Chapter 1
Three months later
Please don’t let me die before I’ve had the chance to prove everyone wrong.
The knot tightens in my stomach as I grip the steering wheel, the windscreen wipers working in overdrive to clear the rain that bounces off my small car, as I finally approach Ullapool’s main street.
I dreamt of the rolling hills and stunning greenery, but all I’ve seen on the almost eight-hour drive from my parents’ house is biblical rain battering my front window. The ominous grey clouds warn that it isn’t about to get better any time soon.
Welcome to summer in the Scottish Highlands.
Like any logical human being, I planned to view the property in real life before buying it. Who would invest their life savings in a property they’d never actually seen? You’d have to be totally out of your mind.
Well, maybe I am, because everything happened so quickly.
One minute, I was looking at the street view of the property to check how close it was to the beach.
The next, I’d inserted my maximum bid online, trying to outbid an anonymous and very persistent potential buyer whose offers kept creeping up behind mine.
My heart thumping wildly in my chest, I awaited the outcome with bated breath until, finally, my bid was confirmed as the highest. A done deal. Ready to sign on the dotted line.
I still can’t believe it. My parents were horrified when I explained that every penny of my redundancy package had been swallowed up by a flat I’d never seen right bang in the centre of what Dad called the ‘arse end of nowhere’.
But I didn’t care. As I packed up every item I owned into a series of brown boxes, I felt surprisingly calm and relieved, like everything was happening exactly the way it was supposed to. I only wish that feeling had followed me for the past six hundred miles.
As I turn the engine off, the tension drains from my body and I let out a huge sigh of relief.
Wiping the window to get a clearer view doesn’t make much difference.
I check the weather app on my phone to see when the rain might pass, but, of course, there’s no reception.
I’m not sure whether it’s the fault of the village or the ancient phone I intended to upgrade before I was made redundant.
Closing my eyes, I remind myself to breathe.
This is what I wanted, after all. I knew what I was signing up for.
The rain continues to batter the windows.
I can’t just sit here all day. I fling the car door open and step outside, pulling my hood over my head.
Cold rain dances around my toes and I sigh, looking down at my wholly unsuitable canvas trainers.
I’ll need to invest in some wellies, by the look of this weather.
Surely it’s not like this every day? My childhood memories of Ullapool feature hazy sunshine, the scent of coconut sun cream, and ice lollies on demand.
Not this crazy summer downpour that has managed to soak my hair, even with my hood up. This rain defies the laws of physics.
From the boot, I grab my precious box of second-hand books and my backpack full of my favourite novels.
I fish out the envelope inside my bag, which contains the key (literally) to all my dreams. Squelching with every step, I run to the door and balance the box on my knee while I wrestle with the lock.
This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for.
I try to take it all in, savour the moment, but I am well and truly soaked.
I shake my jeans and a raindrop somehow runs down the inside of my leg.
Today is beyond ‘dreich’, as my granny would have said, which translates to ‘damp and miserable’ weather. And I am definitely ‘drookit’. Completely drenched. Some of the village would remark that it is ‘fair pishing it doon’, but Granny would tut and roll her eyes at that kind of language.
I can’t believe I’m finally back here, that this special place that always felt like home is now my official home.
It’s different, but good-different. No, I won’t miss having an abundant choice of restaurants and shops on my doorstep.
I won’t miss the ‘buzz’ of the city. Definitely not.
I can’t wait to escape the noise. I won’t miss ￡5 coffees and trendy cafes.
Not even the baklava from the Turkish bakery down the road from Seb’s and my place. Just Seb’s place now…
This has to work out.
As the door to the shop finally flies open, my heart thuds in my chest. I step inside, soaking the floor, and set the box of precious books down on a dry patch further inside. I touch the exposed brickwork of the entrance way, my heart beating wildly in my chest. I’m here. I’m finally here.
I feel like I know the shop already, after endless hours spent poring over the images online, sizing up the space and dreaming up potential business ideas. I’d researched every inch of Ullapool, from the gift and coffee shops to the bed and breakfasts, the local walks, festivals and celebrations.
After weeks of careful consideration while I waited for everything to be finalized, I’d settled on the idea of a second-hand bookshop to replace the small cafe, known as The Old Tea Shop, which had been there since my granny was young.
I can’t remember ever visiting, but it seems familiar to me.
Once I’d decided on a bookshop, I couldn’t visualize the space as anything else.
Books made Ullapool feel like my home when I was nine years old and now, twenty years later, they would do it all over again.
I put one hand on my hip, gazing around.
It’s going to be perfect. Shelves will line the walls.
My desk will be in that corner, available for people to approach but tucked away so they don’t feel as though I’m watching them.
I’d resolved to find a local artist to paint a mural on the largest wall in the shop.
The concept I’d drawn on the back of an envelope features stick-figure Highland cows and birds with no wings or eyes, but I know the right person can bring my vision to life.
I glance along the width of the whitewashed walls. I’d refused to take a single thing belonging to Seb from our flat, even though his tape measure would come in handy right about now.
As I clutch my backpack close to my chest, there is a tap on my shoulder. I screech at the top of my lungs and, without thinking, swing my heavy bag, which is full to the brim with heavy books.
‘Arrrgh!’ I shout.
‘Arrrgh!’ he shouts back, as my bag clashes with the side of his knee.
He comes into sharp focus, grabbing his knee with one hand as he clutches several white envelopes, flyers and leaflets in the other.
He wears a bright red waterproof jacket, droplets of rain sitting on his shoulders.
The postman. I’ve just attacked the local postie, all five foot two of him.
I note the receding hairline and wisps of white-grey hair from my viewpoint, a few inches above him.
He looks to be only a few years away from retirement, hardly in a position to defend himself against me and a bag full of my best hardbacks.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I say, placing my bag down on the ground. I’m so glad I didn’t lob it at his head; it could have really done some damage. ‘I thought you were going to attack me. I’ve just moved here from London.’
I add the London part, hoping that will somehow explain my violent impulses. He nods, rubbing his knee. ‘You have a package that needs to be signed for and you left the door open. You might want to lock that in future.’
‘I will,’ I promise, nodding solemnly, before scribbling my signature on the paperwork. ‘Can’t be too careful.’
‘It would be for our safety more than yours,’ he says with a wry smile. His gentle lilting Highland accent has a slight mischief to it. ‘I’m Pete. The whole village is waiting with bated breath for your arrival, by the way. Look out there.’
I follow Pete over to the window, where the thundering rain has finally eased to a dismal drizzle. He points across the road to a shop with a bright pink sign that reads ‘On Edge’. Like me, right now.
At least five women stare back, straight at us.
Two have their hair covered entirely in foils and wear fuchsia cutting gowns, another has curlers in her hair and someone else, a younger girl, clutches a floor brush in her hand.
Someone stands outside in the street, talking on the phone, while gazing straight at us.
As we peer back over, they all dart away from the window, trying to appear inconspicuous.
‘The hairdresser,’ he explains with a smile.
Yes, Pete, thanks for that.
‘The hub of the village. It’s owned by my daughter, but she’s on holiday the now. So, you’re Agnes’s granddaughter?’
I’m not sure how Pete knows about my link to Ullapool already, but I am pleased at the mention of Granny’s name. People will be more welcoming, knowing my connection with the village. At least, I hope they will.
‘Yes, did you know her?’
Pete nods. ‘Of course! Your granny Agnes was the dinner lady when I was at school, would you believe? She loved each of the pupils there like they were her own. She had a penchant for caramel squares, if my memory serves me correctly. She was a great cook herself but said she never mastered the caramel squares, so she came to my wife’s bakery to buy them. ’
‘I’ll have to try them.’ I grin at Pete’s recollection, but his eyes cloud over with sadness and he glances to the floor. I feel guilty, knowing I’ve made a misstep somehow.
He coughs and recovers himself. ‘Donna’s away just now, but when she’s back…’
‘Wait,’ I say, holding my breath for a moment. ‘You don’t happen to mean Donna Wilson, by any chance?’
He smiles widely and nods. ‘The very same. She wondered if you’d remember her.’
‘Of course I do! She was one of my best friends here! She used to spend hours plaiting and styling my hair when we were younger. Oh, I can’t wait to catch up with her again. When will she be home?’