September

milling noisily around her knees lost her patience and slapped one of them. The child roared in indignation. The carousel began to move. Edmund stood jingling the loose change in his trouser pocket.

'Edmund.'

He turned to see a man he met most days lunching at the New Club. 'Hello, there.'

'Who are you meeting?'

'Virginia.'

'I've come to pick up my daughter and her two children. They're coming to stay for a week. There's some wedding on and the wee girl's going to be a bridesmaid. At least the plane's on time. I caught the three-o'clock shuttle from Heathrow last week and we didn't take off until half past five.'

'I know. It's hell, isn't it?'

The doors at the top of the stairway had opened, the first trickle of passengers started to descend. Some searched for the one who had come to meet them; some looked lost and anxious, laden by too much hand-luggage. There was the usual proportion of businessmen returning from London conferences and meetings, complete with brief-cases, umbrellas, folded newspapers. One, quite unselfconsciously, bore a sheaf of red roses.

Edmund watched them, waiting for Virginia. His appearance, tall and elegantly suited, his demeanour, the heavily lidded eyes and expressionless features gave nothing away, and a stranger observing him would glean no clue as to his inner uncertainties. For the truth was that Edmund could not be sure either of his welcome from Virginia, nor what her reactions would be when she saw him standing there.

Relations between them, ever since the evening he had broken the news of his plans for sending Henry away to school, had been painfully strained. They had never had a row before, never quarrelled, and although he was a man who could exist very well without other people's approval, he was bored by the whole business, longed for a truce, and for this chill politeness that lay between them to come to an end and be finally finished.

He was not hopeful. As soon as the Strathcroy Primary had broken up for the summer, Virginia had packed Henry up and taken him to Devon to stay there with her parents for three long weeks. Edmund had hoped that this extended separation would somehow heal the wounds and bring Virginia's sulks to an end, but the holiday, spent in the company of her beloved child, appeared only to have hardened her attitude, and she returned home to Balnaid as cool as ever.

For a limited time, Edmund could deal with this, but he knew that the chill atmosphere that existed between them did not go unnoticed by Henry. He had become uncommunicative, prone to easy tears, and more dependent than ever on his precious Moo. Edmund hated Moo. He found it offensive that his son was still unable to sleep without that disgusting old scrap of baby blanket. He had been suggesting for some months that Virginia should wean Henry from Moo, but Virginia, as far as he could see, had ignored his advice. Now, with only weeks to go before Henry left for Templehall, she was going to have her work cut out.

After the debacle of the Devon holiday, and becoming frustrated with Virginia's resolute non-communication, Edmund had considered precipitating another row with his young wife, so bringing matters to a head. But then he decided that this could do nothing but worsen the situation. In her present state of mind, she was quite capable of packing her bags and hightailing it off to Leesport, Long Island, to stay with her devoted grandparents, now returned from their cruise. There she would be petted and spoiled as she had always been, and vociferously reassured that she was in the right and Edmund a hardhearted monster even to contemplate sending small Henry away from her.

And so Edmund had kept his counsel and decided to ride out the emotional storm. He was, after all, not about to change his mind nor make any compromises. It was, at the end of the day, up to Virginia.

When she announced that she was going to London by herself for a few days, Edmund greeted the news with nothing but relief. If a few days of fun and shopping did not put her in a more sensible frame of mind, then nothing would. Henry, she told him, was going to stay with Vi. He could do what he pleased. And so he put the dogs into kennels with Gordon Gillock, closed Balnaid, and spent the week in his flat in Moray Place.

The time alone had come as no hardship to him. He simply cleared his mind of all domestic problems, allowed himself to become absorbed in his work, and enjoyed being able to put in long and productive days at his office. As well, the word went swiftly around that Edmund Aird was in town and on his own. Extra attractive men were always at a premium, and the invitations to dinner had poured in. During Virginia's absence he had not once spent an evening at home.

But the hard truth was that he loved his wife and deeply resented this constraint that had lain for so long, like a fetid bog, between them. Standing waiting for her to appear, he hoped devoutly that the time spent enjoying herself in London had brought her to her senses.

For Virginia's sake. Because he had no intention of living under the cloud of her disapproval and umbrage for so much as one more day, and had already made the decision to stay in Edinburgh, and not return to Balnaid, if she had not relented.

Virginia was one of the last to appear. Through the door and down the stairs. He saw her at once. Her hair was different and she was dressed in unfamiliar and obviously brand-new clothes. Black trousers and a sapphire-blue shirt, and an immensely long raincoat that reached almost to her ankles. She was carrying, along with her flight bag, a number of shiny and extravagant-looking boxes and carriers, the very picture of an elegant woman fresh from a mammoth shopping spree. As well, she looked sensationally glamorous and about ten years younger.

And she was his wife. Despite everything, he realized all at once how dreadfully he had missed her. He did not move from where he stood, but he could feel the drum-beat of his own heart.

She saw him and paused. Their eyes met. Those blue and brilliant eyes of hers. For a long moment they simply looked at each other. Then she smiled, and came on down towards him.

Edmund took a long, deep breath in which relief, joy, and a surge of youthful well-being were all inextricably mingled. London, it appeared, had done the trick. Everything was going to be all right. He felt his face break into an answering, unstoppable smile, and went forward to greet her.

Ten minutes later, they were back in the car, Virginia's luggage stowed in the boot, doors closed, seat-belts fastened. Alone and together.

Edmund reached for the car keys, tossed them in his hand. 'What do you want to do?' he asked.

'What suggestions do you have?'

'We can head straight back to Balnaid. Or we can go to the flat. Or we can go and have dinner in Edinburgh and then drive back to Balnaid. Henry is spending another night with Vi, so we are completely free.'

'I should like to go out for dinner and then go home.'

'Then that is what we shall do.' He inserted the car key, switched on the ignition. '1 have a table booked at Rafaelli's.' He manoeuvred the crowded car-park, drove to the toll-gate, paid his dues. They moved out onto the road.

'How was London?'

'Hot and crowded. But fun. I saw masses of people, and went to about four parties, and Felicity had got tickets for Phantom of the Opera. I spent so much money, you're going to pass out when the bills come in.'

'Did you get a dress for the Steyntons' dance?'

'Yes. At Caroline Charles. A really dreamy creation. And I got my hair done.'

'I noticed.'

'Do you like it?'

'Very elegant. And that coat is new.'

'I felt such a country frump when I got to London, I went slightly mad. It's Italian. Not much use in Strathcroy, I admit, but I couldn't resist it.'

She laughed. His own sweet-tempered Virginia. He was filled with grateful satisfaction, and swore to himself that he would remember this when the inevitable American Express account came in. She said, 'I can see I shall have to go to London more often.'

'Did you see Alexa?'

'Yes, and I've lots to tell you, but I'll save that up till we're having dinner. How's Henry?'

'I rang up a couple of evenings ago. He's having, as usual, the time of his life. Vi asked Kedejah Ishak to tea at Pennybum, and she and Henry made a dam in the burn and sailed paper boats. He was quite happy to spend an extra night with Vi.'

'And you? What have you been doing?'