A Christmas Wish on Arran (Scottish Romances #4)

Chapter One

Beth Ferguson trudged along the pavement, her nylon hood pulled up, her head tucked down and away from the autumnal rain as she made her way to work. It was a journey she made several times a week, normally always on autopilot, but lately things felt different. Normally on every walk she would make a point of looking up and appreciating the view of the River Thames as she walked across Deptford Creek, but today she couldn’t be bothered to even lift her head. Maybe it was the change of season and the thought of a long autumn and winter looming ahead. With each step she took, she felt the sensation that something significant was about to happen. It was a feeling she had experienced several times over the past week, along with a dramatic decline in her mood.

Beth wasn’t exactly sure of the moment she realised her life was starting to fall apart. Especially as she’d always tried to focus on the positives. She didn’t exactly have a huge aha moment. More like a series of expletive-laden mutterings, usually under her breath, that she couldn’t quite believe this was what her life now amounted to. The reality was that her day-to-day existence had continued to trundle on; she still got up every morning and showered, albeit in a cramped and mouldy old bathroom, where the shower curtain had a habit of clinging to her backside. She managed to make it out on time to get to work, which was a fifteen-minute walk from her poky room in a shared flat in Deptford, and she reminded herself how lucky she was that she didn’t need to commute into the centre of London anymore like she’d done in her younger days. But working in a small café in Greenwich, even though it was a few moments from the River Thames, which she had always loved, wasn’t entirely how she envisaged her career panning out. Not at her age and stage in life.

She kept telling herself that at least the job gave her a focus and paid regular money, which helped go towards the cost of her extortionate rent. If truth be told, her career in freelance journalism had dwindled — she was lucky to get the odd writing job, especially with the way the market had gone. All her regular sources of work had disappeared as budgets were repeatedly slashed, and so she had embraced her inner barista and listening skills at the café that welcomed regulars, locals and visitors every day of the week. Indeed she used to be one of the local regulars, when she would sit with a latte and type up her latest article. It was how she got to know the owner, Frankie, who then asked Beth if she would fancy doing some shifts, when Beth had confided that things were a bit bleak on the employment front.

‘Come and work here then,’ suggested Frankie. ‘I was about to put an ad out saying we needed a server. It’s yours if you want it, and hopefully you can still fit in some writing.’

Beth paused for a millisecond before answering. ‘Done,’ she replied. ‘When can I start?’ Fortunately she had inherited her father’s Scottish Presbyterian work ethic, which meant she wasn’t too proud to roll up her sleeves and get on with whatever needed to be done. Especially if it meant keeping a roof over her head. Mind you, she reminded herself with a sigh, it wasn’t her own roof she was paying for. It was someone else’s. She was just a tenant.

Was it really this time last year that she had her own flat and mortgage with a walk-in tiled shower that she could linger in as long as she wanted? The wistful moments of remembering those mornings, where she sang in the shower as she lathered up her expensive gels and shampoos, were becoming less frequent. There was no point in looking back. It was too painful. She had spent months going round in the same cycle of thoughts of if only and maybe if. Beth knew she had to focus on the here and now, and what she was going to do next to escape this trapped existence. She felt her phone buzz in her pocket and pulled it out. A message from her dad.

Hi dear, how are you? Haven’t heard from you in a while. Hope all is okay. Love Dad x

Guilt washed over her and she held back the tears that these past few days seemed to be constantly on the verge of running down her cheeks. She’d intended to visit her dad over the summer but had put it off. Again . She knew she’d been evasive — not just with her dad but with her friends too. For as long as she could remember, Beth had always used her job as a high-flying journalist as an excuse for her missing out on family and social gatherings. She’d continued to do so even though things had changed quite radically over the past twelve months. That was putting it mildly. Her life had been completely upended, and she knew her dad would be horrified when he realised just how bad things had become. He would insist on helping her out in any way that he could, but she wanted to cling on to her last shreds of self-worth. She could hardly go scuttling back home at her age. She was forty-six, for goodness’ sake. Anyway, her dad was now living in a retirement flat in a development just outside Glasgow. It wasn’t exactly the type of place she could seek refuge in. She shuddered as she thought of the word “home” and what it actually meant. She was still having her mail redirected from her old flat — she couldn’t quite bring herself to let go of it completely, even though she had sold it and it belonged to someone else. It was a home she had been so proud to call her own. The top-floor duplex conversion in Greenwich, an area she had always loved, was bright and welcoming and had two double bedrooms, with a beautiful large bathroom, a power shower and a roll-top bath. The open-plan kitchen and reception room had lovely views over the gardens, and she even had her own private patio area at the rear of the building, where she enjoyed pottering around and tending to her plants. Now, the closest she got to gardening was by walking through Greenwich Park, which she tried to do regularly to get her fix of nature.

For the past few months, Beth had been clinging to this existence by the tips of her chewed and chipped fingernails. Her younger self would be horrified by the state of them. But she’d given up her regular manicures quite some time ago, along with all the other luxuries she used to take for granted. She had tried to keep moving forward bit by bit with life, but this morning, as she walked into the café and hung up her coat in the small cloakroom through the back, she realised that she wasn’t moving anywhere — certainly not in the direction she wanted to go.

‘Morning love. You okay?’ Frankie grinned at her.

She forced a smile. ‘Yeah, fine.’ At which point several customers arrived at once, so Beth had to focus on steaming milk, grinding coffee beans and telling people to “enjoy their day”.