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When Owen first showed me the advert, I'd rolled my eyes. We were looking for a townhouse in Edinburgh, somewhere we could start a family, not a private island that cost ten times as much, had no heating or Wi-Fi, and was a nightmare to get to. I couldn't understand why anyone would want to live in a place so completely cut off from the world. But over the next few weeks, I'd found myself returning to the listing again and again, poring over the details until I had them memorized. Three beaches, two lochs, an old boathouse, an eleven-bedroom main house, and six crumbling old cottages. Two thousand acres of wilderness.

It was nothing like what we were looking for. And yet, it was everything I wanted.

Where earlier, I'd seen two thousand acres of inconvenience and damp, I now saw open fires, long hikes, and vast open spaces for the kids to run through. I saw adventure. I snuck a glance at Owen, snoring softly beside me.

I saw hope.

Eighteen months and several lawsuits later, Owen and I were on a boat en route to our own island paradise. We'd spent a few blissful hours talking and discovering and planning, our ideas knotting together into a shared vision that shone so bright, it completely eclipsed the dark history we'd spent months grappling with.

By the time we met with the developer a week later, I knew exactly what I wanted. A hideaway that could rival Necker Island in its luxuriousness and Chatsworth in its charm. On the cards was a full refurbishment of the main house and the six cottages, a brand-new spa and infinity pool by the loch, a helipad, and a cluster of modern, self-contained apartments for the staff. The plan was to run the estate as a luxury retreat in the months that we weren't using it ourselves, and though we were stretching ourselves, neither Owen nor I was worried about the costs. It was far more important to get the vision right.

 

The vision that nearly five years later still lies half-developed before my eyes.

I turn at the sound of footsteps behind me. The housekeeper, Lorna, stands silhouetted in the doorway.

"The canapés are in the fridge and the lasagna is in the freezer. Fifty minutes should do it," she says, her Glaswegian accent still as hard to decipher as the first time I met her.

"Thank you," I say. "Has the wine arrived?"

I had given Lorna a long list of supplies to order in from the mainland last week. Everything from essential groceries and fresh fruits and vegetables to cases of wine and champagne and plenty of cold cuts and cheese to see us through the week. The food delivery arrived yesterday but the wine merchant had been running late.

Lorna nods. "Stu picked it up this morning. I've popped a few bottles of bubbly in the fridge and the rest is stacked in the cellar," she says, handing me the invoice.

I can't help but flinch when I see the bill. I take a breath, reminding myself that the small fortune that I've spent to host this holiday is not an extravagance. It's an investment.

And if it pays off, I'll never have to worry about money again.

I run through the invoice, checking to see that all the family favorites I'd ordered have arrived. I'm halfway through the order summary when my heart sinks.

"What is it?" Lorna asks.

"The Pinot Noir."

She peers at the receipt.

"I asked for the 2014 Pinot Noir," I add, silently cursing myself for trusting Lorna with the order. I love Lorna but her idea of a celebration is splurging out on some sweet potato fries and a bottle of Sainsbury's own brand Prosecco.

Lorna takes the piece of paper from me, tucks it into a folder full of invoices sitting on the marble coffee table. I resist the urge to straighten it so the corners line up. Technically, Lorna's an employee, the first person Owen and I hired after we bought Kilbryde, but over the past couple of years, she's become a friend. Quite often she is the only person I speak to all week. She knows more about my life now than some of my closest friends.

"These people are your family," she says. "They love you. They will not care what wine you serve."

"I know," I say. "I just...I need everything to be perfect this week."

The wrinkles around Lorna's eyes deepen as she fixes me with a look. "And it will be. Look how glorious it is...sunshine in March!"

Trust Lorna to always find the silver lining. "Are you looking forward to going back to Glasgow?" I ask her.

"Aye. It'll be good to see the lads. And my mother could do with a wee visit," she says, her face breaking into a smile as she fills me in on her plans for the week. Dinner with her son and his family, a trip to Edinburgh to see her newest grandchild, tea with her mother. It all sounds so simple. Uncomplicated.

I follow Lorna out through the kitchen and to the front door, where Stu's loading her bags into the quad. I can't help but wonder if asking both Stu and Lorna to take this week off was a mistake. I dismiss the thought as soon as it occurs. Convenient as it would be to have the staff here to help, I don't want Stu or Lorna hovering in the background, hearing things they aren't supposed to. Or worse, letting slip one of the many small secrets I've kept from my family. I'd much rather slum it for one week.