She kicked at the gravel footpath and scratched her head. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better. .’

Dexter took her by the hand. ‘So, listen. Why don’t you come for a drink?’

She instructed her features to show no delight. ‘What, now?’

‘Or at least walk back with me?’

‘Aren’t your mum and dad coming round?’

‘Not ’til this evening. It’s only half-five.’

He was rubbing the knuckle of her forefinger with his thumb. She made a pretence of making a decision. ‘Go on then,’ she shrugged, indifferent, and he let go of her hand and started walking.

As they crossed the railway at North Bridge and passed into the Georgian New Town, a plan was forming in his head. He would get home by six, immediately call his parents at their hotel and arrange to meet them at the restaurant at eight rather than at the flat at six-thirty. This would give him nearly two whole hours. Callum would be with his girlfriend, they’d have the flat to themselves for two whole hours, and he would be able to kiss her again. The high-ceilinged white-walled rooms were empty save for his suitcases and a few pieces of furniture, the mattress in his bedroom, the old chaise-longue. A couple of dust-sheets and it would look like the set of a Russian play. He knew enough about Emma to know that she would be a sucker for that, and he would almost certainly be able to kiss her, even sober. Whatever happened between them in the future, whatever rows and repercussions loomed, he knew that he very much wanted to kiss her now. The walk would take another fifteen minutes. He found himself slightly breathless. They should have got a cab.

Perhaps she had the same idea because they really were walking very fast as they headed down the steep incline of Dundas Street, their elbows occasionally brushing against each other, the Forth hazy in the distance. After all these years she was still elated by the sight of the iron-blue river in between the terraces of fine Georgian houses. ‘I might have known you’d live round here,’ she said, disapproving but envious, and as she spoke she found herself short of breath. She was going back to his well-appointed flat, they were going to do it, and she was embarrassed to find her neck flushing pink in anticipation. She ran her tongue over her teeth, attempting an ineffectual polish. Did she need to brush her teeth? Champagne always made her breath smell. Should they stop for chewing gum? Or condoms, would Dexter have condoms? Of course he would; it was like asking if he had shoes. But should she brush her teeth or should she just throw herself at him as the door closed? She tried to recall what underwear she was wearing, then remembered that it was her special mountain-climbing underwear. Too late to worry about that; they had turned into Fettes Row.

‘Not far now,’ he said and smiled, and she smiled too, and laughed, reaching for his hand, acknowledging what was about to happen. They were almost running now. He said he lived at number thirty-five, and she found herself counting down in her head. Seventy-five, seventy-three, seventy-one. Nearly there. Her chest was tightening, she felt sick. Forty-seven, forty-five, forty-three. There was a stitch in her side and an electric tingle in her fingertips and now he was pulling on her hand and they were both laughing as they ran down the street. A car horn blared. Ignore it, keep going, whatever happens do not stop.

But a woman’s voice was calling ‘Dexter! Dexter!’ and all the hope fell out of her. It felt like running into a wall.

Dexter’s father’s Jaguar was parked opposite number thirty-five, and his mother was stepping from the car and waving at him from across the street. He had never imagined that he could be less pleased to see his parents.

‘There you are! We’ve been waiting for you!’

Emma noticed how Dexter dropped her hand, almost throwing it away from him as he crossed the street and embraced his mother. With a further spasm of irritation she noticed that Mrs Mayhew was extremely beautiful and stylishly dressed, the father less so, a tall, sombre, dishevelled man, clearly unhappy to have been kept waiting. The mother met Emma’s eyes over her son’s shoulder and gave an indulgent, consolatory smile, almost as if she knew. It was the look a duchess might give, finding her errant son kissing the housemaid.

After that, things happened faster than Dexter would have liked. Remembering the faked phone-call, he realised that he was bound to be caught in a lie unless he got them into the flat as quickly as possible, but his father was asking about parking, his mother wondering where he had beenall day, and why he hadn’t called, while Emma stood a little way off to one side, still the housemaid, deferential and superfluous, wondering how soon she could accept defeat and head home.

‘I thought we told you, we’d be coming here at six—’

‘Six-thirty actually.’

‘I left a message this morning on your machine—’

‘Mum, Dad — this is my friend Emma!’

‘Are you sure that I can park here?’ said his father.

‘Pleased to meet you, Emma. Alison. You’ve caught the sun. Where have you two been all day?’

‘—because if I get a parking ticket, Dexter—’

Dexter turned to Emma, eyes blazing an apology. ‘So, do you want to come in for a drink?’

‘Or dinner?’ said Alison. ‘Why don’t you join us for dinner?’

Emma glanced at Dexter, who seemed wild-eyed with what she took to be shock at the idea. Or was it encouragement? Either way, she would say no. These people seemed nice enough, but it wasn’t what she wanted, gate-crashing someone else’s family occasion. They would be going somewhere swanky and she looked like a lumberjack and besides, really, what was the point? Sitting there gazing at Dexter while they asked what her parents did for a living, where she went to school. Already she could feel herself shrinking from this family’s brash self-confidence, their showy affection for each other, their money and style and grace. She would become shy or, worse, drunk and neither would help her chances. Best give up. She managed a smile. ‘Actually, I better head back.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Dexter, frowning now.

‘Yeah, stuff to do. You go on. I’ll see you around, maybe.’

‘Oh. Okay,’ he said, disappointed. If she had wanted to come in she could have, but ‘ see you around, maybe’? He wondered if perhaps she wasn’t that bothered about him after all. There was a silence. His father wandered off to peer at the parking meter once more.

Emma raised her hand. ‘Bye then.’

‘See you.’

She turned to Alison. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘And you, Emily.’

‘Emma.’

‘Of course. Emma. Goodbye, Emma.’

‘And—’ She shrugged towards Dexter while his mother spectated. ‘Well, have a nice life, I suppose.’

‘And you. Have a nice life.’

She turned and started to walk away. The Mayhew family watched her go.

‘Dexter, I’m sorry — did we interrupt something?’

‘No. Not at all. Emma’s just a friend.’

Smiling to herself, Alison Mayhew regarded her handsome son intently, then reached out and took the lapels of his suit in both hands, tugging them gently to settle the jacket on his shoulders.

‘Dexter — weren’t you wearing this yesterday?’

∗ ∗ ∗

And so Emma Morley walked home in the evening light, trailing her disappointment behind her. The day was cooling off now, and she shivered as she felt something in the air, an unexpected shudder of anxiety that ran the length of her spine, and was so intense as to make her stop walking for a moment. Fear of the future, she thought. She found herself at the imposing junction of George Street and Hanover Street as all around her people hurried home from work or out to meet friends or lovers, all with a sense of purpose and direction. And here she was, twenty-two and clueless and sloping back to a dingy flat, defeated once again.