Page 97 of Meet me at the Seaside Cottages

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A boutique Edinburgh investment fund collapsed at close of business yesterday in what insiders are already suggesting may have been a ‘Ponzi scheme’.

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Janey grabs her glasses, scans the text in a panic, unable to make sense of it in her head.

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Tristan Morgan, director of the fund known for its huge returns and its hand-picked clientele, was not at home last night as the news began to spread and desperate investors turned up at the office, only to find the doors locked.

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Janey’s heart is in her mouth. She can’t let down her patients, who have been waiting for months to see her, but she sleepwalks through till morning break at ten, then, unable to face the canteen, sends an emergency WhatsApp to her friends.

As soon as they enter the consulting room, carrying treats, she knows they all know. And they know she hadn’t been sure. It had never felt right. She didn’t believe in doing anything with her money that she couldn’t touch and feel or live in or eat. Which was why, of course, as Essie kept pointing out, she was always poor.

But Essie had accused her of never being proud of her.

So she hadn’t said anything. She’d known deep down something wasn’t right about this, and those boys – so young, although she knew they didn’t look like that to Essie; she thought they were men. Janey knew they were boys bluffing their way through,showing off, like when Al came home from school at fourteen and said apparently he was the only virgin in the class. That was what little boys did. And sometimes they invented Facebook or rockets. But sometimes they just blew everything up.

Lish hugs her. ‘This is Essie’s thing?’

She can only nod, the lump in her throat too big, the blood in her veins running freezing cold.

‘Have you spoken to her?’

‘She already hates me, Lish,’ says Janey suddenly, all of it coming out of her without her even wanting it to, without her wanting to say anything at all. ‘She thinks I’m stupid and slow and to blame for the divorce and a total idiotic waste of space! And this will just make everything worse! She’ll blame me for making her live back here or not giving her advice or not knowing about money or . . . I don’t know. It’s all my fault somehow. She’ll never speak to me again!’ She screws up her eyes. ‘Oh God, that’s before I even find out what the rest of the village thinks.’

‘I thought you said it was a town,’ says Milton in his gentle way, and they all look up, surprised, as they realise that’s Milton’s way of trying to make a joke.

‘That’s even more people,’ says Janey, sobbing. She keeps staring at her phone. Nothing.

‘What have you got on the rest of the day?’ says Lish.

‘Community visits.’

‘Just say you’re not well,’ says Lish. ‘They’ll get done. Half the hospital is off sick anyway. Go and find your daughter.’

‘She doesn’t want to talk to me. She won’t even pick up the phone.’

Lish rolls her eyes. ‘She’s yourdaughter.’

36

The stupid thing is, at the moment she gets the call, Essie doesn’t even realise that she is happy. Undeniably, undoubtedly happy. It is a lovely morning and she is in the garden at Lowell’s house, braiding Verity’s long dull hair, while the puppies cause trouble at their feet. They have already dug so many holes in the flowerbeds that Lowell has more or less given up on the garden for the summer, but he is being good-natured about it.

Essie is good at braiding and has, at Verity’s pointed requests, taken up long chains of daisies and is weaving them in and out of the braids. They have a mirror set up and Verity is undoubtedly approving. The wind remains chilly, but in the pretty garden they are well sheltered from the wind and can sit in full sunshine; like most Scottish gardens, it is not designed to shade but to trap, so it is perfectly comfortable out here in their cardigans.

Lowell brought her coffee, paid her cash – an undeniably comforting thing to have in her pocket – then vanished to do some work, so it is just her and Verity, who doesn’t choose to say much to her – they have the iPad, too, which she can write on if needed, but the girl is happy to have her hair braided and Essie is happy to do it. Verity has, it seems, taken a liking to Argyll, Lowell’s favourite. She glances at her longingly, nestling her under her hand. There will, Essie thinks, be no dogs left atthis rate. She wonders how Dwight is getting on with Smokey, then tells herself not to think about him. Stupid cowboy.

Verity stares very hard at her hair from all angles. The sweep of the braids is transformative, taking the lank locks and giving her head height and grace. It’s undeniably pretty, and Essie is proud of her handiwork.

‘We could put some streaks in it,’ she says to the girl’s face. Verity looks excited then shocked.

‘Toxic,’ she writes down.

‘And it’s not toxic. We could use a natural colour like henna.’

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