44 Scotland Street

was sure of that too.

It was not a name one would mix up with anything unless, of course – and this caused a momentary feeling of panic – he had meant the Cool Hot, which was in George Street, and was a very different sort of bar (non- minimalist). But the Cool Hot was ambivalent – was it not? – and this place was . . . She looked at the group of people closest to her. There were two men and two women: the men were standing next to one another and the women were . . . No, they were definitely not ambivalent.

She moved over to the bar, and signalled to the bartender.

“I was meeting somebody called Chris,” she said.

The barman smiled at her. “Lots of Chrises here. Just about everybody’s a Chris this year. What sort of Chris is yours?

Architect Chris? Advocate Chris? Media Chris? The Chris whose novel is just about to be published by Canongate? Actually there are lots of those. So which Chris is it?”

She was about to say Police Chris, but stopped herself. This was, after all, the Hot Cool and it sounded inappropriate. So she said: “I’ll wait for him. And I’ll have a glass of white wine.”

The barman went off to fetch a glass, and Pat, her hands resting nonchalantly on the counter, glanced at the other drinkers.

They were mostly in their mid- to late-twenties, she thought; clearly affluent, and dressed with an expensive casualness. One or two older people, some even approaching forty, or beyond, were 112

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occupying the few available bar-stools, and were talking quietly among themselves; to the other drinkers in the bar these people were largely invisible, being of no sexual or social interest.

The barman returned with her drink, which was served in a smoked-green glass, inexplicably, but generously, filled with ice. Pat sipped at the chilled wine and then glanced over her shoulder. A young man, wearing a cord jacket and open-neck black shirt, who was standing at the other end of the bar, caught her eye and smiled at her. Uncertain as to whether or not she knew him, she returned the smile. Having been at school in Edinburgh, she found that there were numerous people who remembered her vaguely, and she them; people she had played hockey with or danced with in an eightsome at the school dance.

This young man seemed slightly familiar, but she could not think of a name, or a context. Heriot’s? Watson’s? It was difficult to tribe him. Was he one of these Chrises referred to by the barman?

The barman walked past on the other side of the bar, drying a glass with a large, pristine white cloth.

“I hope he’s not going to stand you up,” he said. “The number of people who are stood up, you wouldn’t believe. It happens all the time.”

“I don’t mind,” said Pat. “I don’t particularly want to see him.

I’m only here because I agreed to a drink. I wasn’t thinking.”

The barman chuckled. “Don’t you like him, then?”

“Not particularly,” said Pat. “It’s the way he says hah, hah.

That’s the big turn-off. Hah, hah.”

“Hah, hah!” said a voice behind her. “So there you are! Hah, hah!”

44. Tales of Tulliallan

Had he heard her? Pat felt herself blushing with embarrassment.

It was that most common of social fears – to be overheard by another when passing a remark about that very person – but Tales of Tulliallan

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Chris gave no appearance of having heard. This, she concluded, was either because he had not heard, or because he wished to save her feelings. The barman, who had realised what was happening, gave Pat a sympathetic look and shook his head discreetly. This meant that in his view at least, Chris had not realised that he was being discussed. Pat felt the warm flush of embarrassment subside.

“I’m very sorry I’m late,” said Chris. “I was late getting off duty. Something cropped up in the afternoon and it went on and on. Sorry about that.”

“I don’t mind,” Pat said. “I was a bit late myself.”

“Well, here we are,” said Chris breezily. “The Hot Cool.”

He ordered a beer from the barman, who exchanged a knowing look with Pat.

“What’s with him?” asked Chris, nodding his head in the direction of the barman as he went off to fetch the drink. “A private joke? Something I should be laughing at? Hah, Hah!”

“It’s nothing,” said Pat quickly. “Nothing much.” She lifted her glass to take a sip of her drink and looked at Chris. In the descending minimalist light he was certainly attractive – more attractive than he had been in the uniform of the Lothian and Borders Police – but she was sure that she would not revise the opinion that she had formed earlier. There was something unsubtle about him, something obvious, perhaps, which frankly bored her. He’s of no interest to me, she found herself thinking.

There could never be anything between us.

Chris’s drink arrived, and he raised his glass to toast her.

“Cheerio,” he said, and Pat winced. This was another point against him. Now there was nothing he could say or do that would rescue the situation.

They spent the next fifteen minutes talking about that morning’s break-in. There was a counselling service for