‘Feeling better then?’ His father stands behind him.

‘A little.’

‘What’s that?’ He nods towards Dexter’s pint glass. ‘Gin, is it?’

‘Just water.’

‘Glad to hear it. I thought we’d have soup tonight, seeing as how it’s a special occasion. Could you manage a tin of soup?’

‘I think so.’

He holds two tins in the air. ‘Mulligatawny or Cream of Chicken?’

So the two men shuffle around the large musty kitchen, a pair of widowers making more mess than is really necessary in warming two cans of soup. Since living alone, his father’s diet has reverted to that of an ambitious boy-scout: baked beans, sausages, fish-fingers; he has even been known to make himself a saucepan of jelly.

The phone rings in the hall. ‘Get that will you?’ says his father, mashing butter onto sliced white bread. Dexter hesitates. ‘It won’t bite you, Dexter.’

He goes into the hall and picks up. It’s Sylvie. Dexter settles on the stairs. His ex-wife lives alone now, the relationship with Callum having finally combusted just before Christmas time. Their mutual unhappiness, and a desire to protect Jasmine from this, has made them strangely close and for the first time since they got married they are almost friends.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Oh, you know. Bit embarrassed. Sorry about that.’

‘That’s alright.’

‘I seem to remember you and Dad putting me in the bath.’

Sylvie laughs. ‘He was very unfazed by it all. “He’s got nothing I’ve not seen before!”’

Dexter smiles and winces at the same time. ‘Is Jasmine okay?’

‘I think so. She’s fine. She will be fine. I told her you had food poisoning.’

‘I’ll make it up to her. Like I said, I’m sorry.’

‘These things happen. Just don’t ever, ever do it again, will you?’

Dexter makes a noise that sounds like ‘No, well, we’ll see. .’ There is a silence. ‘I should go, Sylvie. Soup’s burning.’

‘See you Saturday night, yes?’

‘See you then. Love to Jasmine. And I’m sorry.’

He hears her adjust the receiver. ‘We do all love you, Dexter.’

‘No reason why you should,’ he mumbles, embarrassed.

‘No, maybe not. But we do.’

After a moment, he replaces the phone then joins his father in front of the television, drinking lemon barley water that has been diluted in homeopathic proportions. The soup is eaten off trays with specially padded undersides for comfortable laptop eating — a recent innovation that Dexter finds vaguely depressing, perhaps because it’s the kind of thing his mother would have never let in the house. The soup itself is as hot as lava, stinging his cut lip as he sips it, and the sliced white bread his father buys is imperfectly buttered, torn and mashed into a puttycoloured pulp. But it is, bizarrely, delicious, the thick butter melting into the sticky soup, and they eat it while watching EastEnders, another recent compulsion of his father’s. As the credits roll, he places the padded tray on the floor, presses the mute button on the remote control and turns to look at Dexter.

‘So is this to become an annual festival, do you think?’

‘I don’t know yet.’ Some time passes, and his father turns back to the muted TV. ‘I’m sorry,’ says Dexter.

‘What for?’

‘Well, you had to put me in the bath, so. .’

‘Yes I’d rather not do thatagain if you don’t mind.’ With the TV still muted, he starts to flick through the TV channels. ‘Anyway, you’ll be doing it for me soon enough.’

‘God, I hope not,’ says Dexter. ‘Can’t Cassie do it?’

His father smiles and glances back at him. ‘I really don’t want to have a heart-to-heart. Do you?’

‘I’d rather not.’

‘Well let’s not then. Let’s just say that I think the best thing you could do is try and live your life as if Emma were still here. Don’t you think that would be best?’

‘I don’t know if I can.’

‘Well you’ll have to try.’ He reaches for the remote control. ‘What do you think I’ve been doing for the last ten years?’ On the TV, his father finds what he has been looking for, and sinks further into his chair. ‘Ah, The Bill.’

They sit and watch the TV in the light of the summer evening, in the room full of family photographs and to his embarrassment Dexter finds that he is crying once again, very quietly. Discreetly, he puts his hand to his eyes, but his father can hear the catching of his breath and glances over.

‘Everything alright there?’

‘Sorry,’ says Dexter.

‘Not my cooking, is it?’

Dexter laughs and sniffs. ‘Still a bit drunk, I think.’

‘It’s alright,’ says his father, turning back to the TV. ‘ Silent Witnessis on at nine.’

SATURDAY 15 JULY 1988

Rankeillor Street, Edinburgh

Dexter showered in the shabby mildewed bathroom, then put on last night’s shirt. It smelt of sweat and cigarettes so he put the suit jacket on too, to hold the odour in, then squeezed toothpaste onto his index finger and polished his teeth.

He joined Emma Morley and Tilly Killick in the kitchen, beneath a greasy wall-sized poster of Truffaut’s Jules et Jim. Jeanne Moreau stood over them laughing as they ate an awkward, bowel-tweaking breakfast: brown toast with soya spread, some kind of aggregate muesli. Because this was a special occasion, Emma had washed out the continental-style espresso maker, the kind that always seemed to be mouldy inside, and after the first cup of oily black liquid Dexter began to feel a little bit better. He sat quietly, listening to the flatmates’ self-consciously larky banter, their big spectacles worn as a badge of honour, and had the vague feeling that he had been taken hostage by a rogue fringe theatre company. Perhaps it had been a mistake to stay on after all. Certainly it had been a mistake to leave the bedroom. How was he supposed to kiss her with Tilly Killick sitting there, babbling on?

For her part, Emma found herself increasingly maddened by Tilly’s presence. Did she have no discretion at all? Sat there with her chin cupped in her hand, playing with her hair and sucking her teaspoon. Emma had made the mistake of showering with an untested bottle of Body Shop strawberry gel and was painfully aware of smelling like a fruit yoghurt. She badly wanted to go and rinse it off, but didn’t dare leave Dexter alone with Tilly, her dressing-gown gaping open on her best underwear, a red plaid all-in-one body from Knickerbox; she could be so obvioussometimes.

To go back to bed, that’s what Emma really wanted, and to be partially dressed once again, but it was too late for that now, they were all too sober. Keen to get away, she wondered aloud what they should do today, the first day of their graduate lives.

‘We could go to the pub?’ suggested Dexter, weakly. Emma groaned with nausea.

‘Go for lunch?’ said Tilly.

‘No money.’

‘The movies then?’ offered Dexter. ‘I’ll pay. .’

‘Not today. It’s lovely out, we should be outside.’

‘Okay, the beach, North Berwick.’

Emma shrank from the idea. It would mean wearing a swimming costume in front of him, and she wasn’t strong enough for that kind of agony. ‘I’m useless on the beach.’

‘Okay then, what?’

‘We could climb up Arthur’s Seat?’ said Tilly.

‘Never done it,’ said Dexter casually. Both girls looked at him, open-mouthed.

‘You’ve never climbed Arthur’s Seat?’

‘Nope.’

‘You’ve been in Edinburgh four years, and you’ve never?. .’

‘I’ve been busy!’

‘Doing what?’ said Tilly.

‘Studying anthropology,’ said Emma and the two girls cackled unkindly.

‘Well we must go!’ said Tilly, and a brief silence followed as Emma’s eyes blazed a warning.

‘I haven’t got proper shoes,’ said Dexter.

‘It’s not K2, it’s just a big hill.’

‘I can’t climb it in brogues!’