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Bewitched, Bothered And Bewildered
Kerry Barrett
A Kind of MagicPart-time witch, full-time glamorous high-flyer Esme Mcleod rubs shoulders with celebrities for a living, has a sort-of-boyfriend …and just enough magic in her fingertips to solve life’s little irritations; why shouldn’t she cast a little spell to catch the busy barman’s attention, or to summon a latte to aid her all-nighters?Called back to her small Scottish home town and meddling family, stiletto-clad Esme is way out of her comfort zone… But Esme must embrace her abilities as a witch, or watch her family lose their beloved café.Except Esme has never claimed to be a whizz at witchcraft, and her charms are starting to go awry – she certainly never meant to cast a love spell on her ex-boyfriend Jamie! It’s time for urgent lessons in magic as well as love – it seems there’s only so much that muttering a few words over cupcake batter will fix…Don't miss the Could It Be Magic series:1 – Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered2 – I Put a Spell on You3 – Baby It's Cold Outside4 – I’ll Be There For You5 – A Spoonful of Sugar (novella)What readers are saying about Kerry Barrett'I was absorbed from the first page' – Pass The Gin'It was just lovely! I loved the plot, I loved the spells and the magic, I loved the characters and I loved the writing. Kerry Barrett is a talented writer and I’m so pleased I got the chance to review her debut novel and here’s hoping there will be many more!' – Chick Lit Reviews and News'This is a story filled with heart-warming characters full of family loyalty, a little romance … sprinkled with magic and humour throughout which will leave you, like me wanting to find out what happen next for Esme and her family.’ – That Thing She Reads



A Kind of Magic
Part-time witch, full-time glamorous high-flyer Esme McLeod rubs shoulders with celebrities for a living, has a sort-of-boyfriend …and just enough magic in her fingertips to solve life’s little irritations; why shouldn’t she cast a little spell to catch the busy barman’s attention, or to summon a latte to aid her all-nighters?
Called back to her small Scottish home town and meddling family, stiletto-clad Esme is way out of her comfort zone… But Esme must embrace her abilities as a witch, or watch her family lose their beloved café.
Except Esme has never claimed to be a whizz at witchcraft, and her charms are starting to go awry - she certainly never meant to cast a love spell on her ex-boyfriend Jamie! It’s time for urgent lessons in magic as well as love – it seems there’s only so much that muttering a few words over cupcake batter will fix…

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered
Kerry Barrett


Copyright (#ulink_9b258637-0d39-5243-9b95-63a5330589a1)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013
Copyright © Kerry Barrett 2013
Kerry Barrett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © October 2013 ISBN: 9781472054760
Version date: 2018-10-30
KERRY BARRETT was a bookworm from a very early age, devouring Enid Blyton and Noel Streatfeild, before moving on to Sweet Valley High and 1980s bonkbusters. She did a degree in English Literature, then trained as a journalist, writing about everything from pub grub to EastEnders. Her first novel, Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered, took six years to finish and was mostly written in longhand on her commute to work, giving her a very good reason to buy beautiful notebooks. Kerry lives in London with her husband and two sons, and Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes is still her favourite novel.
Thank you to my parents for giving me a love of books, and to Anna and Nicky for being so excited; I’m excited too! A big hug to Gerda, who has known Esme almost as long as I have; thank you for your constant encouragement and excellent advice. And to Darren, Tom and Sam – I love you very much. You’re awesome.
For my boys, big and small.

Contents
Cover (#u14bfb7d4-89b9-5283-8773-e1cc6902f3a0)
Blurb (#u68ecf095-5adc-5019-9eb1-32a8af30f514)
Title Page (#u3c04c104-c266-5a68-820f-ead9dfe66c4e)
Copyright (#uf2d6ab75-3931-5ea5-9092-ab95a790bed9)
Author Bio (#udda3249f-ee12-5d99-ab11-653802b3bd7e)
Acknowledgements (#u979bb5e4-bd8f-583d-aaba-770e570af8e5)
Dedication (#u29804ced-a1d6-5a24-934a-a79ec07887cf)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 1 (#u4d39c1ec-8672-574e-a3dd-0b6e34c34082)
I was completely out of my comfort zone. I perched on the high bar stool, legs swinging like a toddler in a high chair, and cursed Harry for insisting on meeting me here.
‘Seven o’clock, Esme, Cara Mia at Canary Wharf,’ she’d said in her message. ‘Don’t be late. It’s important.’
She was passing through town, she’d said, flying into Heathrow from the States and back to Scotland from City. Bad planning on her part. And even worse planning on mine to work spitting distance from the bar she’d chosen. I’d briefly considered changing jobs to get out of meeting her, but even I could see that was a bit extreme.
And so, here I was. With my legs uncomfortably wrapped around the chrome legs of a shiny stool, and my elbow in a puddle of something, in a bar full of the City types I spent a lot of time avoiding. And – I squinted at my watch in the dim light – it was now 7.25 and there was still no sign of Harry.
I shifted awkwardly on my perch and tried once more to get the barman’s attention. He’d been ignoring me since I arrived, despite my best attempts at eye contact.
Finally, I thought, as his gaze shifted in my direction. But no, instead he served the woman standing behind me, who had glossy hair and the kind of honey-coloured skin that comes from a lifetime of winters spent abroad.
That did it. I moved my arm out of the puddle, rested my wrist on the cold bar and waggled my fingers, gently, in the direction of the barman. A small shower of pink sparks – nothing anyone would notice – wafted from my fingertips. The barman looked puzzled for a moment, then he picked a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge, dropped it into an ice bucket and presented it to me, along with two glasses, with a flourish.
‘Nice,’ said a voice in my ear. ‘And you didn’t even have to ask.’
‘Hello, Harry,’ I said. Of course she would choose that moment to arrive. She didn’t kiss me. Instead she leaned over, scooped up the wine bucket and tilted her head in the direction of a booth.
I was expected to follow, clearly. I picked up the glasses, then had to put them down again so I could slide off the barstool without mishap. I resisted the temptation to turn around and descend backwards, but only just. Then I picked up the glasses again and trotted after my cousin, just like I’d been trotting after her my whole life.
As I approached the table she’d chosen, I noticed her normally immaculately made-up face was pale, with dark rings under her eyes. And her slouchy cashmere sweater hung off her. She grabbed the glass I offered, glugged wine into it and drained it. I felt slightly uneasy. Harry being in control was one of the constants in my life.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked as I shuffled sideways along the seat into the booth.
Harry waited for me to sit, then pushed a glass in my direction.
‘It’s Mum,’ she said in her typically forthright way. ‘She’s got breast cancer.’
I put my hand to my mouth in shock.
‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘Poor Auntie Suky.’
Harry took another swig of her wine.
‘She should be OK because they seem to have caught it early enough. But she’s in for a rough few months.’
She looked at me. ‘You have to go,’ she said.
I was already shaking my head.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘My mum needs you,’ Harry said.
‘You go.’ I tipped my wine into my mouth and poured another glass. ‘She’s your mum.’
Harry looked away. I thought for a moment she had tears in her eyes, but perhaps it was just the light in the bar.
‘I’ve got some stuff going on at the moment, Esme,’ she said. ‘I just can’t leave work just now. I’ll come as soon as I can.’
‘I don’t care. I’m not going.’
I was annoyed she’d even asked. Going to see Suky meant seeing my own mum and Harry knew how shaky my relationship was with her.
‘I know you’re annoyed I even asked,’ she said.
‘Don’t do that.’ I scowled at her. I hated when she poked about in my head and read my mind.
‘What?’ she said, her pretty face full of innocence.
Infuriated I shook my head again. Harry ignored me.
‘I spoke to your mum,’ she said. I felt a flash of anger that she’d spoken to Mum when I hadn’t. ‘She says there’s been a bit of trouble.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘A few things have gone wrong at the café.’
I shrugged.
‘There’s nothing I can do about that.’ My career as a lawyer was far away from my family’s quaint tearoom.
Harry caught my fingers and squeezed them.
‘You can help,’ she said. ‘You have to help. You know I’d be there if I could – it’s just really tricky for me at the moment.’
‘I don’t do witch stuff any more,’ I said.
Harry arched her perfectly plucked eyebrows.
‘Then what was that at the bar?’
She had a point. What I’d done at the bar –and what she’d done when she echoed my thoughts back to me – was witchcraft. Because, though I deny it and ignore it, I am a witch. So is Harry. And our mums. And our gran before them. You know how it goes.
But a long time ago, I’d turned my back on my mum and witchcraft, and now I only ever used it secretly, quietly and – often pretty badly – to make everyday life a bit easier. If I needed a parking space, one would appear. A mess in my kitchen? No problem. Couldn’t find the remote control? It would just appear like – well, like magic. Anything more complicated though, and it didn’t always go as smoothly as I’d liked so I tended to avoid pushing my luck when it came to spells. It was a strategy that worked for me and I had no intention of that changing any time soon.
‘I’ll come up as soon as I can,’ Harry was saying. ‘Next week, probably. Your mum needs you, Ez. My mum needs you. I…’
There was a pause. I looked at her in expectation. But apparently she’d finished.
I pushed my glass of wine away and picked up my bag.
‘Sorry,’ I said, shuffling back along the bench. ‘I have to go back to the office. Don’t you have a plane to catch?’

Chapter 2 (#u4d39c1ec-8672-574e-a3dd-0b6e34c34082)
‘So I told her, there was absolutely no way I was going,’ I said to Dom, my sort-of-boyfriend later that evening. I’d bumped into him when I’d gone back to the office to pick up my things, and persuaded him to come back to mine, which hardly ever happened. He looked out of place in my tiny flat; too big and too male as he lounged against my Cath Kidston cushions and smiled at me as I ranted and paced the floor in front of him.
‘Absolutely no way,’ I repeated.
Dom looked at me, a glint of mischief in his brown eyes.
‘So when are you leaving?
I screwed up my nose.
‘Tomorrow,’ I said miserably. ‘Straight after work.’
He chuckled, but to give him his due, he didn’t labour the point. Instead he patted the cushion next to him and pulled me down on to the sofa. I cuddled into him, enjoying the rare pleasure of having him all to myself.
‘I’m in court all day tomorrow,’ he said. ‘So I won’t get to see you before you go.’
‘Well, we’d better make tonight count then,’ I said, looking up at him in what I hoped was a coquettish, flirty manner.
Dom leaned down to kiss me, when suddenly his phone rang making me jump and ruining the moment. I glared at him as he answered and motioned for me to be quiet.
‘Hello, Rebecca,’ he said. ‘Yep, got stuck in the office, but I’m just finishing up here.’
I pulled my legs away from Dom, stood up and flounced into my tiny kitchen where I slumped against the work surface. Rebecca was the reason Dom was only my ‘sort-of boyfriend’. Because she was sort of his wife. Well, if I was being honest, there was no sort of about it. She was his actual wife. Which made me his actual mistress.
I wasn’t proud of myself. I knew what I was doing was wrong. But Dom had charmed me and I felt as though I had no control over my actions. He’d broken through all my defences. And actually, the secrecy and the subterfuge suited me quite well.
Dom and I had been working together for two years. We’d been sleeping together for nearly a year. The first time it happened I’d been working late in the office, desperate to make my mark in a company full of overachievers. As I pored over files and wrote reams of notes, Dom appeared at my office door.
‘Come for a drink,’ he said.
‘I can’t,’ I replied, not even looking up. Dom had been circling me for weeks, months even, flirting and going out of his way to pay me attention. I wasn’t interested. I avoided relationships and preferred to spend all my spare time working.
‘You work too hard.’ He walked towards my desk and sat down on the chair in front of me.
‘So do you.’ I turned a page in the folder I was reading and carried on making notes in the margin.
‘Pleeeease,’ Dom whined like a little boy. ‘I’m sooooo bored.’
In spite of myself I laughed and finally looked up. His wide, blue eyes with a hint of mischief met mine, and a tiny bud of lust curled in my stomach. How could I resist?
‘I can’t go for a drink,’ I said firmly. ‘But if you go and get me a coffee, I’ll take a break and we can chat for five minutes.’
Dom had brought me a coffee – and a bottle of wine – and we chatted for hours that night. And the next night, when we both worked late again. And after a few ‘dates’ in the office, we went out for dinner. Just an above-board business dinner between colleagues at a restaurant near work.
Except the restaurant was expensive and softly lit and we didn’t talk about business.
When we finally staggered out into the street, dizzy with red wine, good food and lust, I raised my arm to hail a cab. Dom caught my hand and pulled me to face him.
‘What now?’ he asked. His face was close to mine and I could feel his breath on my lips. My legs were like jelly and although I knew I should pull away, I couldn’t.
‘You’re married,’ I whispered.
Dom nodded. A flicker of something – guilt? – crossed his eyes.
‘The ball’s in your court, Esme,’ he said, pulling me closer.
I opened my mouth to tell him to go home to his wife. But instead I found myself leaning forward to kiss him. He tasted of garlic and coffee and fun and I was bewitched.
So when a taxi pulled up beside us and Dom got in with me, and gave the cabbie my address, I didn’t protest. And that was that.
A year of snatched meetings and illicit evenings later I still felt terrible whenever I thought of Dom’s wife. And I still hated it if she called when I was with him.
I didn’t want Dom to leave her, I told myself. I was happy working long hours and spending time alone in my flat or at the gym. Having a full-time boyfriend would cramp my style. Plus, it suited me to have some distance between us. I may not have been an enthusiastic user of magic, but all my family were. Just the thought of inviting a boyfriend home and watching his face as Mum made Sunday dinner in her own special way gave me chills. And my family’s track record when it came to my love life was not good. But still my heart ached when Dom slipped out of my bed at night and went home to his wife.
I ignored the nagging voice inside me that told me what I was doing was wrong. I ignored my guilt about Rebecca, and, most of all, I ignored the feeling that despite my fabulous, well-paid job, my gorgeous flat and my handsome, sophisticated sort-of boyfriend, I was lonely.
‘I’m going to miss you.’ Dom interrupted my thoughts. He had finished his phone call and come to find me in the kitchen. He snaked his arms round my waist and planted a kiss on my neck.
‘No you won’t,’ I said, pulling his arms off me. ‘You won’t even notice I’m not here.’
Dom winked at me. ‘Of course I will. I love you,’ he said. I gaped at him. He’d never said that before. Ignoring my silence, Dom picked up his car keys.
‘Bye,’ he called from the hall, as he blew me a kiss.
I pretended to catch it. ‘Bye then,’ I whispered.

Chapter 3 (#u4d39c1ec-8672-574e-a3dd-0b6e34c34082)
The next day at work was mental. My boss, Maggie, almost tipped me over the edge because she was frantically preparing for a meeting with another Hollywood couple about the baby they were trying to adopt, and she couldn’t decide what to wear. I was trying very hard to tie up any loose ends and pass on the cases that I could pass on before I went to Scotland. And I was wrestling with a client who’d decided to start Tweeting vindictive messages to her cheating husband despite my desperate voicemails begging her to stop.
I am a family lawyer. That sounds quite fluffy but believe me it isn’t. In my experience, family law is about as nasty as it gets. Especially the bit I’m involved with. Think cheating Premiership footballers, wronged pop stars and celebrities buying African babies and you’re pretty close. Still, it’s a living. And it keeps me very, very busy, which is the idea.
Eventually, things calmed down enough for me to sit back in my chair and look at my phone. I knew I had to phone Mum and tell her I was coming up. Harry had emailed to say she’d passed on my flight details, but if I was expecting to stay it was only polite to call. It’s not like Mum and I never talk. We do, of course. But we’re not mates, not close like Harry and Suky are. I would never tell her about Dom, for example, or really fill her in on anything happening in my life – because the last time I did, when I was sixteen, it all backfired on me in the worst way and Mum and I had a major falling out. Major.
To be honest, it had been brewing for years. I was a shy, clumsy teenager whose desperation to fit in clashed – badly – with my family’s bohemian side. But until the big drama, we’d all rubbed along pretty well. Harry was ten years older than me and thick as thieves with Suky, who’d had her when she was barely out of her teens herself. Back then I adored Harry – whose real name is Harmony. She was beautiful, funny, clever – still is, I suppose – and amazingly talented in the witchcraft department. She’d long since left home and was living in Edinburgh, but we still saw a lot of her.
My mum – who is Suky’s twin sister – and I were less close but we still got on – pretty much. My mum – who is Suky’s twin sister – and I got on pretty well back then. We weren’t as close as Harry and Suky, who were more like friends than mother and daughter, but we did ok. And unlike many teenagers, I also got on with my dad, who’d split up with Mum before I was born and now had a glamorous wife and two little boys.
As for the cause of the rift, I won’t bore you with all the sorry details but imagine a spiky teenager who had fallen in love for the first time and a mum who – in some misguided attempt to make us as close as Suky and Harry – decided to meddle.
After the sparks had stopped flying (and I mean literally of course) I fled. I took off to Edinburgh, to my big cousin who would make everything OK. Except she didn’t. She sat me in the kitchen of her tiny top-floor flat in Leith and listened as I poured my heart out. And then do you know what she did? She laughed. She laughed and she told me not to take myself so seriously. In short, she took my already fragile heart and shattered it into a thousand pieces.
That was that really. Luckily Dad came to my rescue with an offer of paying for me to do A Levels at a school near where he lived in Cheltenham. I packed my bags, moved to England and never looked back. Until now.
Nerves jangling, I looked at the phone on my desk. Then I grabbed it and dialled Mum’s number before I had a chance to change my mind.
‘It’s me,’ I said when she answered. There was a brief silence and then I heard her breathe out, almost in relief.
‘Esme, darling,’ she said. I immediately felt guilty at how pleased she was to hear from me.
‘Harry said you’re coming.’
‘I’m coming,’ I told her. I bit my lip. ‘Is that going to be OK?’
‘Of course it is,’ she said. I could almost feel her smiling down the line. ‘It’ll be good to see you.’
Maggie appeared in the door of my office holding up two blouses. I pointed to the one on her left, knowing she’d wear the other one.
I knew Mum wanted me to say it would be good to see her too, but I just couldn’t lie. Instead, I asked her about Suky and told her when to expect me. And I was relieved when my phone beeped to tell me I had another call, and I could say goodbye.
As I tried to talk my vindictive client out of emailing indiscreet pictures of her philandering husband to all the contacts in his address book, my assistant Chrissie stuck her head and an arm round my door and put a large latte on my bookshelf. She gave me a quick, sympathetic smile and I wondered how much of my phone call to Mum she’d heard (or listened to, more like).
I stared at my coffee, lacking the energy to walk over and pick it up. Then I checked Chrissie wasn’t lurking outside, and gently waggled my fingers in the direction of my cup. In a shower of pink sparks the latte flew across my office. It landed neatly on a pile of papers and a drip plopped on to a super injunction I’d been preparing for a TV presenter. I wiped it off with a tissue, thinking that coffee spills were the least of my worries. The two halves of my life – two halves that I kept far, far apart – were coming together and I felt very uneasy.

Chapter 4 (#u4d39c1ec-8672-574e-a3dd-0b6e34c34082)
‘We do have one car left,’ the woman at the car hire desk told me much, much later. She tapped some keys on her computer and the printer began spewing out the reams of paper that I apparently needed to sign to hire a Nissan Micra.
I looked past her shoulder at the rain lashing the windows and sighed. Inverness never changed. Mindlessly I scribbled my signature on the many bits of paper the woman pushed towards me and tried to ignore the Tannoy that was announcing a flight to London. I’d be home soon, I told myself.
‘It’s a silver car,’ the woman said, handing me the key. ‘The registration number is on the fob and it’s in space 60, row Z.’ She gave a rueful chuckle. ‘Oh dear, it’s rather far away…’
Together we turned and looked at the rain streaming down the glass behind her. I was not traipsing past rows A to Y in this weather – for a Micra. I draped my jacket over my arm so it hid my hand, and wiggled my fingers. Her computer gave a loud beep.
‘Oh I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve made a mistake. The only car we have left is a Mini – oh and it’s in row A. That’s lucky.’
‘Isn’t it?’ I agreed. I took the new key she gave me and turned to leave with a self-satisfied smile. I tried not to listen as her computer beeped three times in a row and she banged the keyboard, cursing. My magic did sometimes backfire.
Despite my efforts, I was still wet by the time I reached the car. Muttering to myself under my breath and wiping a drip from the end of my nose, I hurled my sodden bags into the back seat and arranged my damp self in the driving seat. Craving a friendly voice, I scrabbled in my handbag for my mobile and turned it on, expecting a message from Dom after being on the plane. But my only message was from Maggie.
‘Esme,’ she shrieked. ‘The meeting was just wonderful! It all went so well…’
I cut her message off, not interested in her gushing, then I flung my phone on to the passenger seat where it bounced once and disappeared down the side of the chair.
‘Oh well, I’ll find it later,’ I thought. It wasn’t as though Dom would be trying to get hold of me at this late hour. I expected he was spending the evening with Rebecca.
Of course I’d never met Rebecca but I had imagined every detail of her life with Dom. In fact, I’d imagined it twice. In the first scenario, Rebecca was pinched and thin-lipped. She never spoke to Dom except to say something negative and she never smiled.
In the second – the one I was currently torturing myself with – she was tall and beautiful with swishy hair and a stylish wardrobe. I imagined her and Dom spending weekends lounging around their fabulous Hampstead home – in truth all I knew was they lived in North London somewhere – with their fabulous friends. Right now, they’d be spooning in their huge sleigh bed. I shuddered at the thought.
Pushing the image out of my head I turned on the engine and drove out of the airport on to the main road. I was on my way and I was more than a little bit nervous. In fact, I was terrified.
Since I left home, I’d been very definitely in my Dad’s camp. Not that he and Mum’s separation – before I was even born – had been particularly acrimonious. They were just utterly mismatched. My loyalty was with my dad, even though I loved my mum. Her witchiness, if that’s even a word, was just too much for me.
My parents met back in the early 80s. Mum was in her late 20s. She’d come home for the summer, running from a doomed love affair in Glasgow, where she lived. Dad – a few years older, handsome in his RAF uniform, literally fell for her.
My mum had climbed one of the hills overlooking the village and was lying on the grass, planning what she was going to do with her life. Dad was on his way back to the RAF base a few miles away after a brisk jaunt up the slope – and he tripped over her. Not the most romantic meeting, but something about the woman with short white-blonde hair and big blue eyes won him over.
Needless to say, my mum’s plans that she’d made that day didn’t include falling for a slightly conservative, very ambitious military man. And they definitely didn’t include getting pregnant just a few months into their relationship. If she could have seen that far ahead (yes I know some witches can do that, but our lot can’t, more’s the pity) I’m also sure she wouldn’t have seen my dad sent off to the Falklands before she’d even plucked up the courage to tell him she was pregnant. Or the injury that sent him behind a desk in a base in the Cotswolds.
Anyway, Mum was pregnant, lonely and living at home in the Highlands with her mum and Dad was miserable, nursing a gammy leg and readjusting to life after the war. It was never going to work. But to their credit they’ve never made me feel like I’d missed out. I lived with Mum and Gran, until she died when I was twelve, as well as Suky and Harry. I spent holidays with Dad – and later with his wife, Olivia, and their two boys. Olivia is posh and groomed and brilliantly clever and our relationship, while not wonderful, isn’t as terrible as it could be. She tolerates me and I try not to annoy her too much. Or make a mess in her house.
Mum claims she told Dad the truth about our family when she realised she was falling for him. Dad, though, doesn’t seem to know. I think it’s a bit like that cheesy Loch Ness film – you remember? ‘You have to believe before you can see’. And Dad just doesn’t believe. He jokes about our ‘lotions and potions’ but as far as he’s concerned, witchcraft is just a hobby.
The road was quiet as I drove north. Occasionally the lights of another car would blaze through the darkness, making me blink as they swept past, but for most of the time I was alone. I put on the radio but it interfered with my thoughts, so I switched it off again.
I squinted through the windscreen, trying to get my bearings in the lashing rain. Not much further. I felt sick with nerves and as I passed a sign for a B&B I had to use all my willpower not to turn off the road and spend the night.
I felt odd about going home after avoiding it for so long. My emotions were muddled and I veered from being nervous about seeing my family to looking forward to hearing all their news, and of course I was desperately worried about Suky. Mum had filled me in about her illness on the phone but I’d never met anyone with cancer before. I didn’t know what to expect and I was terrified of the unknown.
I could feel myself getting stressed as I thought about home so I tried to put my worries aside and concentrate on driving. The weather was getting worse and the narrow roads weren’t as familiar as they used to be.
Leaning forward in my seat, I drove carefully, peering through the rain and gloom, fearful I would hit a deer, until eventually, with my shoulders tense and a stiff neck, my headlights shone upon a large road sign.
Loch Claddach welcomes careful drivers, it proclaimed in tartan-edged, tourist-friendly glory. Breathing a sigh of relief I jammed on the brakes and juddered to a halt underneath the garish sign. I was home.
I turned off the engine and sat in the car, listening to the rain drumming on the roof, while I tried to make sense of the way I was feeling. My head was pounding from the effort of driving and I was bursting with mixed emotions. I couldn’t arrive in such a mess. I pulled my hairbrush from my bag and pulled my hair out of its twist, then I brushed it and pinned it up again, using my reflection in the windscreen in the dim light.
According to Mum, Suky had found a lump in her breast a month ago but went to the doctor’s alone and kept quiet while she went for tests. Only when she was diagnosed did she come home and let her sister know what was happening.
‘It was awful, Esme,’ Mum had told me on the phone. ‘We were having a glass of wine and talking about our day, just like normal. She said she’d had a tough day and then she just blurted it out. “Don’t be upset,” she said. How could I not be upset?’
That had been last week. Suky had already had an operation to remove her lump and she was now facing weeks of radiotherapy at the hospital in Inverness. I felt terrible for her and guilty that Mum or Harry hadn’t called me straightaway.
I felt remote and detached from my family. But it wasn’t surprising, I thought as I shoved my hairbrush back in my bag and gripped the steering wheel once more. I hardly ever came home. Occasionally, I’d fly in for Christmas, arriving on the 24
and leaving again on the 26
. One year I even got the sleeper and arrived on Christmas Day itself. The last time I’d come home was a few years ago now. I’d come up for a family reunion on Halloween, part of me hoping my attendance would be an olive branch that could rebuild my relationship with my mum. But it had been an unmitigated disaster. I’d felt hopelessly out of my depth among family members who looked vague and disappointed when I talked about my law degree and who conjured up cakes and entertainment at the drop of a (witch’s) hat. When a great aunt – who hadn’t managed to make the trip from her home in Australia – materialised in the living room, her flickery image like the recording of Princess Leia in Star Wars, I legged it. I faked a call from a neighbour, pretended a pipe had burst and ran for the airport. It was Halloween again in a couple of weeks, I thought now. I sincerely hoped I would be safely back in London by then.
My mind was whirling from guilt to dread and back again as I sat in the cold car and looked at my old hometown though the rain. But most of all I was worried about Suky. Sweet, kind-hearted Suky, who sent me first letters, then emails after I’d left home, keeping me up to date with the family’s news and making sure – in fact – that I was still part of the family. But she hadn’t shared this news. I hadn’t had so much as a hint.
I wiped the steamed-up windscreen with a gloved finger and peered out into the dreary night. I could see rows of darkened cottages, and beyond them, St Columba’s church, with its spire lit up to impress the tourists. Not that there were likely to be many of them around on a cold October night.
Shivering, I turned the engine on again and turned the heater up to full. I drove forward and followed the road through town at a snail’s pace. I knew I didn’t need to drive that slowly, despite the weather, but somehow I couldn’t make myself speed up. I didn’t want to go home, I finally admitted to myself. I was too scared about what I might find there.
I shook my head, trying to dislodge the miserable thoughts that were stuck there, trod down the accelerator accidentally, and nearly drove the car up the pavement and into a post box. I grimaced.
‘Get a grip,’ I told myself out loud.
Clutching the steering wheel, I drove at a more sensible speed up the hill, past my old primary school and the neat little house where my headmistress still lived, and parked outside the house where I’d grown up.
Typically, while every other house in town was cloaked in darkness, ours blazed with light. I smiled, in spite of my misgivings, and turned off the engine. I took a deep breath, then I got out of the car and pulled my bags from the back seat. I stood still for a minute, determined to savour the silence before I went in.
Suddenly the front door flew open. My mother stood there, silhouetted against the bright hallway. I could see her short hair sticking up and she held a wine glass in one hand as she peered out into the darkness.
‘Esme!’ She sounded pleased. ‘I thought it’d be you. Come in! Come away from the rain.’

Chapter 5 (#ulink_9b258637-0d39-5243-9b95-63a5330589a1)
I stumbled across the gravel driveway, my bag banging against my legs. Mum tried to sweep me into a hug, but my bag and my stiff stance made it awkward. We stared at each other for a minute, then she grabbed my holdall, turned and led the way down the hall to the kitchen.
‘How is she?’ I asked. I wanted to perch on a stool like I used to when I’d come home from school and share my day with Mum while she cooked our tea, but I didn’t. Instead, I hovered by the kitchen door like an uninvited guest.
Mum filled the kettle and paused to switch it on before she answered.
‘She’s not good,’ she said quietly. ‘She had her first radiotherapy session today and it seems to have knocked the stuffing out of her. But she’ll be pleased to see you.’ She nodded towards the living room. ‘Why don’t you go and say hello?’
Nervously I crept into the front room where Suky was asleep on the enormous squidgy sofa with a blanket over her legs. She looked pale and thin and it took me a huge effort not to gasp when I saw her.
Mum had followed me in from the kitchen and she put her hand on my shoulder gently.
‘It’s all happened so fast – she’s exhausted,’ she said. ‘She’s keeping her spirits up, though.’
I looked at my beautiful, lively aunt, hunched under a blanket like an old lady and rounded on Mum.
‘Why can’t you help her?’ I hissed in a loud whisper. ‘Isn’t this what you witches do?’
Mum shook her head.
‘You sound like Harry,’ she said with a sad smile. ‘She’s been on the phone non-stop with theories she’s found and spells to try. But messing with life and death is dangerous, Esme. That’s not our sort of magic. We just have to help her the best we can.’
I shrugged. Magic was magic as far as I was concerned, and this house was full of it. It positively crackled through every room and hung around Mum like a force field. Harry’s the aura reader in our family, but even my unpractised eye could see Suky’s power was dim and wavery, like a candle about to burn out. It made me shiver with fear for her.
‘I’ll help,’ I whispered to Mum, so as not to wake Suky. ‘What can I do?’
Mum gestured with her head and I followed her back into the kitchen, closing the door behind me. I made for the kettle but Mum handed me a glass of wine instead.
‘What can I do?’ I repeated. Mum took a swig of wine and visibly braced herself.
‘We need a Third,’ she said.
I looked at her in horror. I’d been expecting to ferry Suky to appointments, do a Tesco run, maybe whip up a lasagne. I’d definitely not planned to become a vital cog in the coven’s wheel.
Because a coven is basically what we had here. Witches, you see, are sociable souls. And they’re obsessed with the number three. Oh we can all do magic on her own but for the really good stuff to happen, there needs to be three. Mum and Suky worked with a witch called Eva. She had wafted into Claddach on the day of my Granny’s funeral and she’d been here ever since.
‘Does Eva know you’re asking me?’ I said now.
Mum nodded.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘She thinks it would be better to have someone we know, rather than get in an agency witch.’
I gaped at her. Agency? Who knew witchcraft was so 21
century.
‘What about Harry?’ I managed to say.
‘Harry’s got some problems at work,’ Mum said. ‘I think it’s worse than she’s letting on, but she’s not telling of course. I also think things may not be completely fine at home. But she’s keeping quiet about that too. You know she’d be here if she could.’
I wasn’t convinced. I knew Harry adored her mum, but she could be very selfish when she wanted to be. She uses magic all the time. Seriously. All. The. Time. Which is why she’d be so useful to mum and Eva now. But if she wasn’t helping then she wasn’t helping – no one could make Harry do anything she didn’t want to do, least of all, me.
‘We need you, Esme.’ Mum held my hand tightly. ‘Suky needs you.’
I sank down in a tatty armchair. They did need me, that much was true. They needed me to help in our family business – running the Claddach Café.
Mum, Suky and Eva run the café together. Mum – who’s always been an amazing cook – does most of the baking but they all pitch in. Mum’s also the business brain so she does all the books. Eva, who’s a talented potter and ceramicist, provides the crockery and in one corner, Suky has her ‘pharmacy’. She has a comfy sofa, screened off from the café, and a shelf unit filled with an apothecary’s dream of glass bottles. She offers a comforting ear and herbal remedies for the villagers’ medical complaints. And for more, erm, complicated problems, and, of course, for those problems that haven’t quite been voiced, Mum and Eva are on hand to help.
It’s an open secret that the McLeods can help with exam stress, fertility problems, annoying neighbours – anything really. Ask anyone outright and they’d laugh at you or dismiss Suky’s remedies as a placebo. But in reality, just about everyone in Claddach has had a helping hand at one time or another whether knowingly via Suky’s potions, or unknowingly, thanks to Mum, Eva and Suky stirring secret spells into their cakes and lacing their biscuits with sorcery.
And like I said, that’s why they needed me. The good stuff wouldn’t really get going unless there were three of them casting the spell. With Suky ill they needed me to make up the numbers and help them stir up the spells for their special cakes and bakes. They needed me to be the third member of their coven and it was absolutely, positively the last thing I wanted to do.
I looked at Suky who was sleeping peacefully, her thin face showing no sign of pain. Then I looked at Mum who was standing watching me, waiting for my answer. Somehow I knew I’d regret what I was about to say.
‘OK. I’ll help out,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders. I knew when I was beaten. ‘But only a bit. I’m not getting mixed up in anything I shouldn’t. I’ll only help when we’re asked to.’
Mum beamed at me but I waved away her gushing thanks.
‘It’s late and I’m knackered,’ I said. ‘I’m off to my bed. We can talk about this tomorrow.’
I kissed Mum briefly and touched Suky’s hand, then I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and pushed open the door. Turning on the light, I looked around. Mum hadn’t redecorated since I’d left home and my walls were still sponged peach and cream. I’d thought it was the height of sophistication when I was fifteen. Now it just looked twee. My bed was made up with the Take That duvet cover I’d discarded as childish when I was fourteen. I was half annoyed and half touched that Mum had looked it out for me.
Knowing I’d regret it if I left it until the morning, I tugged my clothes out of my case and hung them up. My city clothes – I didn’t really do casual – looked out of place in the old-fashioned wardrobe. Then I pulled on my pyjamas and sat on the edge of my bed. It was strange to be home after so long, but somehow it already felt like I’d never been away.
I picked up my phone and texted Dom, letting him know I’d arrived safely. I didn’t expect a reply and I didn’t get one so I switched off the phone and put it on my bedside table. And then I noticed the book. It sat squarely next to my bed and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it before. Mind you, I thought to myself rolling my eyes, I couldn’t be sure it had been there before. The book was about the size of a school exercise book but much thicker. It was bound in aged brown leather and had no markings on the outside.
Picking it up I noticed someone – Mum no doubt – had stuck a piece of paper inside, with a smiley face drawn on it.
‘Nice try, Mother,’ I said out loud. I plumped my pillows up, then wriggled under my duvet and sat back with the unopened book in my lap. I had butterflies in my stomach and my hands were trembling. I didn’t need to open it – I knew exactly what it was.
It was a spell book. All witches have them. They’re heirlooms, passed down through families (mine had been left to me by my granny when she died. She left Harry an identical one; I suspect there’s a stockpile somewhere) and they’re supposed to be well cared for. It’s implied, ridiculous as it sounds, that they’re almost living things; a gateway to all sorts of magic, as well as a kind of logbook for successive witches to record their spells.
‘Books are wonderful, Esme,’ I remembered Mum telling me when I was small. ‘But they can be dangerous. Why do you think the Nazis burned them? Spell books are even trickier to handle. Treat it like a wild animal.’
I’d gazed at her, wide-eyed.
‘Will it bite me?’ I’d asked.
Mum had laughed.
‘Almost definitely not,’ she said. But she hadn’t looked very sure.
‘Generations of McLeod witches have added to this book,’ she said. ‘The magic in here is very strong. Use it wisely and treat it with respect.’
With a flash of guilt I thought about how I’d actually treated it. I’d read it with Mum when I was a child, but when I hit my teens I’d cast it aside and abandoned it without a second thought when I’d left. Mum had clearly rescued it and kept it safe in case I ever needed it.
With shaking fingers I picked up the book. It was cold and hard. I turned it over in my hands and smoothed the cover, and as I did so, something strange happened. I felt – and I know this sounds crazy – that the book recognised me. There was a sigh and suddenly the leather softened and warmed under my fingers.
Reassured and freaked out in equal measures, I opened the first page. Whatever I thought about my dubious inherited talents, I knew I had to brush up on my spells – even if I wasn’t keen on being the Third. Apart from my magic being at best rusty and at worst unpredictable or even downright dangerous, I’d never agreed with my family’s bad habit of interfering in people’s lives without being asked – especially since I’d been on the receiving end of their meddling. But I knew the café couldn’t survive without my help and I owed it to Suky to do whatever I could. Even if all I could do was make a few sparks and probably a bit of a mess.
So, even though I was apprehensive about facing my past, I decided to read my spell book and see how much I remembered. I blew the dust off the pages and settled down to read. Some of the pages were handwritten, some typed on an old-fashioned typewriter. Some had notes scribbled on them. There were even photos stuck in between some of the pages. It was fascinating, but it was late and my eyes were soon heavy with sleep so I put the book aside. I knew I had a lot of brushing up to do, but it could wait until morning. Realising I needed to get up again to switch off the light, I started to get out of bed, then, thoughtfully, I stopped.
‘May as well start as I mean to go on,’ I said to no one. And I waggled my fingers at the light instead. With a puff of acrid-smelling smoke, the bulb exploded and the room was plunged into darkness.
‘Oh dear,’ I thought as I snuggled under the duvet. ‘I definitely have a lot of work to do.’

Chapter 6 (#ulink_9b258637-0d39-5243-9b95-63a5330589a1)
When I woke up the next day I felt oddly at home. Bright, frosty sunlight streamed through a gap in the thick curtains and I smiled to see that the rain had stopped – for now.
Tugging my fingers through my sleep-tangled hair, I listened for signs of life. Downstairs I could hear the faint sound of Radio Four and murmured voices so I jumped out of bed, pulled on a jumper and a thick pair of socks – the house was never very warm – and headed towards the noise.
Mum was in the kitchen alone. She was standing, reading The Guardian and chewing a slice of toast. I kissed her sleepily and sat down at the table. She plonked a mug of tea and a delicious-smelling muffin in front of me and I frowned. Normally I’d have done a workout at the gym by this time and such a calorie-laden treat wouldn’t have passed my lips. But it smelled so good. Maybe I could just have a taste.
‘What are you going to do today,’ Mum asked, as I finished my muffin and reached for another.
‘Don’t you need me to help you at the café?’ I said, through a mouthful of crumbs.
Mum shook her head.
‘Get yourself settled first,’ she said. ‘I know you work hard in London – have a couple of days rest before you start toiling for us.’
I smiled at her but I felt uneasy. How long was she expecting me to stay? I hadn’t considered being away from work for more than a fortnight. In fact, I’d not taken more than a week off in one go the whole time I’d worked for Lloyd & Lloyd.
‘Mum,’ I began, then stopped as Suky wandered into the kitchen. She looked thin in her chunky sweater but she had a wide smile on her face and she grabbed me in a tight hug.
‘It is so good to see you,’ she muttered into my hair.
‘You too,’ I said as she sat down opposite me and poured herself a cup of tea. I studied her carefully. She’d always been slender, but now her cheekbones stuck out and she had dark circles under her eyes. She’d wrapped a bright pink scarf around her head and, despite her pallor, looked exotic and mysterious like I remembered her from when I was a little girl.
Suky saw me looking at her headscarf and flashed me a rueful smile.
‘My hair’s already very thin, and I’m worried it’s starting to fall out,’ she said. ‘I keep thinking I should shave it and be done with it,’ her voice wobbled slightly. ‘But I’m too scared.’
I reached across the table and took her hand.
‘I’ll help you,’ I said. My voice wobbled too.
Suky gave a shaky laugh. ‘Look at us, such a pair of cry babies,’ she said, but her eyes shone with gratitude.
‘So,’ I said, changing the subject before I got too emotional. ‘I found my book last night.’
Mum sat down next to me. ‘Did you read it?’ she asked.
‘Hmm. Sort of,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit rusty.’
Suky smiled.
‘We knew you would be,’ she said, taking a bite of toast. ‘We don’t expect miracles immediately.’
I felt awkward again. How long would they give me before they did expect miracles?
‘I’ve been thinking,’ I said. ‘How about I pick up the slack with all the practical stuff – serving customers, doing the orders, washing the dishes – then Mum, you and Eva can look after the er, magical side of things while Suky gets better. I’ll just be there to make up the numbers.’ I was embarrassingly hazy about how the whole Three thing worked, but I guessed it would be OK as long as I was actually there, even if I wasn’t brilliant at magic.
Suky squeezed my hand again.
‘That would be perfect,’ she said. Suddenly I felt much happier.
‘What’s the plan for today, then?’ I asked.
‘Eva’s opening up this morning,’ Mum said. ‘I’m going to drop Suky in Inverness for her treatment and then take over at the café. Why don’t you go for a bit of a walk and have a look round – nothing’s changed much – and then meet me at the café later? How does that sound?’
It sounded OK – not as good as a day at work followed by an evening with Dom, but it would do. I grabbed another muffin, just in case I got hungry on the journey, wrapped up warm in the puffa jacket I never wore in London, and headed out into the cold, down the hill towards town.
I’d walked that way a million times before – to school, to the bus stop, to friends’ houses, to the pub – and it was comfortingly familiar. I looked at the cottages as I passed, wondering if I still knew anyone who lived there. I doubted it. They’d probably all moved on – as I had.
My phone beeped in my pocket. I fished it out and read the message. It was from Dom.
‘Miss U,’ it said.
I checked my watch; it was 10am. Dom would almost certainly be in meetings all day, but I decided to break the rules and risk a quick phone call.
‘I miss you too,’ I said when he answered.
‘Yep,’ Dom said. He was obviously with someone.
‘Can’t talk?’ I asked with a chuckle.
‘That’s correct,’ he said.
I sniggered. ‘Call me later,’ I said. ‘Sexy.’
Dom coughed. ‘I’ll follow that up this afternoon,’ he said.

Chapter 7 (#ulink_9b258637-0d39-5243-9b95-63a5330589a1)
Smiling to myself I walked into town. Mum was right; not much had changed. Loch Claddach centre was built around an elongated square with the town hall at one end and shops lining each side. There was a Boots and an Oxfam, but besides those, the shops were mostly newsagent’s or twee tourist shops selling tartan fridge magnets and stuffed Loch Ness monsters. A few cars were parked in the middle of the square but there was no one around. It was all exactly as I remembered.
Uninspired, I crossed the road. Through the gaps between the buildings on the far side of the square, I could glimpse the inky black water of the loch. The Claddach Café was just a few minutes’ walk away, down one of the side streets that led to the waterside, so I decided to pop in and say hello to Eva, have a cup of coffee and watch the world go by.
I walked down towards the loch, shivering in the icy wind that blew across the water. The view was spectacular from here. Despite the cold, the sun was shining brightly and light bounced off the surface of the loch. Beyond it, I could see the purple-green hills and far in the distance, the snowy caps of the mountains. I breathed in deeply. There was so much air and so much space after London. I felt liberated. And, I suddenly realised, very cold.
With numb fingers, I pushed open the door to the café feeling my frozen toes come back to life as the warmth wrapped round me like a blanket. Eva was behind the counter, making a cappuccino for, I assumed, the only other customer who was in the café. That was unusual. Normally the place was packed at this time in the morning – at least it always had been. I shrugged off my coat and wandered over to the counter. Eva was wearing a polka-dot apron splattered with coffee. She had a pair of glasses on the end of her nose, one slung around her neck on a chain and another perched on top of her greying, curly hair.
‘Esme,’ she said in her soft Yorkshire accent. She came round the counter and opened her arms for a hug.
‘Hello, Eva,’ I said into her sizeable bosom. She released me, finally, and bustled me over to one of the sofas by the window.
‘Lovely Esme, let me look at you,’ she said, holding my hands and spreading out my arms. ‘Hmm, too thin, too tired, too much hard work,’ she frowned. ‘A few days up here will see you right.’
I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t help smiling. I adored Eva. While Mum and Suky are undoubtedly kind-hearted and generous, they both have a spiky side. Eva –emotionally and physically – was all soft edges.
My Granny had started the café years ago, selling traditional teas and cakes to tourists. There wasn’t a whiff of magic about the place, not then. Although she did – obviously – help people with their problems on a personal basis.
When Suky had Harry she came home for a while, and as Harry grew, Suky’s contribution to the café grew too. She began dabbling in tinctures and tonics, selling them to locals for all sorts of ailments. And she persuaded my mum – who’d done a business course in Glasgow and who was running from an unhappy love affair – to come home too. So they all rubbed along – Mum, Suky and Gran, and Harry and me. Then, when I was twelve, and high-flying Harry had just started an MBA in the States, Gran died and the magic at home leaked away, just a bit but enough for Mum and Suky to know they were in trouble. Harry was committed to her studies, and I was too young – they needed to find another witch.
As the last guests departed after Gran’s funeral, Mum, Suky, Harry and I sat at the kitchen table feeling a little lost. At least I was. I remember Harry barely lifted her head out of the economics book she was reading. Then there was a knock on the back door and when I opened it, there was Eva.
‘Hello,’ she said in her matter-of-fact way. ‘I think I’m supposed to stay here.’
It sounds crazy, just opening your home up to a stranger. But in the world of witches, it’s actually not as weird as it could be. Suky and Mum had sent out a kind of call for help – a celestial SOS – and Eva had answered. So when she arrived on the doorstep, they knew exactly why she was there. Basically, Mum and Suky grinned at each other, and that was that. Eva moved into the outbuilding at the bottom of our garden with her husband Allan. They patched it up at first, then slowly made it their home, and even added a studio for Allan, a landscape artist, and a kiln for Eva’s ceramics.
Eva says she’s not sure what made her come to Claddach. She and Allan were in a bad way back then. Their teenage son Simon had been killed in a car accident a couple of years before.
‘Existing we were,’ Eva once told me. ‘Not living.’
Allan had stopped painting, Eva’s magic had all but burned out.
‘I couldn’t see the point,’ she said. ‘My magic couldn’t save Simon and I didn’t want anything else.’
And then one morning, the morning of Granny’s funeral though of course she didn’t know that at the time, Eva woke up with a new sense of purpose.
‘We are needed in Scotland,’ she told Allan, sweet, unquestioning Allan. And they packed their bags and left – driving all day to reach us.
Shortly after they arrived, Allan sold a painting to a card company – then another and another. Suddenly he was in demand and, for the first time, comfortably off. Eva’s ceramics sold well to tourists all over the Highlands and as soon as she met up with Mum and Suky her magic came back in abundance. And so they stayed, and they were happy. And their home became a refuge for teenagers – some placed there officially by social services and some who just found their way there looking for Eva’s non-judgemental affection and Allan’s calm, steady care.
When I’d left home, angry and upset with Mum and betrayed by Harry, I’d cursed the universe that had led Eva to our garden. If she’d lived further away, she could have been my refuge, I’d thought at the time. But now, I was simply pleased to see her.
Eva smiled at me.
‘Is it like you remembered?’ she asked.
I nodded, looking through the café’s long windows and out over the loch.
‘It’s like I’ve never been away,’ I said, bewildered by how little had changed in such a long time. ‘Do you need a hand?’
Eva looked at the empty café and shook her head.
‘It’s all under control,’ she said with a wry smile.
‘In that case, I’ll have a latte please.’ I was going to make the most of being a customer while I still could.
She punched me gently on the arm.
‘Cheeky.’ But she got up and began making me a coffee anyway.
I took my drink and a glossy magazine from the rack over to a table, where I sat, ignoring the celebs in my mag and gazing out of the window instead. As I watched a small boat jump across the surface of the loch, the door to the café was flung open and a gust of cold wind rippled the pages of my magazine.

Chapter 8 (#ulink_1d278ea5-c191-50d7-936d-e097051eef4f)
‘Esme! It’s true! You are back!’
I looked up. So did Eva. Chloé stood in the doorway, her long red hair lifting in the wind and a frown on her face. I was overjoyed to see her. She’d been my best friend all the way through school. She ignored the other children when they muttered about my odd family and I stuck by her when she was teased for being so tall and gawky. Now she was tall, lean and beautiful with striking auburn hair and creamy white skin – and my family was still odd.
I jumped up to hug her – and close the door behind her because I was freezing.
‘I heard you were back,’ Chloé said, pulling up a chair. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’
I grinned at her. The infamous Loch Claddach gossips had clearly been doing a good job.
‘I’ve not even been here a day,’ I laughed. ‘How did you know I’d arrived?’
Chloé rolled her eyes.
‘Mrs Parkinson saw you drive in last night,’ she said. ‘She called Mum, and Mum called me. I thought you’d be here so I left the kids with their gran until Rob gets home and popped down.’
My smile faltered slightly. In my opinion Rob and the kids were the reason Chloé and I had grown apart. Inseparable at school, we’d remained close when I left Claddach. But after uni, while I threw myself into my work, Chloé married Rob, took a teaching job in Inverness, moved home and squeezed out two children in quick succession. After that we didn’t have much in common any more though we’d kept in touch with regular emails. I told myself I was bored with Chloé’s talk of nappies and nurseries but the truth was I was a little in awe of her. She seemed like a proper grown up, while I still felt like a child. Now, even though I was pleased to see her, I sat awkwardly opposite her, not sure what to say next.
‘So,’ I finally began as Eva put a cappuccino in front of Chloé without being asked. ‘Is everything still shit?’
Chloé laughed and looked sheepish.
‘I was a bit overdramatic in my last email,’ she said, sticking her finger in the froth of her coffee. ‘It’s just things haven’t exactly worked out as I planned, you know?’
I nodded, even though in terms of my career, things had worked out exactly as I’d planned.
‘I never thought I’d be stuck here, no job and two kids before I’m even thirty.’
‘But you’re feeling better now?’ I asked.
Chloé leaned forward.
‘Thanks to Suky,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t told anyone how I was feeling – only you. Not Rob, or my mum. Then I was in here a few weeks ago and Suky brought me a cake I hadn’t ordered. You know how she does?’
‘I do.’ I eyed Chloé’s cappuccino, which she hadn’t ordered either, suspiciously.
‘Anyway, about two days later I bumped into Mary – she’s the head at the primary school here – we got chatting and she mentioned they needed someone three days a week to do extra tuition with some of the kids. We had a chat, I taught a lesson for her, blah blah, you know the drill. And I’ve got a new job, which is perfect. And then I mentioned that I’d been looking at the MAs in the Open University brochure, Mary made a couple of calls and suddenly the council is funding me to do the course I want. Isn’t it funny how these things just happen?’
‘Isn’t it,’ I said drily, glancing at Eva, who was studiously ignoring us.
‘I think I was one of the last people Suky helped actually, before…’ She paused. ‘You know.’
I didn’t want to talk about Suky’s cancer right now. I changed the subject.
‘So what’s going on here?’ I asked, though I didn’t really care.
‘Ooh well there is some gossip. Have you heard it?’
‘I’ve only just arrived, Chlo,’ I said.
She stared at me, as if to say so?
‘I haven’t heard any gossip.’
‘There’s a hot new man in town,’ she said.
‘Really?’ This was interesting. ‘Permanently?’ Claddach had a stream of ever-changing arty visitors but no one ever stayed long.
‘Apparently so. For the foreseeable anyway. And…’ She was almost bouncing in her chair with excitement. ‘He’s American. Some dotcom millionaire.’
‘Probably one of Harry’s friends,’ I said. Harry’s business – a self-help empire – had started online.
Chloé looked deflated.
‘Oh do you think?’
‘Joke.’
Chloé rolled her eyes and carried on as though I hadn’t spoken.
‘Anyway, he’s hot, rich, American – the women of Claddach are in a frenzy.’
I chuckled.
‘Millicent Fry is beside herself,’ Chloé said.
‘Who’s she?’
‘Oh she’s a treat,’ said Chloé. ‘One of the rat-race escapees.’ Claddach was full of people running from life in Glasgow, Edinburgh or down south. There were writers, artists, poets, potters, silversmiths – all sorts.
‘So what does she do?’ I asked.
‘She runs the B&B,’ Chloé said. ‘Only she calls it a boutique hotel.’
She carried on talking, but I had lost interest as self-pity overwhelmed me. All these people escaping the rat race and I couldn’t wait to get back to it.
‘Mum wants me to stay,’ I said, interrupting Chloé’s tales of Millicent Fry.
‘Will you?’
I shrugged.
‘I can’t really. There’s work…’ I trailed off, knowing it was a rubbish excuse.
‘How are things with your mum?’
‘Better. The same. Worse,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. It’s going to be strange living in the same house again.’
‘Could be just what you need,’ Chloé pointed out. ‘It’s been ten years, Ez, since all the stuff with Jamie…’
She gasped and put her hand to her mouth.
‘Oh my God, I can’t believe I haven’t told you!’
‘Told me what?’ I said. ‘What on earth is that?’
A woman was walking past the café wearing a Barbour jacket with a tartan tam o shanter perched on her blonde curls.
Chloé turned to look at what had caught my eye. She grinned in delight.
‘That,’ she laughed, ‘is Millicent Fry.’
‘No!’ I said. ‘Why is she wearing that hat?’
Chloé chuckled. ‘She’s not Scottish,’ she said. ‘But she’d like to be. She wears a lot of tartan.’
Together we watched Millicent walk up the path into the town centre. Then Chloé got up.
‘I must go,’ she said, giving me a kiss. ‘I need to rescue Rob from the children– he’s due at work soon. Come round for dinner?’
I agreed to see her later and said goodbye. As Chloé left the café, Mum came in and my good mood left me almost immediately. I knew she was there to do some enchanting and I knew she wanted me to do it too.
‘Hello, darling,’ she tinkled at me across the empty tables, falsely bright.
I heaved myself up from my comfy seat and slunk across to the counter where Mum and Eva stood.
‘Hello,’ I said sounding exactly as I had when I was a moody teenager.
‘Ready?’
‘Not really.’ I was nervous, actually. What if I made everything go wrong? My magic wasn’t great at the best of times.
‘It’s all nothing to worry about,’ Mum tried her best to reassure me as she and Eva steered me into the kitchen behind the counter, where Eva had started to bake a big bowl of something that smelled yummy.
I forced a smile.
‘Just tell me what to do, I’ll do it and then I’m out of here,’ I said. I didn’t mean to be so grumpy but somehow I couldn’t help it.
Mum handed me a wooden spoon. ‘Stir this.’
I stirred the huge bowl half-heartedly.
‘Put some welly into it,’ Eva said, as she reached up on to a shelf for a big bag of chopped dates and passed it to me.
‘Add these to the mixture,’ she said. ‘Honestly, don’t worry. You’re not doing this alone – we’re a team here.’
I poured the dates into my mixture and smiled at Eva doubtfully. I wasn’t convinced by her breezy good humour.
‘You don’t know my track record,’ I said, thinking of the broken light bulb in my bedroom and the car hire woman’s computer.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said again. ‘Stop fretting.’
I nodded slowly. ‘OK,’ I agreed. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Wrinkling my nose, I peered into the bowl I was stirring. It was full of a dark brown, lumpy mixture.
‘What is this?’ I asked. ‘I’m not sure it’s supposed to look like this.’
Mum leaned over and looked into the bowl.
‘Oh yes it is,’ she said. ‘It’s sticky toffee pudding.’
‘And what makes it special sticky toffee pudding?’ I asked.
Mum and Eva grinned at each other.
‘Well, it’s not yet,’ Mum said. ‘But it will be in just a moment. Hold my hand.’
I put down the spoon and took Mum’s hand in my slightly sticky fingers. Eva took my other hand and linked with Mum over the bowl. She closed her eyes, so did Mum, but I kept mine open. I wanted to see what was going to happen.
Eva breathed in deeply and began to mutter a stream of strange words. She spoke so quietly her voice was like a breath, yet I could hear everything as clearly as if she were speaking straight into my ear.
As she spoke, time in the kitchen seemed to stand still. Everything was completely silent – I couldn’t even hear the noise of the coffee machine in the café or the waves crashing on the shore any more. Then, slowly, over the bowl, the air began to sparkle as though someone had shaken a pot of glitter high above the kitchen. I gasped as the sparkles floated downwards into the sticky toffee pudding and disappeared.
Mum dropped my hand.
‘That’s it,’ she said briskly.
‘That’s it?’ I asked, still peering into the bowl. ‘What have you – we – just done exactly?’
‘It’s for keeping secrets,’ Mum said.
I raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
Mum flicked me with a tea towel.
‘Look as sceptical as you like,’ she said. ‘It works.’
‘And who’s it for?’ I asked.
‘Mrs Unwin.’
‘What secrets does she have? Actually, don’t tell me. It’s probably better if I don’t know.’
This was exactly why I had a problem with what Mum and the others got up to in the tearoom. Unlike our ancestors from hundreds of years ago, and even my Gran just a few years ago, they didn’t always wait for people to come to them for help.
‘We can’t go around shouting about what we are, Esme. These are suspicious times,’ Mum always said when I challenged her. ‘But we do have to be proactive. It is the 21
century after all.’
Being proactive, according to Mum, Eva and Suky, meant being the eyes and ears of the village. They watched people meet for coffee, listened to conversations and paid attention to what wasn’t said. Then they interfered.
‘We help,’ said Mum. I wasn’t so sure.
Say, for example, Mum happened to overhear Old Mrs Lewis telling Mrs Parkinson that she’d seen her granddaughter kissing a boy who was definitely not her boyfriend. She’d serve them both up a portion of dark, moistly sweet, sticky toffee pudding – whether they’d asked for it or not – and somehow the girl’s stolen kisses would stay a secret.
Or, if Eva chatted to Chloé about how difficult she was finding being a mum, Chloé would find a piece of millionaire’s shortbread in front of her, warm and chocolatey and oozing with soft toffee. And by the time she’d eaten it, she’d be appreciating her riches.
‘I’ve got the two best kids in the world,’ she’d say and head off, misty-eyed, back to her family.
They’d even come up with a recipe for coffee cake – known among themselves as spill the beans cake – that made whoever ate it open their heart and let out whatever was on their mind.
I thought it was wrong to dispense unwanted advice and interfere in people’s private lives in this way. I’d been on the receiving end of Mum’s meddling myself with disastrous consequences which made my feelings on the matter even stronger and ironically made Mum and Suky even less likely to listen to my objections – because they thought I was too emotional about it all. But whatever my opinion, I couldn’t deny that the café was enormously successful. At least it always had been. It was strangely quiet today. And, even though our customers weren’t always aware of the helping hand they’d been given, they did flock to see Mum, Eva and Suky whenever they felt they needed to share a problem, get an energy boost or even share good news.
Thoughtfully I licked sticky toffee pudding mixture from the spoon.
‘Don’t eat that!’ Mum cried. I laughed.
‘I don’t have any secrets I need to keep,’ I lied, thinking of Dom and how much trouble it would cause if everyone – Mum, Chloé, people at work…Rebecca – found out about our relationship.
Mum took the spoon from me and put it in the dishwasher.
‘I was thinking about the health inspector,’ she said. ‘If he saw you doing that, he’d close us down.’

Chapter 9 (#ulink_aa4218e7-45ba-52f9-970d-ad47cc5ee77a)
Relieved it was all over, and with no ill effects as far as I could see, I decided to leave Mum and Eva to it and go out for some fresh air. I bundled myself up in my thick coat and decided to go for a walk round the loch.
Wrapping my scarf round my neck, I tramped across the stony beach to the water’s edge and looked across to the other side. Claddach was a small loch, a puddle really, compared to some, so I could see the far end clearly. It was said to be as deep as it was long, however, and I believed it. The water was still and peaty black at the centre. At the edge, where I stood, small waves lapped at the shingle and further out, the water was being whipped into small peaks by the wind. The mountains were purple against the bright blue frosty sky as they loomed over the loch. It was bleak but it was beautiful.
I picked up a flat stone and skidded it across the waves. It jumped once…twice…three times then sank into the murky water. Rubbish. I’d lost my touch. I tried again…four…five…better.
Behind me, the shingle crunched and suddenly another stone flew past my arm. I watched as it skipped five, six times.
‘Yes!’ said a voice and I turned to see who had gatecrashed my game.
It was a man. A rather handsome man, actually. He was wearing running gear and because he was higher up the steeply shelving beach than I was, my eyes were level with his toned, tanned thighs. Thighs that told me this wasn’t a local man – this must be Chloé’s hot American.
‘Sorry,’ he smiled and his eyes crinkled up at the corners in a way that made him look like a preppy George Clooney. ‘I can’t resist a bit of competition.’
‘You won,’ I pointed out, still annoyed at his interruption.
‘I always do,’ he said. I didn’t doubt it. He looked like he’d spent his life winning.
The American stuck out his hand for me to shake.
‘Brent Portland,’ he said.
I shook his hand.
‘Esme McLeod.’
‘Going this way?’ he nodded in the direction of Mum’s house. I thought of a reason to go the other way – I was no fan of small talk at the best of times – but came up with nothing.
‘I am,’ I said. We began walking back up the beach to the road. Brent was nice looking, couldn’t deny, though he wasn’t my type. He was an all-American, clean-cut guy with tousled dark hair, good skin and startlingly white even teeth.
He was fairly short for a man – about 5’9 or 10’ – but he still towered over me.
‘So Esme McLeod,’ he said as we walked. ‘I’ve been in town for about two weeks now. How come today is the first time we’ve met?’
‘I just got here myself,’ I said.
‘So you’re a stranger here too?’ He gave me an eager grin. ‘How are you finding it?’
‘I’m not exactly a stranger,’ I said. ‘I grew up here. My mum runs the café – back there.’ I pointed back the way we’d come.
Brent’s eyes widened.
‘I love that place,’ he said. ‘It’s so cute. And the cakes – wow!’ He patted his very flat stomach. ‘I need to stay away from those.’
His over-enthusiastic response to everything was beginning to grate on me so I was pleased to see the path I needed to take.
‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘Enjoy your run.’
Brent was already bouncing on the spot, ready to jog off. He made me feel weary just looking at him.
‘Nice to meet you Esme McLeod,’ he said over his shoulder as he took off at a cracking pace. ‘See you around.’

Chapter 10 (#ulink_08e88be1-ae1f-5347-9c16-1643075e9e56)
‘Bye Mum!’ I yelled as I shut the front door later that evening ‘Don’t wait up!’
Tucking a bottle of wine under my arm, I headed down the hill to Chloé’s house for dinner. Chloé had ended up living close to where she grew up, round the corner from her parents on the new estate, so the walk to her house felt like old times. It was freezing and the wind flapped my jeans against my legs and blew the rain into my face. I walked along hunched against the weather, looking forward to seeing Chloé again, but nervous about seeing her at home with her husband Rob, their little boy, Olly, and their baby, Matilda. Her home life was very different from my solo evenings in my flat with a bottle of wine and a Mad Men box set.
I turned into the new estate where Chloé lived. Her house was on the corner. A small trike lay on its side in the front garden and a muddy Land Rover stood in the drive. It all looked very grown up.
Suddenly nervous, I rang the doorbell. Footsteps thundered down the hallway towards me and I took a step backwards in alarm. Chloé opened the door, a cross, red-faced baby on her hip and a small boy with a wonky fringe and huge, curious brown eyes peeking out at me from behind her knees.
‘A picture of domestic bliss,’ I said, kissing Chloé on the cheek.
‘Not quite,’ she said wryly. ‘Olly, this is Esme. Say hello.’
I bent down and shook Olly’s tiny, slightly damp hand. He regarded me with mild interest.
‘I did a standing-up wee,’ he said solemnly.
‘How lovely,’ I said, standing up again and wiping my hand on my trousers. I was never sure what to say to small children. Olly raced off as Chloé pulled the wine out of my arms and beckoned to the kitchen.
‘Come on Mary Poppins,’ she said. ‘Let’s crack this open.’
I followed her down the hall, its walls covered in photos of the children, and into the kitchen. One end had been extended into a conservatory and the rain pounded noisily on the glass roof. Inside though it was warm and cosy. On the fridge were several of Olly’s drawings and a chart with gold stars on, and something that smelled delicious was bubbling on the hob. It all felt very homely and with a sudden burst of affection I hugged Chloé. She plopped Matilda on to the floor, where she began to wail in self-pity, and hugged me back.
‘This is gorgeous,’ I said over Matilda’s roars. ‘The house, the kids, everything.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I am lucky. Sometimes it’s hard to remember. But I’m so excited about my new job – it’s just perfect.’
She looked at me slyly.
‘Wasn’t it so weird that it just happened like that,’ she said, opening a drawer in search of a corkscrew. ‘One minute I’m chatting to Suky, the next I’m in the running for the perfect job.’
I took the bottle from her and found the corkscrew. ‘Very weird,’ I said without looking at her.

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