Leaning on the windowsill of the charming little bedroom above, Marnie Donovan watched them go. They looked so relaxed and companionable, she thought, chatting and laughing together, with the dogs frolicking around them: the epitome of easy friendship. She could see two cars coming up the drive. Other participants, no doubt. More people to contend with . . . more people to offend . . . oh, God.

She turned back into the room, slumped on the bed and buried her face in her hands. ‘Shit,’ she said to herself, ‘oh shit. Why, oh why have I done it again? Why do I always have to be like this, alienating people before I’ve even started to know them?’ Isobel Grant had been conscientiously friendly, but there had been something about the way the tall fair young woman had looked at her that made her feel like a bit of flotsam washed up on a beach. Snooty cow, thought Marnie, who does she think she is with her wah-wah voice, her confidence and her airs and graces?

The temptation to leave was strong. But I will not be frightened away, Marnie told herself. This time I will not run away and I will do what I have set out to do. She thought of the person who had caused her to come to Scotland in the first place. You helped me once, more than you could ever know, whispered Marnie. Long ago, when we were both outcasts, and I have never forgotten it. Help me again now and I will not let you down. This place is just a stepping-stone. I will stay in Scotland until I have found what I am looking for.

Chapter Four

By seven o’clock all the would-be writers had arrived, been shown to their rooms and taken on a quick conducted tour of the premises; at eight thirty everybody was assembled in the smaller of the two conference rooms that opened off the enchanting little theatre for which Glendrochatt was justly famous. The theatre had originally been built so that Giles’s actress mother could exercise her histrionic talents on the neighbourhood, but he and Isobel had resurrected and transformed it a few years ago, commissioning a delightful and witty backdrop for the stage from the designer and muralist Daniel Hoffman, and turning the farm buildings of the original old steading into smaller rooms for workshops and exhibitions, plus residential accommodation for participants in the various courses which took place from early May to the end of October. Giles, who had a flair for talent-spotting, was justifiably proud of having discovered Daniel Hoffman’s work before he was well known and his prices had become correspondingly prohibitive. He liked to think the little theatre at Glendrochatt had been an important stepping-stone in Daniel’s booming international career.