Coming Home to Brightwater Bay

by Holly Hepburn

  Merry almost dropped the phone. ‘What?’

  ‘And the reason that’s lucky is that a potential film deal will obviously make your publisher very happy and might soften the blow that you’re not actually writing the book they think you are.’

  ‘What?’ Merry said again, unable to believe what she was hearing. ‘Did you really just say Sam wants to option the idea? And that he’s got a studio on board already?’

  ‘Apparently,’ Phoebe said. ‘Look, I’m sorry to drag you away from your island retreat, but I think we’re going to have to do some damage limitation with your editor. Why don’t you come down to London for a couple of days and I’ll set up lunch so we can lay everything out for them?’

  Her head still whirling with the implications, Merry found herself nodding. ‘Okay. As long as it doesn’t clash with the Orkney half-marathon.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath in her ear. ‘A half-marathon? But you’re not a runner.’

  ‘I am now,’ Merry replied. She squared her shoulders. ‘But yes, I’ll come down and we’ll tell them everything.’

  ‘And you will let me read this new book at some point, will you?’ Phoebe asked. ‘Before the meeting, I mean.’

  Merry laughed. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll send it to you as soon as it’s finished. Which will be around the end of the month,’ she said, before Phoebe could ask.

  ‘Fabulous,’ her agent said, and her voice softened. ‘Congratulations, Merry. I know it’s been a tough couple of years but maybe this is exactly what you need to get everything back on track. And if you tell anyone I said this, I’ll deny it, but well done for taking a risk – on Orkney and on this new novel. It sounds brilliant.’

  Merry felt the backs of her eyes prickle with unexpected tears. Phoebe had never been anything less than supportive, but hearing her say such kind things was like a warm hug on a gloomy day. ‘Thanks. I hope you’re going to like it.’

  ‘I love everything you write,’ Phoebe said simply. ‘Now go and get a wee dram to celebrate, or whatever it is they drink up there in the arse end of nowhere.’

  She hung up and Merry was left staring at her phone, wondering whether she’d dreamt the whole conversation. She was still there a few minutes later when Niall appeared, a look of concern on his face.

  ‘Merry? Are you all right? I thought you were coming up to have some lunch.’

  She blinked hard and stared at him, still half in shock. ‘I was, but my agent called. She’s found out about the historical book.’

  Niall’s mouth dropped in understanding. ‘Ah. Is everything okay?’

  ‘I think so,’ Merry said, and then the full impact of Phoebe’s call sank in. ‘In fact, I think I might have a film deal! Or at least the start of one.’

  ‘For the historical?’ Niall said, his face lighting up with excitement. ‘That’s incredible news – congratulations!’

  It was, Merry thought, and reached out to grab Niall’s arm. ‘I think this calls for a celebration, don’t you? Give Andrew a ring – we’re going to need a bottle of the 1968 vintage tonight!’

  ‘Excellent plan,’ Niall replied with a grin. ‘I’ll call him right now.’

  He hurried inside, leaving Merry alone with her thoughts once more and Phoebe’s words echoed in her head – well done for taking a risk. Perhaps, she mused, it was worth taking another risk. As Magnús had pointed out, it was better to try and fail than regret never having tried at all.

  Maybe she hadn’t fallen out of love with love after all, Merry told herself as she went inside to find Magnús. Maybe there was hope for her heart after all.

  Part Three Dangerous Tides at Brightwater Bay

  Orkney Literary Society presents

  An Evening of Conversation with: Merina Wilde and Jessie Edwards

  Join our celebrated Writer in Residence, Merina Wilde, as she chats to special guest, Jessie Edwards, about her life and career as an internationally bestselling author. Expect surprises, secrets and a sprinkling of sauciness as these two superstar novelists reveal why we just can’t help falling in love with love stories.

  Saturday 13th June

  6.30pm at Orkney Library

  Booking essential.

  Email: Niall.Gunn@Orkneylib.gov.uk

  Chapter Fourteen

  Merry thought she was going to die.

  Her lungs were on fire, her heart was thudding and her legs – well, her legs felt as though they belonged to someone else. She was eleven miles into the Orkney half-marathon and it felt like eleven thousand.

  Why had she ever thought she could do this, she wondered as her muscles burned with built-up lactic acid. She could be safely tucked away in her clifftop croft right now, working on a story with a mug of steaming coffee, instead of wondering whether she was going to need CPR from one of the paramedics she’d seen at intervals along the sidelines. The burst of euphoria she’d felt at seven miles felt like a distant dream, and it didn’t help that her practically octogenarian neighbour, Sheila, had abandoned her shortly afterwards, declaring her ‘a wee bit too slow’. And it helped even less that her other running buddy seemed to be taking the ridiculously hilly course completely in his stride – although the fact that he was a 6’5” Viking probably gave him an advantage.

  Merry puffed her hair away from her damp forehead and glared at Magnús. ‘Are you actually human? How come you don’t look like a sweaty tomato on legs?’

  ‘Nobody looks like a tomato on legs,’ he replied, in an even-breathed tone that suggested he was out for a Sunday stroll instead of a gruelling half-marathon. ‘And I am sweating – you just can’t see it under my beard.’

  She fired a disbelieving glance his way. His long blond hair was tucked into a smooth man-bun and his golden beard was glistening in the May sunshine. It could be perspiration that made it seem as though he was glowing with health and vitality, she thought as she forced her legs to keep pounding the unforgiving tarmac beneath her feet. Or it could be some god-like power he was keeping to himself.

  ‘You’re doing so well,’ Magnús said encouragingly. ‘Just a little bit further.’

  Biting back a rude response, Merry dug deep and tried to focus on keeping a steady pace. When she’d first agreed to join Sheila on one of her runs along the clifftops around Brightwater Bay, she’d had no idea it would lead to this madness. Yet, somehow, she’d found herself going for longer and longer, supposedly to keep Sheila company, but her neighbour was a lifelong runner and often left her behind, and before Merry knew it, she’d been entered into the Orkney half-marathon. Now here she was, with burgeoning blisters on both feet, despite her moisture-wicking socks, and a toenail that felt suspiciously loose. Magnús was probably right, there might only be a comparatively short distance to go, but it felt like it would take forever. And she was fast running out of energy. Her legs were leaden and every step was like wading through treacle. Her pace was definitely dropping.

  She fumbled in the tiny pocket of her running trousers and dug out a handful of jellybeans. The enormous bowl of porridge she’d had before the race had been burned up miles ago and she knew her body must be craving more fuel. Beside her, Magnús adjusted his stride to match hers.

  ‘This is the worst bit,’ he said. ‘But look – there is the twelve-mile marker. Only just over a mile to go.’

  A wave of heaviness washed over Merry; a mile was still a long way. She’d been stupid to think she could do this – she was a writer, not a runner. And surely no one would blame her if she stopped now. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard.

  ‘I remember my first big run,’ Magnús went on, his tone irritatingly conversational. ‘It was a marathon around Reykjavik and I clearly recall thinking it would be the death of me.’

  Merry gritted her teeth. Did he have to sound so cheerful when talking about impending death? ‘Obviously it wasn’t.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ he agreed. ‘But at around twenty-three miles, I hit the wall and almost gave up. My legs ached, my head hurt and I had a m
ost uncomfortable case of nipple chafe.’

  The last few words were so unexpected that Merry laughed in spite of herself, a hoarse, wheezy gasp that turned into a snort. At least she didn’t have chafed nipples to contend with, thanks to the some fairly rigorous sports-bra research.

  ‘I’d just decided enough was enough when I realized someone had started running beside me,’ Magnús continued, as though she hadn’t reacted. ‘It was an old man – or at least he seemed old to me at the time. I found out later he was sixty-one. He didn’t speak or try to make eye contact, he simply ran next to me in silence for about five minutes while I puffed and grimaced and struggled with every step. And then he glanced over and said, “I hope you don’t mind me joining you. I find this part of the race especially hard and having someone to run with helps me get through it.” ’

  Merry wanted to roll her eyes but wasn’t sure she had the strength. ‘That sounds like exactly the kind of mind-games Sheila would try,’ she managed. ‘Are they related?’

  Magnús smiled. ‘Part of me knew what he was doing, of course, but it gave me something to cling to; a reason to keep going. And before I knew it, we’d passed the twenty-four-mile marker and suddenly the fog seemed to lift. I found some energy and my legs felt lighter – although my nipples still rubbed.’ He gave her a sideways look. ‘My companion told me to use Vaseline next time. It turned out that it was his forty-second marathon.’

  The tightness in Merry’s calf muscles made her feet drag as she battled to keep moving forward. No doubt Magnús meant well by sharing evidence that he’d once been a mere mortal, but having him there to witness her humiliation and failure wasn’t helping at all. She was a sodden mess of pain and perspiration; even her eyeballs were sweating, for god’s sake.

  ‘If this were any kind of a decent story, he’d have vanished as you crossed the finish line,’ she panted, licking her parched lips. ‘And you’d have discovered he’d died the night before but wanted to complete one last race before joining his ancestors.’

  ‘That would be a better ending,’ Magnús conceded. ‘But instead we went for a post-race drink and I woke up the next day wearing someone else’s coat, with no idea how I’d got home. My finishing medal was hanging from a tree outside.’

  Once again, Merry couldn’t help a huff of wheezing laughter. ‘Sounds like a good night.’

  ‘It was. Although I don’t really recommend it as a general warm-down.’

  A drunken night out was the last thing Merry had planned for when she finished the race. The only things she wanted were a cold shower, followed by a long bath and her bed. If she ever finished…

  ‘And look,’ Magnús said, holding up his wrist to show her the fitness tracker he wore, ‘there’s just half a mile to go. You can do this.’

  Half a mile, Merry thought, and wanted to cry. It didn’t sound that far, not when there were twelve and a half miles behind her, but she was so tired and sore. Sheila would have finished ages ago; perhaps she was impatiently scanning the other runners as they finished, wondering what was taking Merry so long.

  The idea that Merry might not make it to the end wouldn’t even occur to her. Failure wasn’t something Sheila seemed to be familiar with, reflected Merry, as tears of self-pity stung her eyes.

  But, for Merry, it was something she’d come to Orkney to escape. And up until now, she’d been doing quite well. She was writing again, at least; she had unexpectedly fallen in love with the islands and been inspired by the stories she’d heard. Her heart was healing too; it no longer ached when she thought of her ex, Alex, and the life they would never have together. Meeting Magnús and becoming friends had helped ease the lingering hurt, of course, but it was more than that. Being on Orkney, away from London and all its memories, had given her perspective. And, when she wasn’t gasping for breath and wishing for death, it had also shown her she was stronger than she’d known.

  The realization brought a sudden surge of determination that caught her by surprise. Magnús was right – she could do this. Half a mile was no distance – she could walk if she needed to. It didn’t really matter if she crawled across the line, although it was Sod’s Law that the local press would catch the image for posterity if she did.

  ‘Tell me another story,’ she gasped to Magnús. ‘I don’t care what it is – just talk.’

  And Magnús did. He described the town he’d grown up in back in Iceland, and made Merry smile with his obvious affection for the people who had shaped his youth. She’d heard him mention his family before – the mother and sister who’d raised him on their own after his father had left – but only in passing, as part of other conversations. She loved his assertion that single mothers were viewed very differently in Iceland than in the UK; there was no stigma attached to raising children without a man and many women deliberately chose to solo parent.

  ‘Icelandic women see no need to settle for a partner who does not honour and support them,’ he said. ‘They would rather be independent, and our society admires their strength instead of judging or condemning them.’

  Even distracted by her weariness, Merry couldn’t help noticing the pride in his voice and, she thought, a touch of homesickness for the land of his birth. She could hardly blame him; the more she heard about Iceland, with its dramatic landscape and refreshingly egalitarian attitudes, the more appealing it sounded. She vaguely recalled reading that it ranked highly in the World Happiness Report too. All of which made her curious about why Magnús had left as a young man and never gone back.

  ‘It felt too small to me then,’ he told her when she asked. ‘Everyone knew everyone and I found it a little…’ He paused to find the right word. ‘Stifling.’

  ‘And yet you settled on Orkney,’ she pointed out between gasped breaths. ‘Which is even smaller.’

  Magnús shrugged. ‘I’d travelled by then and got a taste for lands that were not my own. When I was eventually ready to settle somewhere, Orkney was the perfect place – it reminded me of home in many ways and yet was unlike anywhere else I’d been.’ He flashed her a smile and waved a hand at the road ahead. ‘And look, there is the finish line, waiting for you to cross it.’

  It was the most welcome sight Merry had ever seen. A reasonable-sized crowd waited on either side of the silver barriers that lined the approach; friends and family of runners perhaps mixed up with those who’d already finished, she assumed, although her vision was too blurry to pick out any individual faces. Whoever they were, a loud cheer went up when they spotted Merry and Magnús.

  ‘What do you think?’ Magnús asked, eyeing her speculatively. ‘Got enough left in the tank for a sprint finish?’

  ‘Ha ha,’ she managed, then realized he wasn’t joking. ‘No. I’ve barely got enough left to plod.’

  ‘You’re stronger than you think,’ he said, which made Merry want to hit him. Hadn’t he spent the last mile encouraging her not to give in to her fatigue? And now he expected her to find some hitherto undiscovered seam of energy to race for the line, as though she was Wonder Woman instead of a desperately drained novelist.

  Her rising indignation caused her feet to hit the ground harder. Before she knew it, her pace had increased as her muscles seemed to forget how tired they were. She fired a suspicious look at Magnús; did he have a Voodoo doll of her somewhere on his person, forcing her legs to move? Or was it some kind of mind-control, like a fitness-obsessed Derren Brown? Whatever the reason, she was definitely running faster. Gritting her teeth, Merry dug deep and let an unexpected burst of adrenaline power her forwards.

  If Magnús was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, he matched her speed and stayed with her. She couldn’t look at him now – all her attention was fixed on finishing. Her lungs burned and her heart pounded and she thought her legs might fail her, even as she powered over the line. She let out a loud, ragged sob that was half elation and half exhaustion, and told her weary body it could stop.

  Her legs wobbled as she slowed. One foot landed unevenly, sending her
lurching to the side and forcing her spent muscles to tighten as she tried to stay upright. With a sick surge of panic, Merry realized she was going to fall.

  Magnús caught her before she crashed to the tarmac. ‘Steady,’ he murmured, his voice full of concern. ‘Just hold onto me. I’ve got you.’

  The temptation to do just that – to throw her arms around him and let his strength keep her upright – was almost too much for Merry, but then she caught sight of Niall coming towards them. He held two foil blankets in his hands and wore a studiously neutral expression on his face. She forced herself to step unsteadily back, hoping her legs weren’t about to betray her again. ‘I’m okay,’ she wheezed at Magnús. ‘Just a bit… knackered.’

  And then Niall was at her side, handing one silvery blanket to Magnús and draping the other around Merry’s shoulders. ‘That was quite some finish,’ he said, shaking his head in admiration. ‘Well done!’

  She hadn’t thought it possible to turn any redder, but Merry felt her cheeks grow even hotter. ‘Apart from the bit where I almost face-planted onto the road,’ she said, trying to get her breathing under control. ‘I bet the photographer would have caught that.’

  Niall pulled a bottle of water from his pocket and unscrewed the lid before offering it to her. ‘I didn’t even notice,’ he said. ‘No one did.’

  His blue eyes didn’t quite meet hers and Merry knew he was just trying to make her feel better; he’d seen her stumble and so had anyone else who’d happened to be watching. Just as he’d seen Magnús catch her, which wasn’t a problem in itself except that it had probably looked as though she’d thrown herself into Magnús’s arms in celebration. And that was a problem for two reasons: firstly, Merry had led Niall to believe she was still in a relationship with Alex, and secondly, she knew he suspected Magnús wanted more than just friendship from her. She took a long sip of water and wondered what he’d say if he knew she and Alex had split up over six months earlier. She wondered what he’d say if he knew she and Magnús were already more than just friends.