Chapter 12
Driving over Skye Bridge was like driving over the edge of the world. The road rose up in front of Rocco, soaring into the sky like a rollercoaster, the ground dropping away as the bridge arced over the open water of Loch Ash below.
A song he’d heard recently came into his head, and when he uttered a command, the haunting music of the ‘Skye Boat Song’ filled the car.
He glanced to his left. The sea was grey under the shade of a scudding cloud, a shaft of sunlight illuminating one of the many low islands. And then the bridge crested, the road now falling away, and his jaw dropped. All he could see was water, sky and the distant mountains.
Even as he was leaving, the beauty of this part of the world conspired to make him want to stay.
‘All that was me is gone…’
As the lyrics washed over him, his heart felt heavy. He didn’t want to leave. There was so much he wanted to see: Flora MacDonald’s grave, the Quiraing, Brothers Point… Giselle.
The bridge had now become dry land; Skye was behind him, the road to real life ahead.
Through the open car window, a familiar vanilla and coconut fragrance from a bank of yellow gorse wafted across his face, and he inhaled deeply.
Then, an image of the fox’s wild amber eyes flashed into his mind, followed by Giselle’s fathomless blue ones, and he didn’t pause to consider what he was doing.
Braking hard, he pulled into a layby, checked his mirrors then hauled on the wheel, executing a swift and probably illegal U-turn.
He was going back.
Rocco’s spirits lifted instantly, and not even the thought of his mother’s displeasure could dampen them.
‘Call Nora,’ he instructed, and his phone immediately obliged.
‘Calling Nora,’ the disembodied voice informed him.
‘Rocco!’ Nora sounded pleased to hear from him. ‘Giles Wiltshire called; he—’
‘I’m not going to make my flight this afternoon,’ he broke in, cutting her off. Giles Wiltshire was always calling. The man could wait.
There was the briefest of hesitations and he guessed she was mentally working out what she needed to do to rearrange his travel schedule before she said, ‘Leave it with me. I’ll check out the next available flight and book you on it.’
‘I’m not coming back today.’
‘Oh? Tomorrow, then.’
‘I won’t be back tomorrow, either. Don’t book anything for now; wait until you get confirmation from me.’
Another hesitation. ‘How long do you expect to be away?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘No, no problem. Got a few things to sort out, that’s all.’
‘OK. I’m sure I can rearrange your Monday meetings.’
‘Better rearrange all next week,’ he said. Nora’s silence was telling. ‘I’ll speak to Beverly,’ he told her, and he didn’t imagine her sigh of relief.
‘I’ll get onto it,’ said his PA, with her customary efficiency.
‘Thanks, Nora.’
He ended the call and was about to make another, this time to Beverly – who wouldn’t be thrilled that he wasn’t flying back to London today – when he thought, Sod it.
He’d speak to his mother in a ‘wee while’, as they said in these parts.
Right now, he needed to let Cal know what was happening.
And he needed to find out where he could purchase some more clothes!
Portree, the largest town on Skye, had its fair share of tourist type
shops, but it also had the gems Cal had mentioned: a couple of outlets,
one selling clothing suitable for the great outdoors and the other
selling clothes for a more casual lifestyle than the offices and
boardrooms that usually made up Rocco’s day.
It had taken him around fifty minutes to get there, and several more to park and find the first shop, and he was currently standing in front of a rack of hiking trousers, wondering which pair to go for.
Would one pair be enough? He supposed it depended on how long he’d be in Duncoorie, a question Cal had also asked, and one Rocco couldn’t answer.
He simply didn’t know. Three days? A week? Longer?
Boots! He needed boots. And more socks and boxers, and he was running out of shower gel. Cal had assured him that Mhairi’s suite would be ready for him by the time he arrived. Rocco had a vision of waking up tomorrow to that glorious view, and he was filled with an inexplicable contentment.
Weighed down with bags, Rocco returned to the car, intending to drive back to the castle, but after he’d placed everything in the boot, he changed his mind, deciding to have a look around the town. A coffee and a bite to eat wouldn’t go amiss, either.
Walking to the end of the main street, he caught a glimpse of the sea, and it drew him like a magnet. When he saw a sign for the harbour, he couldn’t resist.
The aptly named Quay Street led him down a steep hill to a waterfront lined with brightly painted buildings that looked out onto a sheltered bay dotted with small boats.
The smell of frying fish from a chip shop made him smile as he thought of the fish supper he’d eaten with Giselle the other evening.
Strolling down the road a short way, he stopped to peer over the railings and down at the water.
A pebble-and-rock-strewn beach caught his eye; Will there be any sea glass on it?
he wondered. He was tempted to go looking, but he wasn’t dressed for it, which was ironic since he had half a shop’s worth of suitable footwear and clothing in the boot of his hire car.
Retracing his steps, he was soon facing the main street again, but instead of turning onto it, he carried on up the hill, past a small supermarket, a wine bar, a guest house or two, and then the road levelled off and he paused to take in the view.
From up here, the row of pretty painted houses lining the quay was strung out before him, and he did the tourist thing and took out his phone.
A photo or two later, he headed back down, aiming for one of the many cafes he’d seen.
Diving into the first one he came to, Rocco felt as though he was playing truant from school or throwing a sickie to have an illicit day off work.
By rights, he shouldn’t be here, but he was enjoying himself too much to care.
When was the last time he’d explored a strange place on his own?
Venice, maybe, before a certain silver-haired sprite had knocked his table over, and then they’d explored the city together – and it had been much more fun with Giselle.
Abruptly, he wished she was with him now, insisting on paying for his late lunch with a few notes wrestled from her bra.
As he ate, he wondered how she would react to his return to Coorie Castle.
Would she even react at all? Maybe there’d be some mild surprise on seeing him again, and perhaps some smug satisfaction that her beloved isle had dug its claws into him and wasn’t letting go easily.
But nothing more. And why did that bother him?
He was just finishing a second cup of delicious coffee when his phone rang.
Scrambling to answer it so as not to disturb the cafe’s other customers, Rocco’s heart sank when he saw his mother’s name on the screen.
‘Hello, Beverly,’ he said warily.
‘Nora tells me you’re not on the flight.’
‘Er, no.’ Damn. He should have phoned his mother when he’d thought about it, and he guessed he’d need to apologise to his PA since Beverly had probably given her a grilling as to his whereabouts and intentions.
‘Would you care to explain?’
‘Give me a moment.’ He pushed his chair away from the table and got to his feet.
‘I don’t want to give you a moment. I want an explanation now.’ Her anger was clear, despite her voice not being raised.
‘Wait until I’m outside.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In a cafe.’
‘Where is the cafe?’
‘Portree. It’s the largest— Never mind. Thanks,’ he said to the woman at the till as he paid for his food, then hurried out of the door. ‘Right, you can shout at me all you like now.’
‘I never shout.’ It was true, she didn’t: her frosty tone and icy glare were usually enough to show her displeasure. ‘What’s going on, Rocco?’
‘There’s nothing to worry about. I just fancied a break.’ He began walking, dodging around pedestrians as he headed for the car.
‘In Scotland?’ Her tone was scathing.
‘I may as well, since I own a place here.’
‘Not for long, hopefully.’
A pang caught him unawares. ‘Which is why I thought I’d make the most of it.’
‘And what most is there to make? Is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘I saw a fox this morning,’ he blurted, without thinking.
‘A fox,’ she echoed flatly. ‘Is this a joke?’
‘A poor one,’ he sighed. ‘The scenery is stunning, and I haven’t had a holiday in…’ He struggled to remember.
‘Nora tells me you’ve asked her to arrange online meetings; I’m assuming you’ll still be doing some work, so it’s hardly a holiday.’
‘It never is.’ He recalled a two-week vacation to the Maldives, where he had to pack a suit in his luggage because he’d still had to work.
On his top half, the visible-on-a-computer-screen half, he’d been wearing a shirt, a tie and a jacket, while the bottom half had been sporting swimming shorts and flip-flops because it had been so hot, and all the while he’d been trying not to stare longingly at the swim-up bar just outside his chalet.
At least if he was halfway up a craggy mountain, there would be little chance of a conference call. Mind you, knowing his mother…
Mhairi’s rooms no longer felt like Mhairi’s. Her presence, which had
been so prevalent the first time he’d entered them, was no longer there.
Rocco concluded it was partly due to all her personal things having been
either removed or boxed away – the boxes were still stacked neatly in
the little sitting room, ready to be transported to London – and partly
because he’d spent a considerable amount of time there already. And once
he’d hung his new clothes in the wardrobe and placed his toiletries in
the bathroom, it felt more like his – albeit his in the way that a hotel
room felt like his after he’d checked in: impermanent, but his for the
duration of his stay.
However long that might be.