jacket, padded it into a pillow and closed his eyes against the sun. His body ached, the alcohol pulsed in his head, and he began to feel himself slipping into unconsciousness, when she spoke.
‘Can I say something? Just to put your mind at rest?’
Groggily he opened his eyes. She was sitting with her legs raised to her chest, arms wrapped round them, chin resting on her knees. ‘Go on.’
She inhaled, as if gathering her thoughts, then spoke.
‘I don’t want you thinking that I’m bothered or anything. I mean, what happened last night, I know it was only ’cause you were drunk. .’
‘Emma. .’
‘Let me finish, will you? But I had a really nice time anyway. I’ve not done a lot of. . that kind of thing. I’ve not made a study of it, not like you, but it was nice. I think you’re nice, Dex, when you want to be. And maybe it’s just bad timing or whatever, but I think you should head off to China or India or wherever and find yourself, and I’ll get on quite happily with things here. I don’t want to come with you, I don’t want weekly postcards, I don’t even want your phone number. I don’t want to get married and have your babies either, or even have another fling. We had one really, really nice night together, that’s all. I’ll always remember it. And if we bump into each other sometime in the future at a party or something, then that’s fine too. We’ll just have a friendly chat. We won’t be embarrassed ’cause you’ve had your hand down my top and there’ll be no awkwardness and we’ll be, whatever, “cool” about it, alright? Me and you. We’ll just be. . friends. Agreed?’
‘Alright. Agreed.’
‘Right, that’s that then. Now—’ She reached for her rucksack and fumbled around inside, producing a battered Pentax SLR.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What does it look like? Taking a photo. Something to remember you by.’
‘I look terrible,’ he said, already adjusting his hair.
‘Don’t give me that, you love it. .’
He lit a cigarette for a prop. ‘What do you want a photo for?’
‘For when you’re famous.’ She was balancing the camera on a boulder now, framing the shot through the viewfinder. ‘I want to be able to say to my kids, see him there, he once stuck his hand up Mummy’s skirt in a crowded room.’
‘You started it!’
‘No, you started it, pal!’ She cocked the clockwork timer, scrubbed at her own hair with her fingertips, while Dexter set the cigarette in one side of his mouth and then the other. ‘Right — thirty seconds.’
Dexter refined his pose. ‘What do we say? “Cheese”?’
‘Not “cheese”. Let’s say “one-night stand!”’ She pressed the button and the camera began to whirr. ‘Or “promiscuous!”’ She clambered over the rocks.
‘Or “thieves that pass in the night”.’
‘Thieves don’t pass in the night. That’s ships.’
‘What do thieves do?’
‘Thieves are thick.’
‘What’s wrong with just “cheese”?’
‘Let’s not say anything. Let’s just smile, look natural. Look young and full of high ideals and hope or something. Ready?’
‘Ready.’
‘Okay then, smile and. .’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE. The Third Anniversary
SUNDAY 15 JULY 2007
‘Ring-ring. Ring-ring.’
He is woken by his daughter’s index finger pressing his nose as if it were a doorbell.
‘Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Who’s at the door? Jasmine’s at the door!!’
‘What are you doing, Jas?’
‘I’m waking you up. Ring-ring.’ Her thumb is in his eye now, pulling back the eyelid. ‘Wake up, lazybones!’
‘What time is it?’
‘Daytime!’
Beside him in the hotel bed, Maddy reaches for her watch. ‘Half past six,’ she groans into the pillow and Jasmine laughs malevolently. Dexter opens both eyes, and sees her face on the pillow next to him, her nose inches away. ‘Haven’t you got books to read or dolls to play with or something?’
‘Nope.’
‘Go and colour something in, will you?’
‘I’m hungry. Can we have room service? What time is the swimming pool open?’
The Edinburgh hotel is plush, traditional and grand, oak panels and porcelain baths. His parents stayed here once, for his graduation, and it’s a little more old-fashioned and expensive than he would like, but he thought that if they’re going to do this, they should do it in some style. They are staying for two nights — Dexter, Maddy and Jasmine — before hiring a car and driving across to a holiday cottage near Loch Lomond. Glasgow is nearer of course, but Dexter hasn’t been to Edinburgh for fifteen years, not since a debauched weekend when he presented a TV show from the Festival. All of that seems a long, long time ago now, another lifetime. Today he has a fatherly notion that he might show his daughter round the city. Maddy, aware of the date, has decided to leave them to it.
‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’ he asks her in the privacy of the bathroom.
‘Of course not. I’ll go to the gallery, see that exhibition.’
‘I just want to show her some places. Memory Lane. No reason why you should suffer too.’
‘Like I said, I really don’t mind.’
He regards her carefully. ‘And you don’t think I’m nuts?’
She gives a faint smile. ‘No, I don’t think you’re nuts.’
‘You don’t think it’s ghoulish or weird?’
‘Not at all.’ If she does mind, she certainly isn’t showing it. He kisses her lightly on the neck. ‘You must do whatever you want,’ she says.
The notion that it might rain for forty consecutive days had once seemed far-fetched, but not this year. All over the country it has poured daily for weeks now, high streets disappearing under flood water, and the summer has seemed so unique that it might almost be a new kind of season. A monsoon season, but as they step out onto the street, the day is still bright with high cloud, dry for the moment at least. They make plans for lunch with Maddy, and go their separate ways.
The hotel is in the Old Town, just off the Royal Mile, and Dexter takes Jasmine on the standard atmospheric tour, down alleyways and secret stairways until they find themselves on Nicolson Street, heading south out of the city centre. He remembers the street as hectic and hazy with bus fumes, but on a Sunday morning it is quiet and a little sad, and Jasmine is starting to get restless and bored now that they have left the tourist trail. Feeling her hand go heavy in his, Dexter keeps on walking. He has found the old address on one of Emma’s letters and soon spots a sign. Rankeillor Street. They turn into the quiet residential road.
‘Where are we going?’
‘I’m looking for somewhere. Number seventeen.’ They are outside now. Dexter peers up at the third-floor window, its curtains drawn, blank and nondescript.
‘You see that flat there? That’s where Emma used to live when we were at University together. In fact that’s
