Chapter 8
Voss Watch’s main production plant still sat on one of the most picturesque industrial parks I’d ever seen.
Set on the outskirts of Goldloch, the modern estate somehow managed to blend seamlessly with the Highland landscape.
The old Victorian red brick building had been lovingly maintained, its tall windows gleaming in the spring morning light.
Beside it, newer extensions had been sensitively added to accommodate the growing business, the living gardens on their roofs showing a shock of green.
From the car park, the River Ness wound its way towards the loch.
To the left of the main entrance was the tourist pier where the old Ferris wheel sat dormant, waiting for the season to begin.
Katy and I had begged to ride it every summer, spinning slowly above the dark waters while scanning for any sign of Nessie, the Loch Ness monster who was supposed to live below.
When I stepped through Voss’s door, it was like being transported back in time.
The reception area was exactly as I remembered it: polished wooden floors that creaked in all the familiar places, tartan upholstery on the waiting area chairs, and the same framed photographs of Highland landscapes lining cream walls.
There was also the one of Mum and Gran, arm in arm just after Mum took over as CEO, with the caption: Petula Voss with her daughter, Felicity, the future of Voss Watches.
The smell of the machinery drifted through from the factory floor beyond.
The noise. The focus. And there, laughing about something with our receptionist, Leah, was Voss’s heartbeat and Chief Operating Officer, Fiona.
A little older, a little greyer, but still there.
Watching over the company like a guardian angel.
I hadn’t seen her since Mum’s funeral, when I’d collapsed into her. Today, I was stronger, but it still tugged at something inside when she crushed me in a hug. With Fiona, I’d always be eight years old, no matter what time passed.
“My goodness, look at you, all grown up!” She held me at arm’s length and shook her head. “A bonnie wee lassie if ever I saw one.”
Fiona had used the same line every time she saw me my entire life, but it always made me smile. I’d woken up to a message from Katy this morning to tell her hi. She loved her, too. Fiona was our Scottish mother.
“And tartan trousers.” She beamed at my clothing choice. “Your Grannie would be proud.”
“When in Goldloch,” I beamed back. “You’re looking great, as always. Katy says hi. Do you remember Eliza?”
Eliza held out a hand, but Fiona wouldn’t have a bar of it. She hugged her right away.
“Of course I remember Eliza. Your mum showed me some photos of you when she and Felicity came up here together about five years ago. All grown up, too. It’s great to see you.”
She turned back to me. “Margot was on the blower over the weekend, telling me you’d be here to show Eliza around. Who’d have thought the two wee girls from all those summers ago would be in charge some day?”
“I guess it’s always what Mum and Gran intended.” I swallowed down the lump in my throat.
Fiona grasped my arm. She radiated warmth and kindness, but she was equally no-nonsense and business savvy. Her laugh lines spoke of decades spent finding joy in small moments, and when she smiled, her whole face transformed into something that felt like home.
“They’d be so proud you’re here, carrying on the family name. In their absence, I’m proud.”
A tingle went down my spine as Fiona hugged me again, and I swear, for a minute, I got a waft of something familiar. Something floral. Was it Mum’s favourite perfume?
I glanced around over her shoulder, but there was nothing there.
Or maybe there was, but I couldn’t see it.
If Sage were here, she might. Sweat broke out on the back of my neck and my palms. I clenched my fists to regain control.
I couldn’t spend the few days here looking out for actual ghosts.
There were enough hiding around every corner as it was.
“Shall we give you the tour, then we can look at the books? I’ve asked Andrew to have everything ready, and he’s arranged passwords with Simona, so you have it all at your fingertips. Ronnie is joining us just after lunch, too. Got a dentist appointment this morning. Dicky tooth.”
Ronnie was Fiona and her husband Harvey’s second son, and also a key in Voss’s success here.
She rested her fingers on my arm. “I know Margot is keen to sell, and I understand why. But this business? It’s not ailing.
It could do better, but there’s a solid foundation to make that happen.
If you can do anything to keep it in the family, this whole factory would be grateful.
There’s a lot of rumours and understandable nervousness ever since Margot started touring with potential buyers. ”
I glanced at Eliza. “Your Dad’s already been here?”
A bitter pill of reality fizzed through my system. After sharing a room last night and listening to Eliza’s gentle snores, it was easy to forget she worked primarily for her dad, not for Voss.
She gave me a pained look. “I don’t know. He’s been absent for a few weekends, but he didn’t tell me if he did come here, I promise. He and Margot have been away a lot, I lose track of where they’ve been and where they’re going.”
I could just imagine the romantic weekend he and Margot had, followed by promises of the company. I pulled back my shoulders and took a deep breath. Eliza was compromised by her present. I was compromised by our past. Could this relationship ever work?
“Before we do anything else, shall we get a coffee?” Fiona asked.
It was after 5pm when we left the factory.
Without a word, we both headed for the loch, just as we always used to as kids.
The path down was exactly as I remembered.
A dusty track worn smooth by decades of workers’ boots and summer visitors, winding between gorse bushes that caught at my tartan kecks with every step.
“Careful,” Eliza called from behind me. “That bush has it in for your left leg, even if it is cosplaying as a Scottish limb dressed in tartan.”
I turned and gave her a look. “I’m fully Scottish, as is my leg.”
Eliza snorted. “Your trousers definitely are.”
Our shoes kicked up small clouds of dirt with each step, the fine dust settling on everything.
The air smelled of heather and something indefinably Scottish: peat, maybe, or just the particular sweetness that clung to spring afternoons in the Highlands.
As we descended, the sound of the factory faded until all I could hear was our footsteps crunching on the gravelly path and the distant lap of water against the shore.
“It’s like stepping back in time.” I paused to catch my breath and take in the view.
The loch stretched out before us, mirror-still except for the occasional ripple from a fish rising to the surface.
Rolling hills carpeted in purple heather swept down to the water’s edge, and beyond that, mountains peaks were topped with wisps of cloud.
The whole scene looked like something from a postcard, all impossible greens, and blues that seemed too vivid to be real.
“Even that old jetty’s still there.” Eliza pointed to the weathered wooden platform jutting into the water. “Remember when your gran dared us to jump off it that summer? Then she did it, and we couldn’t believe it?”
“We were both still too terrified to do it until the last day.” I smiled at the memory, brushing dust from my trouser leg. “Then we spent the entire afternoon launching ourselves off like tiny cannonballs.”
“Speak for yourself. I was extremely graceful.” But Eliza grinned as she said it, and for a moment she looked exactly like the 14-year-old who’d spent that magical summer convinced she could teach herself to dive.
The closer we got to the water’s edge, the more the years seemed to peel away.
Nothing had changed. Not the stony part of the shore, not the fallen log we’d claimed as our private bench, not even the rope swing that still hung from the old oak tree.
Somebody still used it, because the rope looked far stronger and newer than I remembered.
Without discussion, both of us started scanning the shoreline for the perfect stones. It was automatic, muscle memory from our childhood summers. I crouched down, running my fingers through the smooth pebbles until I found what I was looking for: flat, round, just the right weight in my palm.
“Still going for the tiny ones, I see.” Eliza hefted a stone twice the size of mine.
“Size isn’t everything.” I brushed grit from my knees, enjoying the familiar weight of the stone in my hand. I hoped I remembered how to do it.
A light breeze rippled across the loch’s surface, carrying the distant bleating of sheep from the hills beyond.
“Ladies first,” Eliza said with exaggerated gallantry.
“Who you calling a lady?” But I stepped forward anyway. I drew my arm back, snapped my wrist forward, and my stone kissed the surface once, twice, three times, before disappearing with a soft plop. Not bad.
“Beat that.” I rolled my shoulders back and turned triumphantly, wiping my damp fingers on my trousers.
Eliza stepped up beside me, her shoulder almost brushing mine.
I caught a whiff of her perfume mixed with the dusty heat from our walk down.
She wound up like she was playing a different sport entirely, hurling her stone with considerably more force than finesse.
It hit the water with a loud splash and sank immediately.
“Technique, Eliza. It’s all about technique. I thought you of all people would know that.” I couldn’t hide my grin as I selected another stone. This one was even better: perfectly smooth under my thumb, the right thickness, the right weight distribution.
“Shut up and throw,” she replied, but she was smiling, too.
“I don’t throw,” I told her with a wink. “I finesse.”
The second stone flew from my hand in a low arc, hitting the water at exactly the right angle. One, two, three, four perfect skips before it sank.
“Show off,” Eliza said, but there was warmth in her voice.
In the old days, the prize had been bragging rights to our parents.
I wasn’t sure what the rules were today.
I wasn’t sure of anything where Eliza was concerned.
From being sure she was a robot who hated me, I’d flip-flopped to the fact I’d carried a crush on her half my life, to then thinking she was a spy working for her dad, out to get me.
However now, skimming stones by the loch, we’d relaxed. Her next two shots sunk without trace. Whereas mine skimmed the surface with fluid elegance. She tried a couple more times, then sunk onto our familiar log, a frown on her face.
“Turns out, I’m not always good with my hands.”
I grinned. “Not what the graffiti in the club toilets claims.”
Her laugh echoed around the loch.
“Dammit, I thought I rubbed that off.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the breeze caress our faces.
“This is so different from our usual lives. Less hustle. No bustle.” Eliza leaned back, spreading her hands on the log behind her. “I used to think that as a kid, and I always thought it was strange. Now, as an adult, I’m wondering if it’s the key to a good life.”
I snorted. “You’d never hack it. You thrive on corporate life, and what would you do without your Pret coffee?
Jetting off places, doing deals.” I swept an arm.
“Trust me, the only deal happening around here is Marcus — Fiona’s eldest who runs our pub — negotiating with his wife Val for a lads’ weekend in exchange for her getting a girls’ trip next month. Pure negotiation genius.”
Eliza stretched out her long legs and stared at her chunky green loafers. She tucked her hair behind her right shoulder, then turned her gaze to me.
“You’re probably right,” she said. “I’m too far into the game to drop out now. But imagine living here? What a different life we’d lead. Did you see Fiona’s skin? I couldn’t believe it when she told us she just turned 65. And not a hint of retiring.”
The thought had crossed my mind when she told us her age. “I hope not.” She couldn’t: Fiona was eternal.
“Whatever they put in the water clearly agrees with her.”
I knew what she meant. As soon as I got off the train at Goldloch, it was like we’d stepped into another universe. Life here moved at a different pace.
Eliza dug both hands into her trousers. “It hasn’t changed since we were kids, has it?”
I shook my head. Every time I came here, I was painfully aware of that. It was something my mum had always loved about the place. Same went for my gran.
“Untouched by the ravages of time,” I replied. “Although the inn we’re at does have flavoured gin and the internet now.”
“Flavoured gin is never progress,” Eliza told me. She stretched her arms over her head and leaned her head back, revealing the elegant line of her throat. Her golden hair fell away from her face, and I stared for longer than I should have, until I caught myself.
At 33, Eliza had perfected the art of looking beautiful sat on a damp log in the middle of nowhere. It was almost irritating how good she was at it.
“You’re probably right, though,” Eliza continued. “About this being a place to come for a visit, not to live. Isn’t it ironic that we run off to all these far-flung exotic places to get away, when really, we should just come to the Highlands as a balm for the soul.”
“What are you running from?”
But she shook her head instantly. “Nothing in particular. I’m just…” She frowned, searching for the right word. “Questioning what I’m doing with my life. Wondering if Michelle was right, and I might wake up one day and realise I’ve wasted it on people and things that didn’t really matter.”
I laughed. “She didn’t mince her words, your ex-wife.”
“Not known for it.” Eliza smiled. “Plus, do I want to work for my dad forever? I’m at a crossroads if he wants to stop and hand over the keys. Roger’s not interested. He always assumed I was. Am I?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s probably just cold feet. Plus, we’re a little on top of each other. Living together isn’t helping.” Eliza paused. “It’s nice to have a bit of a break from him. The irony is that it’s with you.” She winced. “And that came out wrong.”
She gave me an apologetic smile. “You know what I mean. We used to be friends. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then.
You’ve been through unimaginable pain, I’ve had a horrendous breakup, but we’re still here, and beneath it all, we’re still friends.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m glad my dad put me on this project in the end.
It’s good that this is not just work. It’s good that we’re friends again. ”