hands balled into tight fists at her side. How dared he say something so condescending? It just went to prove he had never really known her at all. She’d show him, she vowed silently.
‘But he did also go on to say that he would be very interested to take a look at your estate. That it sounds a promising location for his purposes.’
‘He can go to hell. He’s not coming here.’
‘Don’t be hasty, Em. Do you know how much money they pay out for the right film location? It’s not peanuts, I can assure you.’
‘I know.’
‘You did tell me you would do anything to be able to stay up there? But that the level of debt outstanding against the property is too much, not to mention the work that needs doing to the place?’
‘Yes.’ Emma’s voice was flat.
‘So this could be your chance to put things right. He’s at the Hilton in London for two more nights, and he gave me his number. All you have to do is telephone him and tell him you’re interested and he’ll add your address to the list of properties his location manager will visit next week.’
Emma hesitated. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Good. I’ve got to go, Emma. Speak to you soon.’
The silence in the room seemed overwhelming after the conversation.
Before the phone call she had been happily unpacking a trunk full of her clothing and footwear. The cocktail dresses and smart business suits she had once needed for her job as PA to a high-flying television executive were spread incongruously about the small study. She needn’t have bothered bringing them, because there was no way she would be wearing them again.
She glanced around the study. The faded heavy chintz curtains and the mismatched assortment of chairs had all seen better days. Yet there was an elegance to the room. It had dark panelled walls and a large inglenook fireplace which spoke of the grandeur of bygone days. Only a few rooms in the house were habitable. The floor in the east wing was rotted through with woodworm. Some of the upstairs bedrooms let in the rain because the roof leaked.
Just thinking about these problems brought a rush of panic about whether or not she had done the right thing, rushing up here from London. She had given up a perfectly good job. All right, she hadn’t been earning fortunes, but at least she had been able to afford to run her flat. This estate was well out of her league.
Maybe ringing Jon was a good idea. Tori was right; they did pay big money for film locations—money she could use to transform this place.
If it was anyone else but her ex-husband she would be picking up the phone right now. But the thought of speaking to him, maybe seeing him again, made her blood pump through her veins like molten lava. It wasn’t that she held any romantic ideas that she might still have feelings for him. Her love for Jon had died the day he’d walked out. She was more afraid of the fact that seeing him again would probably stir up painful memories, and she couldn’t face that. She’d rather manage on her own.
Emma returned her attention to her clothes. Lifting up a black plastic bag, she started to throw some of the things in. Maybe she should ask Tori to sell them for her in London. It was all designer gear and would fetch a good price.
Her hand paused over a pair of silver stilettos. Jon had bought them for her to attend the première of one of his films. There was a long silver dress that went with them.
She rooted through the clothes on the chair and found the dress, to hold it up against her slender figure. Then, on some wild impulse, she found herself kicking off her sturdy boots, jeans and jumper and slipping into the slinky dress. She stepped into the stilettos and walked across to the mirror on the wall.
Her reflection was a ghostly shimmer in the fading evening light. The dress was exquisite. It clung to her womanly curves, highlighting the firm swell of her breasts, the narrow waist. Her long, strawberry-blonde hair was wild about the pallor of her small face. She lifted it up, twisting it and tucking it into the sophisticated style she had worn that evening long ago, with Jon on her arm.
They had been a happy couple that night. But then that had been before they had started trying for a family, before they had found out that she could never bear him a child. When that knowledge had entered their relationship Jon’s love for her had started to wither and die.
The light was fading fast, and she reached to switch on the lamp beside her. Golden light cheered the room for just a second, then went out. Frowning, she tried the overhead light. She flicked the switch several times but no light came on.
‘Damn!’ Her voice was unnaturally loud in the silence of the room. She would have to find some candles and go down and check out the fuse-box in the cellar. The thought made a shiver of unease rush through her.
Although she loved the solitude here during the day, at night the isolation was a bit intimidating. She certainly didn’t want to be without electric light.
Emma went across to the bureau by the window and rifled through the drawers until she found some matches. As she straightened a loud banging noise resounded through the house.
Emma dropped the box of matches on the floor in shock. It took her a moment to realise it was someone knocking forcefully against the front door.
Who on earth could that be? she wondered nervously. She was out in the middle of nowhere and she hadn’t heard a car engine.
Retrieving the matches from the floor, she then tried to peek cautiously out of the window towards the door.
It was impossible to see who was standing there because of the awkward angle, and with the onset of darkness a mist was rolling in over the loch. It hung in heavy, damp swathes over the front gardens. There was an eeriness about the scene. She decided that she wouldn’t answer the door. Again someone struck the knocker against the door. Whoever it was, they were very impatient.
She moved quietly out to the hallway, wondering if she could see whoever it was from the window there.
The letterbox rattled as someone lifted it. It made Emma’s heart pound with apprehension.
‘Mrs Sinclair?’ a deep voice with a rolling Scottish accent asked. ‘Mrs Sinclair, I’m Frazer McClarran, your next-door neighbour.’
The name was familiar. Her late uncle’s solicitor had mentioned a Frazer McClarran. She racked her brain to remember what he had told her. It had been something to do with the fact that her uncle Ethan had had a long-running feud going with the man. She had no idea what it was about, but the memory was not reassuring.
‘What do you want?’ she called out cautiously, unwilling to open up the door to a total stranger.
‘A member of your livestock has escaped, causing considerable damage on my property.’ The voice held barely concealed impatience.
‘How do you know it belongs to me?’
‘Because there is a big red E branded on the creature’s butt,’ the voice grated. ‘And if talk around the village is correct, that means it now belongs to you.’
Emma hesitated.
‘Mrs Sinclair, are you going to open the door? Or should I just unload the animal
