She thought about Ted’s invitation – it would be good to see him again, and he had proved a loyal friend. Those friends, she thought, were the ones whom one almost did not notice; the ones who were just there in the background, the unglamorous ones, the ones you took for granted and then, quite unexpectedly, might prove their loyalty by coming to your rescue in a moment of crisis. In her mind, Ted had remained, rather curiously, the little boy that he had been when they had first known one another; that was another feature of loyal friends – they were slow to grow up, and often, in your mind at least, failed altogether to get much beyond the age at which you first met them – that was an absurd notion, of course, but it concealed a more prosaic truth about old friends: they did not change. And yet here he was giving her advice, as one contemporary to another – which he was, of course, as they had entered the Cayman Prep on the same day, all those years ago, excited and frightened at the same time by the change that was occurring in their lives: that first step through the school gate is for most of us the biggest step we ever take – the step out of Eden into the world beyond.
She would accept the invitation, she decided, but then she stopped thinking about it because Dublin Street came back into her mind and now she had the address. She would go down there one morning – the following day, perhaps – and just take a look; that was all – just take a look. The timetable of the first year economics course was available online, and she consulted it. The first lecture on a Tuesday was at ten:
Macroeconomic Modelling
. How dull that sounded, and yet it was what James did, and that somehow rescued it. If the lecture were at ten, then he would have to leave his flat by nine-thirty at the latest to give himself enough time to walk up to George Square. Of course it was uphill most of the way, and that meant that he would need to leave somewhat earlier – by nine-fifteen perhaps.
If she were to be in Dublin Street by nine-fifteen, she would see him. He would come out of the door and she would be on the opposite side of the street – not too close – and she would see him. She could then walk behind him – sufficiently far off not to be seen – she could follow … She stopped herself. It was not
following
. She was not the sort of person to
follow
somebody. All she was doing, she told herself, was taking the opportunity to see somebody, and there was nothing sinister about that. It was entirely natural to want to see friends in that way when you felt too shy, too proud, perhaps, to make the first move. And pride did play a part here; she acknowledged that; pride mixed with an element of tactics. Now that she had his address it would have been simple for her to go to see him, but she did not want to do that because he would think her pushy and she knew that men did not like being pursued – a woman who chases a man puts him right off, everybody knew that. Bide your time; wait for him to come to you. If she were to seem indifferent to James then
there was a chance that he would come round to seeing her in the light in which she saw him; it might occur to him that she might be right for him. But if she made the running, it could spoil it all. He would back off … not, she reflected with a smile, that he had ever backed on. The realisation made her sad – that was the only word she could find for her feelings; James did not love her, or, if he did, he loved her as a brother, or as one friend of childhood may love another, platonically, fondly, and in no other way.
Of course there was Padraig. This, though, had nothing to do with him. This was her private business, and it was not as if she were being unfaithful to him. She would never have a love affair with somebody while seeing another person; her conscience, in that respect, was clear. Padraig did not need to know about James – beyond what she had already told him – because this was a private domain within her life, like a private enthusiasm, a self-indulgence that one did not discuss with other people because it was simply that – a private passion. You did not have to tell others you liked to listen to a particular piece of music and would play it again and again, or that you liked Rembrandt or Hockney and that you could spend hours poring over their paintings, experiencing the thrill that something entirely beautiful can impart; you did not have to share these things. You did not have to tell others that you loved a boy who you understood would never love you back but who was your secret treat, like a concealed box of chocolates. Nobody was harmed by such things.
“Why so early?” asked Ella.
She had made herself a slice of toast and a cup of coffee and was having these in the kitchen by herself when Ella came in, eyes still filled with sleep – Ella never got out of bed until ten
unless absolutely obliged to do so.
“Seven-thirty isn’t early. Not for me.”
“It’s virtually last night as far as I’m concerned,” said Ella, making her way to the coffee pot. “May I pinch some?”
“Yes.”
“So why so early? Are you going somewhere?”
“I thought I’d get some work done. I’m behind with an essay.”
She thought:
this is what it is like to lie about a small thing; and there are people whose whole lives are built around lies, whose every move must be something like this
. For a moment she felt appalled at herself, and could have abandoned her plan, could have gone back to bed; but it was more powerful than she was – whoever the
she
was.
Ella poured herself coffee, cupping the mug in her hands, as if to warm them. “But the library doesn’t open till nine.”
“There’s a departmental library. The Fine Art Library. That’s open much earlier. It’s a great place to work.” This was half-true. The departmental library was sometimes open at eight-thirty, but not always; and she had never worked there.
Ella shrugged. “I’ve got a hangover. I don’t deserve it. I had two glasses of wine – max – I swear it.”
“Go back to bed.”
“I will.”
Clover left the flat ten minutes later and began the walk across town to Dublin Street. The streets were quiet at that hour, and barely light. It was technically late autumn, but there was a hint of winter in the air – a sharpness that was a harbinger of what was to come. Yet the sky was clear and when the sun rose properly it would be one of those sunny, exhilarating days that a northern city like Edinburgh can sometimes pull out of the hat – a day in
which the senses are rendered more acute by the cold in the air; a day in which distances are foreshortened by clarity. The sunlight would not be warm, but it would still be felt, like the breath of an unseen creature upon the skin, a soft, slight touch.
She arrived at the top of Dublin Street a good half hour early. Broughton Street was not far away, and she thought that she might find a coffee bar there that would be open. There was one, a small room decorated with out-of-date posters advertising plays from the Festival Fringe. Even at this hour it was busy with people dropping in on their way to work; the people who were too busy to eat breakfast at home, or found they had no coffee in the flat, or simply wanted a few minutes to themselves before work started. She sat at a table with her steaming cappuccino and looked at the people about her. They were part of a world that seemed parallel to hers; a working world that she knew nothing about. What did people
do
in Edinburgh? She looked at the woman sitting at the table nearest hers; she was wearing a woman’s business suit – a dark skirt and top under a neatly cut jacket. At her feet was a briefcase and on the table in front of her an open organiser-type diary. She was studying the diary, annotating it here and there; her days mapped out, thought Clover – her expensive time sold in little packages. She must be a lawyer. Or a financial adviser perhaps; telling people how to parcel out their own lives, how to move things about, how to move their money from one place to another.
Sooner or later, she would have to join them: everybody did. She would find herself in an office somewhere, working with people, doing the things that she currently had no idea about, living with one eye fixed on some goal or other – some promotion, some opportunity to do better than the next person,
some inducement dangled before her. But for the time being she was spared all that and could sit and listen to people talking about art because … She hesitated, and then admitted it: because somebody else, somewhere else – her father – was doing exactly what this woman was doing. He went off to his office in George Town and sifted through papers and wrote figures on documents and looked out through air-conditioned air into the glare of the unremitting light until he went home and cooled off in the pool and was too tired to read or think very much. And he did all that not so much for himself – because he never seemed that interested in acquiring anything – but because of her and Billy and her mother, to enable them to do the things they did.
The woman at the next-door table glanced at her watch. Then, snapping her diary closed, she took a last sip of coffee and stood up. As she did so, she looked across at Clover and smiled. Clover, embarrassed at being caught staring, returned the smile guiltily.
The woman picked up her briefcase. “So, have a good day.”
It was said in a friendly tone.
“I will. And you.”
There could have been a barb to the exchange: the woman could hardly have missed the fact, from dress, from pace, from a number of other clues, that Clover had no job to go to, that she was a student and that none of this business of getting to work affected her yet. That might have produced a wry resentment, but had not.
Clover looked at her watch. Something had happened to her, and she thought that it was probably to do with having a brush with normality. The woman with her business suit and her diary had something real to do, as did all the others in the coffee bar. Their daily lives were real in a way in which the world she was
creating for herself – a world of dreams – was not. She shook her head, as if to rid herself of an unwelcome idea. She did not have to go through with this; she could go back to the flat and forget that she had ever entertained the thought of coming down to Dublin Street.
She made her decision; she would do that, and immediately felt a sense of relief. She looked up. She was no longer a ridiculous love-struck girl on a pointless mission, not much more than one of those air-headed young teenage girls – as she thought of them – who swooned outside the hotels where boy bands stay on tour, ready to squeal with excitement when their heroes ran the gauntlet of their fans.
She finished her remaining coffee, savouring it though it was now lukewarm. Her thoughts turned to the day ahead. She had a tutorial at eleven and she would now have the time to finish the prescribed reading for it. She would throw herself into her work. She would lead a normal life. She would have one boyfriend, whom she would appreciate, and she would stop thinking of James.
And then, suddenly, he was there. She had not seen him come in because she was facing away from the entrance, and now, he was at the end of her table, half-turned away from the counter where he had been about to place his order, distracted because he had seen her.
His surprise seemed as great as hers. For a moment he was silent, but then he laughed and said, “Well, of all the people …”
She made an effort to recover her composure. She had half-risen to her feet but now sat down again. She thought it possible that if she tried to stand again her feet would buckle under her.
“James …”
The assistant waited patiently behind the counter. James turned to him and placed his order. Then he turned back to address Clover. “You’re not in a hurry, are you? You looked as if you were about to go.” He gestured to the other chair at her table. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not. I was about to go but I …”
He interrupted her. “But you could do with another cup of coffee? Come on. My treat.”
She acceded, and he called out to the assistant, “One more, Anton.”
He sat down, casually resting his elbows on the table. “I’ve never seen you here before.”
“No,” she said. She was searching for an explanation, for an excuse for her presence, but her mind, for the moment, was blank.
“Somebody told me you live over on the south side. You do, don’t you?”
She nodded. “A friend …” she began. She wondered who had talked to him about her. And why?
He cut her off. “Yes, of course.” He looked away, and changed the subject. “They make great coffee. The best in this part of town, I think, and it’s just round the corner from me. I live on Dublin Street.”
She almost said, “Yes, I know,” but did not, and simply nodded at the information.
“You’re lucky,” she said. “New Town flats are nicer, I think.”
“It depends. There are some that aren’t. The rent’s higher too.”
It then dawned on her what he was thinking, and why he had dropped his enquiry as to what she was doing first thing in the morning on the other side of the city.
She felt herself blushing. “I don’t usually come over …”
He cut her short. “It’s not the other side of the world,” he said, and grinned. “I sometimes go to that pub in Marchmont. You know the one?”
She nodded. She wanted to correct his mistaken impression, but could not see how to do it. She could hardly say
I came over here to see you walk out of your front door
.
Their coffee was brought over to the table. “I need this,” he said. “A lecture at ten.”
She spoke impulsively. “Something boring? Like macro-economic modelling?”
He laughed. He did not think it odd that she should know. “Right. Actually, it’s not all that bad. It sounds it, but it isn’t.” He paused. “But … well, I’m on the wrong course. It hasn’t taken me long to discover.”
“You’re going to change? I thought you liked economics.”
“Universities.”
She caught her breath. “You’re going to leave Edinburgh?”
“Yes, next semester. I can transfer the credit on the courses I’m doing this semester. Glasgow has exactly the right course for me. It’ll fit what I’m going to be – an accountant.” He smiled. “Like your dad. I should have chosen it first time round, but I wanted to come to Edinburgh. And I’ve really enjoyed Edinburgh – it’s just that the subjects I want to do are right there in the Glasgow course.”