shoot at the fish farm in half an hour.’
My eyes glittered with suppressed rage. Nice to know his priorities were a couple of Scottish salmon and a sprat.
A couple of teenage boys in school uniform sauntered past. One noticed me, elbowed the other one and they both sniggered.
I flapped my hands. ‘Alright. Alright. Just please let’s get on with this.’
Iona hurried back towards me clutching a tray, out of which were jutting a couple of pairs of studded thistle design earrings in copper; another pair of wild birds in hammered silver and two Celtic rings in white gold.
They were stunning. Thank goodness for small mercies.
I chose the thistle earrings first and one of the rings and Arran began to arrange me on a nearby rock close to the harbour. He fanned out the hem of my hideous dress.
I had goose pimples exploding up my arms, but I jammed my lips together. Just get on with it, Darcie. Think of the book advance. Get through this and then you never have to see this place again.
Arran danced around in front of me, whilst bemused onlookers stopped with their shopping trolleys and cameras to take in the sight of the young woman wearing tin foil, balanced on a rock like a mermaid.
I pouted and pushed out what I hoped was an attractive smile, as Arran did his best impersonation of Rankin.
He also took shots of my manicured hands against some shells and seaweed Iona found on the harbour shore, with the rings gleaming against my skin.
I was used to other photographers skipping around and taking my picture, but I still had to bite my tongue so I didn’t make any comments about his technique or give unwanted advice. When he was done, I shuffled back to the van to fetch my mobile phone, so I could record and upload some posts about Sparkles in the Skye on my social media channels.
I gave the hem of the dress another fierce tug. I looked like I’d been rescued from the sea and shrouded in one of those foil blankets to stave off the cold.
I located my phone and stuck my head out of the back of the van. The heavy mist was still floating around and layering everything in a grey cloak. ‘Arran, won’t this weather spoil the photos you’ve taken? I know how challenging the atmospherics can be when trying to take photos.’
He shook his head. ‘Och naw. It’ll give them an ethereal, romantic feel.’
My eyebrows rose.
‘Arran here is a fantastic photographer,’ insisted Iona. ‘You wait till you see the finished results.’
Not entirely convinced, I clambered out of the back of the van, rustling for all I was worth. I fiddled with the puff tin foil shoulders of my outfit, cleared my throat and started to record on the harbourside.
‘Hey folks. How’s it all going? How about some new, snazzy and unique jewellery to brighten up your spring? I’ve come to Scotland’s very own Isle of Skye…’
‘Iona. Iona! Sorry to interrupt. You got a minute?’
Oh, for pity’s sake! Someone had cut right across my voice-over.
I stopped recording and whipped my head round to see who the deep male voice that had interrupted me belonged to. ‘Excuse me. Do you mind?! Some of us are trying to work here…’ My voice petered out.
A tall, very handsome man with the lightest eyes I’d ever seen was watching me.
He flashed his canines as he smiled through closely shaven, dark brown stubble. He was, I guessed, in his late thirties, and looked the very definition of rugged and outdoorsy.
I prickled. ‘I was in the middle of recording a post for my many followers.’
He pushed his hands into the pockets of his navy, military-style coat. ‘Sorry about that, but I need to talk to Iona.’
‘Yes, I did gather that by the way you were hollering her name all over the place.’
He flexed one brow, before giving me another wicked smile.
I narrowed my eyes at him and glowered back. I felt self-conscious under his twinkly gaze. ‘Can’t it wait? We’re busy.’
‘What is it? I’m kind of occupied at the moment,’ piped up Iona, glancing over at me with mild panic in her eyes.
‘I don’t suppose you’d be able to mind the shop for an hour?’
‘What? You mean right now?’
‘Well, I don’t mean for Hogmanay.’
‘Sorry,’ I burst in, brandishing my phone in the air, ‘but we’re in the middle of a photo shoot at the moment.’
The man with the light eyes appraised me. ‘I don’t mean to sound rude, Miss, but you seem to be the one being photographed, not Iona.’
‘Well done, Sherlock. Not much gets past you, does it?’ I folded my arms, making the tin foil crackle. ‘But Iona’s co-ordinating this promo.’
His lips twitched with amusement. ‘She doesn’t seem to be doing much at the moment, apart from gossiping with Arran.’
At the mention of his name, Arran stopped fiddling with the lens on his camera and gave a mock salute. ‘It’s yourself! How’s things going?’
‘Aye, not too bad thanks. Keeping the wolf from the door … just.’
As he said the word ‘wolf’, he gave me a brief glance and a small smile.
I could feel myself bristling and pulled my attention away. Talk about full of himself!
‘Can’t Rhona mind the shop?’ asked Iona, looking pained. ‘It’s about time that lass did some real work.’
‘It’s her day off.’ The man sighed. ‘And she has the country dancing regional heats.’
I pointedly stared down at my watch. ‘Look, this is all very fascinating, but I have to?—’
‘I’ll be back soon,’ said Iona, edging away from me. ‘Sorry, Ms Freeman.’
My jaw dropped. ‘What? Where are you going?’
‘Arran here will escort you back to The Gorse when you’re finished.’
I stared from Arran’s bent red head to Iona’s anguished expression. The figure leading her away offered me a flirty smile.
I glowered incredulously after Iona and the light-eyed man as they took off through the mist and across the thrum of the main street.
Arran took a few seconds to pause as he packed away his camera equipment. He nodded at my outfit. ‘I think you might want to take off the foil now. We’re done.’ He gave a mock shiver. ‘I hope you’re enjoying our mild oceanic climate. Because of the impact of the Atlantic Ocean and the gulf stream, the weather can feel cold and a bit unpredictable in these parts at this time of year.’
My cheeks flashed with annoyance. We would’ve been finished even sooner, if Wolverine hadn’t interrupted us.
I climbed back into the rear of the van, almost stumbling over the hem of the dress and pulled off the jewellery, before stashing it back into the leather case.
Bubbling anger spread through me.
What sort of Mickey Mouse set up was this? And why did Justine hate me so much, that she’d despatched me to the wilds of Scotland and leave me at the mercy of the most unprofessional people I’d ever encountered?
To think I could’ve been in the Mediterranean sun right now!