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most famous actresses.’
    ‘But she was just a lass wanting a room for the night. And her hair was all scrunched up under a cap. Oh!’ Isla suddenly yelled.
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘I told her that her skin was dry. I gave her my pot of Benet’s Balm. She must think I’m so rude.’
    ‘And she’s with you now?’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘And you’re sure it’s her? You’re sure it’s our Connie and not some lookalike pretending to be her?’
    ‘No! It’s her!’
    ‘Oh my God!’ Maggie exclaimed as the realisation dawned on her. ‘It was my letter, wasn’t it? She read my letter!’
    ‘Maggie – you’ve got to come over here.’
    ‘Yes,’ Maggie gasped. ‘I’ll come over. MY HAIR!’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I’ve got to wash my hair. Oh, why couldn’t you have rung me last night? My hair always goes frizzy when I wash it in the morning.’
    ‘But I didn’t know last night,’ Isla said.
    ‘Look, I’ll come over as soon as I can.’
    ‘Don’t be long,’ Isla said. ‘I don’t know what to say to her. Not after the Benet’s Balm incident. She must think I’m mad.’
    Maggie hung up the phone and stood perfectly still for a moment and then she did something she hadn’t done since Jimmy Carstairs had dropped a house spider down the back of her blouse at primary school. She screamed.
    There was a road that snaked its way out of Lochnabrae, winding up into the hills and affording anyone who walked that way the very best of views. The whole of the loch was visible from there and the cluster of houses along the main street looked like pearls on a string when viewed from above. In the autumn, the colours were spectacular, the rich reds and golds blazed like jewels, and the air was the purest in the Highlands. That’s why Alastair McInnes had chosen it as his home. He’d spent so much of his life in noisy, dirty rented flats in London but, as soon as he was able, he’d left the city behind him and returned to his roots in the Highlands. It was what writers did, wasn’t it? You found a quiet corner of the world to call your own and the words would flow out of you. Only they weren’t flowing at the moment.
    It was only half past nine but Alastair’s eyes were already sore. Perhaps it had something to do with him glaring at his computer screen for half the night and not going to bed much before dawn. He looked at his computer in frustration. He just couldn’t get the heroine right. She wasn’t jumping off the page yet. She wasn’t
real
.
    ‘Come on, Bounce!’ he said, and the black Labrador puppy that was snoozing by his feet under his desk leapt up immediately. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
    A good hike in the hills was the remedy for many things: a hangover, a decision to be made or a broken relationship but, today, he was hoping it would be a cure for his constipated writing.
    Throwing on a tatty wax jacket and shoving on a pair of ancient boots, he opened the front door of the old crofter’s cottage. It was still a bit of a novelty to do such a thing. To open his front door and be able to see the hills and the sky – that was such a treat. For a moment, he remembered his last flat in London and the dark communal hallway that always smelt of rubbish and the litter-strewn street outside where it was impossible to park. No, this was the life for him, he thought. There was no going back and relief filled him at that realisation. Life in London had been difficult for him both professionally and personally and he didn’t want to repeat those experiences ever again.
    Shaking thoughts of his past away, he watched as Bounce leapt over the little stream that ran alongside the cottage. Alastair did the same thing only he didn’t double back to drink from it like his dog. The grass was tussocky here and spongy after the rain in the night and made satisfying squelches as he walked.
    ‘This way, Bounce,’ Alastair called as he took the path down the hill. Bounce removed his head from a clump of bright bracken and