How to Lose An Ex in Ten Days
Lottie Lucas

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Lottie Lucas 2020

Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Lottie Lucas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008353650

Ebook Edition © November 2020 ISBN: 9780008353643

Version: 2020-09-22

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Thank You for Reading…

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About the Author

Also by Lottie Lucas

One More Chapter...

About the Publisher

To my parents—for never once suggesting that I get myself a sensible job.

Prologue

“Are you ready?”

The gentle squeeze of my hand brings my attention away from the window. Outside, the scenery rushes past in a blur of azure sky, sparkling sea and golden sand, just visible over the edge of the cliffs.

I look into my sister’s concerned grey eyes, and for the first time, I feel something inside me waver. With every inch the car advances up the winding hillside road, I’m aware that I’m getting further and further away from the life I used to have.

Everything’s going to change. I’d thought I was so ready for that; I was too excited, too swept up in it all to stop and think. But now, as I sit between my two favourite people, my oldest friends and confidantes, I half wish I could turn the car around.

“Of course I am,” my voice sounds overly bright even to my own ears. “This is an adventure! I can’t wait.”

Even so, I find my fingers clutching more tightly around the bouquet in my lap. A simple posy of almond blossom – all we could manage at such short notice. Even so, Rosie’s done an amazing job; my hyper-organised sister wasn’t about to let anything so inconsequential as mere time constraints get in the way of making this into a ‘proper’ wedding (her words, not mine). In fact, with more almond blossoms dotted in my hair, and the ivory maxi dress I found in a boutique back in Limassol, I almost feel like a bride.

Rosie opens her mouth to say something more but then closes it again, to my immense relief.

I know she wishes we’d waited a little longer. I know she has her doubts. But when he swept down onto one knee like that, in the middle of our graduation ceremony… I mean, yes, it was a shock for everyone, not least me. I can still remember it now, so vividly. The nerves as I stood on the steps, waiting my turn to go up and collect my degree certificate. The way the mortarboard wobbled on my head each time I moved – I had visions of it falling off, perhaps hitting the Dean in the eye as I reached forward to shake his hand. Didn’t I hear about someone once who actually managed to knock themselves out with their mortarboard? They threw it up into the air and the sharp point of it hit them on the top of their head, and…

And then they were calling my name, the sound ricocheting around the cavernous hall.

“Belle Delphine.”

Someone nudged me in the back and I lurched forward, into the blazing spotlights which shone mercilessly onto the stage. I could see Ed walking away in front of me, certificate already clutched in his hand. I watched the back of his shoulders, using them as my anchor. And then he turned, and he was … walking back? I froze, my hand halfway extended towards the Dean, who was looking equally perturbed. For a moment I wondered if it was a trick of the light, but no, he was definitely coming back towards me, his gaze fixed on mine as the distance between us lessened with each purposeful stride.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. I could hear someone behind me in the wings hissing, “He’s going the wrong way. Why is he going the wrong way?”

And I… I was still frozen. Watching him advance ever closer, unsure if the fluttering feeling in my chest was more horror or anticipation. Because the one thing I’d learned in the short time we’d been together was that with Ed, you never knew what to expect. When I was with him, I felt alive like I never had before. I also felt more anxious than I ever had before. He was dazzling, brilliant… and wholly unpredictable.

“What are you doing?” I demanded in an undertone once he was within earshot, uncomfortably aware that the sound was probably carrying in the echoing old hall. “Are you crazy? Get off the stage!”

“I’ve just had a thought,” he said simply. “I thought you might like to hear it.”

I could feel my face beginning to burn under the avid gaze of so many onlookers. Somewhere, out in the blurred sea of faces, Rosie was sitting. I could practically feel her outrage from here.

“What… right now?”

My voice held a distinctly strangled edge but he didn’t appear to notice.

“Why not? This is the first day of the rest of our lives, isn’t it?” He took my hand, which was still hovering in mid-air, and looked at me with eyes the colour of a twilit sky. “I think we should get married.”

I stumbled over my own feet, even though I was standing perfectly still. My mortarboard lurched to one side.

“That’s not funny, Ed,” I gasped.

“I’m deadly serious. Look.”

And the next thing I knew, he was down on one knee. There was a collective intake of breath from the crowd. The Dean coughed awkwardly.

“Marry me, Belle.” Ed flung out his arms, a grin spreading across his boyish face. “Come on, what do you say?”

I just stared at him speechlessly. My mind seemed to have given up working all together.

They say that women always know when a proposal is on the way. But I couldn’t have been more stunned if I’d tried. Ed and I… we were so new. A matter of months. Intense, magical, life-changing months, granted, but still…

I could feel the weight of expectation, like a physical force. The hall had gone utterly silent, everyone leaning forward to hear what I would say. I took a breath, looked into Ed’s blue eyes, and teetered on the brink of my future.

“Yes.” The word rushed from my lips of its own accord. I certainly didn’t recall deciding to say it. But then I had, and it seemed like it was the right choice because the entire room exploded into a cacophony of cheers. And then Ed was kissing me and the sound became even more deafening.

“It’s so romantic,” one of the lecturers whispered to the Dean, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

“It’s all so romantic,” Tess chimes in supportively now, jolting me out of my memories as she smooths over the tense beat of silence which has settled within the car. She’s good at that, Tess; she always knows how to say the right thing. She rearranges one of the blossoms in my hair with artistic precision. “There. You look absolutely stunning, Belle. He’s going to be knocked off his feet when he sees you.”

The car crunches to a halt at the top of the hill, sending up little clouds of dust from the packed dirt road. As I step out behind Rosie, trying to keep the hem of my dress off the ground, the intensity of the midday sun beats down upon my shoulders. The air is tinted with the heady scent of pine mingled with salt blowing off the ocean below, and as I straighten up to look around me, every single remaining doubt in my mind just melts away.

This is why I said yes. The whitewashed chapel with its blue domed roof sits perfectly on the crest of the hill, with panoramic views all around. Hot pink bougainvillea clambers across the front of the squat little building, hanging down across the doorway like a curtain.

It’s perfect, every inch of it. It’s paradise. It’s the sort of thing only he could have come up with. If it had been left to me… well, I don’t know what I’d have done. I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to think about it. But it wouldn’t have been this. I would certainly never have suggested that we didn’t wait, that instead we just jump on a plane to Cyprus. A spontaneous wedding, as spontaneous as he is. The very reason why I love him.

And suddenly, I really can’t wait to see him. I can already picture him standing at the altar. He’ll be wearing his cornflower-blue suit, the one that brings out the colour of his eyes. It’s pretty much the only suit he possesses, so that’s a fairly safe bet. His dark blond hair will be falling over his forehead as usual. He’ll turn and smile, because he’s not the sort to wait with his back to me while I walk up the aisle. And when he does, that dimple will appear in his cheek, and I’ll fall for him all over again, as I have every single time he’s smiled at me for the past ten months.

Rosie and Tess link arms with me on either side as we navigate the last few metres of stony ground which lead up to the church. It’s hard going, and not for the first time I begin to wish we’d gone for flat sandals like I’d suggested. But there’s only so much informality my sister can take; I think it would have finished her off altogether if I’d insisted.

A figure moves out of the deep shadows which encircle the doorway.

“Leo,” Rosie hisses, as we approach. “What are you doing out here? You’re supposed to be inside with Ed.”

“Well…” Now we’re closer, I feel a small tremor in my glowing self-confidence of a moment ago. I’ve never seen Leo look worried before. He casts a quick glance in my direction. “There’s been a small delay, that’s all.”

That’s diplomatic speak for something’s gone wrong, even I know that.

“You mean he’s not here yet?” Rosie shrieks. Then she glances at the door of the church, which is wide open, and drops her voice. “He’s only staying in the village. It’s a two-minute walk away.”

She arranged it that way on purpose. She knew he’d be late. He’s always late.

“Why weren’t you with him?” Rosie’s demanding now. Leo tugs at the neck of his shirt. He must be roasting in that dark navy suit and the full power of Rosie’s ire can’t be helping. Nonetheless, he’s used to it by now. God knows they’ve been together for long enough.

“He wanted to be by himself for a few moments,” he replies calmly. “He must have just… lost track of time.”

Tess is nodding vigorously as though she has some inside confirmation that this is exactly what has happened.

There’s a tense, anxious silence during which they all dart worried looks between each other, apparently under the impression that I won’t notice.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” I burst out, exasperated. “This is ridiculous. I’ll go and look for him.”

“Oh no you won’t,” Rosie yanks me back with such force she nearly rips my arm out of its socket. “He can’t see you before the wedding.”

“You know we’ve never cared about any of that, Ro.”

“I’ll go,” Leo volunteers quickly, after a look at Rosie’s mutinous expression. “I’ll be faster.”

The wait seems to go on forever, although in reality it can only be about ten minutes or so. The three of us hover around outside under the shade of the pine trees. I wanted to go in to the church, not least because I’d be willing to bet anything that Mum is already subjecting the priest to her unwanted attentions, but Rosie won’t hear of it. And for once, I haven’t got the energy to argue with her.

Eventually, Leo comes striding back into view. For a heartbeat, I wait to see the familiar dark blond head behind him, the flash of cornflower-blue linen. But it’s not there. Leo’s on his own.

As he draws closer, I almost do a double take, wondering if the heat’s beginning to affect my vision. I’ve never seen him so lacking in composure. His hair is standing on end, as though he’s been running his hands through it.

“Belle, he’s not there.”

Almost of its own accord, my heart begins to thud in my chest, even as I tell myself that there’s a perfectly innocent explanation. I force a laugh.

“He’ll have gone for a walk or something and got lost. You know what he’s like.”

He’ll turn up, I reassure myself firmly. Any moment now, he’ll come around the corner with that gorgeous lopsided grin of his, full of apologies for being late. He’s done it so many times before.

“No, you don’t understand. I mean he’s gone.” Leo looks anguished. “His room’s empty. And the rental car’s gone too. He must have taken it.”

Suddenly, I’m feeling dizzy. I lean back against the trunk of the pine tree, no longer caring about my dress.

“That can’t be right,” Rosie insists, although she’s gone uncharacteristically pale. “There must be another—”

“There isn’t.” With a ragged sigh, Leo turns to me. “Belle, I’m sorry, but I don’t think he’s coming.”

His words sound as though they’re travelling from far away. It’s so hot; I can feel the heat rushing through my body in waves, shooting up into my head. Black spots are dancing in front of my vision.

“No.” My voice comes out thickly. “No, he wouldn’t do that.”

“Belle?” Tess clasps my arm. “Maybe you should sit down.”

But I shake her off, already moving forwards. My shoes catch on the uneven ground, slowing me down, and I kick them off, gathering my skirt up in my hand so I can break into a run.

He wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t do this.

The words pound in my skull as I pick up momentum going down the steep, twisting hill which leads into the village. Sharp stones stab into my bare soles, but I scarcely notice. My entire focus is on the blue door at the end of the street.

The village is deserted at this time of day, everyone having retreated inside to escape the searing sun. It radiates off the white painted facades of the buildings, creating a dazzling, disorientating effect which makes my head spin.

Finally, I reach my target. I grasp the handle; it’s hot, and the metal burns my palm, but I ignore it, flinging open the door. It scrapes across the stone floor within, carving a groove through the rough surface.

The downstairs of the cottage is shadowed, silent. And empty. My heart leaps into my throat, and I will my nerves into steadiness, turning towards the wooden ladder which leads to the upper floor.

“Ed?” I poke my head through the gap, horrified at the way my voice shakes. “Are you here?”

A bare room stares back at me. Leo was right; he really has left nothing behind. No clothes slung across the bed, no toothbrush in the bathroom. The great irony is that he always manages to forget something; he loses things left, right, and centre. And yet, today, of all days… it’s like he was never even here.

I traipse back through the village in a daze. I’m not even bothering to lift the hem of my dress off the ground anymore; instead, it drags in the dust. I don’t know what to think; it’s like there’s a torrent of emotion, of pain, somewhere beneath the surface, just waiting to be unleashed, and yet…

He wouldn’t do this. Not to me.

Everything feels unreal. The blazing sun on my head, the church on the top of the hill, the people gathered in a nervous cluster in front of it. The people I know so well, suddenly looking like strangers. Looking at me like I’m a stranger, like they don’t know how to act, what to say… it’s all too awful.

“Belle…” Rosie begins.

I hold up a hand to silence her. My mind is racing, turning over every possibility. I mean, the packing… It doesn’t mean he’s gone, does it? Maybe he’s booked us a honeymoon suite somewhere, and he’s driven off to prepare it for later. Lost track of time, like Leo said.

The thought sustains me; I cling to it like a life raft. I can’t imagine the worst; I just… can’t. Everyone else has already decided; I can tell it by their faces. And if I allow myself to doubt him, to condemn him… well, what’ll be left?

“He’ll be here.” I’m amazed at how strong my voice sounds.

Tess’s eyes widen, then dart across to Rosie for guidance. Ro sighs.

“Belle, I understand that you don’t want to believe it…”

Her face is soft, pitying. So unlike my sister, who always says it like it is. I can’t bear it. I look away, not wanting to see.

“He’ll be here.” Even I can hear the stubborn desperation which tinges my voice. “And I’m not moving until he comes.”

Selecting a rock, I sit down. It’s not exactly comfortable, but that’s the least of my concerns right now.

“Belle…” This time it’s Leo’s turn to look uneasy.

“You can all go if you want.” I prop my chin on my hand, squinting down the road for any signs of a car, the tell-tale puffs of dust rising from the loose surface. “I don’t expect you to stay.”

They all share a look. I can just about see it out of the corner of my eye. But more than anything, I can sense it. I hold my breath.

“Of course we’ll stay.” Rosie settles down next to me, not even pausing to survey the rock with distaste as she usually would. “We’ll stay for as long as it takes.”

I don’t know how long we sit here for but gradually, the sun begins to sink in the sky, making the white walls of the church glow pink and amber. The vicar passes us on his way home with an apologetic look which I do my utmost to ignore. Mum takes Gran back to the hotel, promising to return as soon as they get a call from us. And still I sit there, trying not to think. Just hoping.

It’s dark by the time Rosie finally touches me on the arm.

“Enough, Belle. Let’s get you back. You’re freezing.”

It’s only then that I realise she’s right. I’m shivering violently in my thin dress. I try to speak, then find that I can’t. It’s like all the voice has gone out of me, along with all the light of the day. So I just nod. And in that moment, I release my grip on every dream I had for the future.

Leo drapes his jacket over my shoulders. Rosie takes one of my arms, Tess the other. And together, we begin the long walk back down the hill.

Chapter One

“Delphine? Are you with us?”

Steve’s booming voice, accompanied by the sound of meaty fingers clicking imperiously next to my ear, makes me sit bolt upright. The sight of dazzling sunshine on whitewashed walls dissolves from my mind’s eye, to be replaced with the familiarly dingy outline of the Illuminator newspaper’s office. It’s even worse than usual on a day like this, with the rain lashing down from a mercilessly leaden sky – a typically British May day, the sort that could easily be mistaken for February if one didn’t have the benefit of a calendar to prove otherwise.

Steve’s still glaring down at me expectantly, hands on hips. His shirt is half untucked, as it permanently seems to be, and his tie – faded pink spots against a brown background, which I suspect came with the shirt – has that same spot of ketchup on it which has been there since the day I first met him six years ago.

“I was just… thinking about this article I’m writing,” I lie hastily. Luckily, I’ve never been ashamed to bluster my way out of a situation. I’ve had a lot of practice. When I introduce you to my family, you’ll begin to understand why. I frown at my screen in what I hope is an intelligent manner. “There’s a lot of… nuance there. Lots to consider.”

His gaze flickers disbelievingly to my screen, where the headline, “Streetlamp Timers to be Altered in Bid to Cut Energy Costs” is clearly visible in stark black font.

All right, so perhaps I misjudged that one. I resist the impulse to shrink down into my chair.

“It will impact a lot of people, you know,” I add staunchly. “They might fall into potholes, or… or… get attacked by foxes!”

What am I talking about? Why don’t I just stop before I make it any worse?

Steve’s heavy eyebrows have been descending further and further down his forehead with every new word out of my mouth. By now, his eyes have almost completely disappeared.

“You’re a terrible liar, Delphine,” he says flatly. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

Not for the first time, I privately wonder if he even knows my first name. I’ve certainly never heard him use it.

“It has been mentioned on occasion,” I admit dolefully.

For a moment, I think I see the edges of his lips twitch. But within the space of a blink, his face is as dour as ever once more. I must have imagined it, then.

“Daydream on your own time in future,” he snaps. “If I catch you again there’ll be hell to pay.”

He says that every time so I’m not unduly worried. One day, maybe I’ll actually find out what this hell is that I’m expected to pay. Then again, maybe he’ll just keep throwing idle threats about the place.

“Tut tut,” Darren snipes gleefully from the desk next to mine, as Steve shuffles away out of earshot, presumably to terrorise someone else. “Caught slacking again, Delphine. You don’t do yourself any favours, do you?”

“Shut up, Darren,” I snap. Usually, I wouldn’t let him get to me, but today I’m feeling flustered. I’m annoyed with myself, not because I lost concentration – I mean, streetlamp timers, for goodness’ sake; that would challenge anyone’s attention – but because of where I found myself. Back in Cyprus, with my white dress fluttering around my ankles and almond blossom in my hair. I hardly ever think about that day anymore. I’ve long since trained myself not to; it belonged to another lifetime. Another person. I’ve become very good at pushing it to the back of my mind.

But the problem is that today isn’t just any old day, no matter how much I might try to pretend otherwise. Today’s the day. Six years ago, on this very date, my life changed forever. I changed forever.

And suddenly, it feels like no time has passed at all, like the distance I’ve put between myself and that fateful day is reduced to nothing. Like all of the work I’ve done to move on, to grow into a new person, to build a solid foundation for myself… it’s nothing more than a castle built of sand, swept away by the breeze of past recollection. All of the pain, the old feelings… they’re still there, pulsing vividly in my chest, in my soul.

It’s nothing I’m not prepared for. It’s the same way every year, even though each time May rolls around again, I pray that it won’t be. That this day will fly by like any other. Sometimes I dream I might even forget about it all together, only realising after it’s already passed. In my darker moments, though, I wonder if that’ll ever really happen. Or if this date will haunt me forever, a ghost I can’t shake.

The one bright spot of this whole experience is that I know it’s only one day. It doesn’t last. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and the pain won’t be there anymore. Not in the same way, at least. It’ll have retreated to whichever dark corner it hides in for most of the year, and I’ll feel like myself again. Tired, wrung out, empty, but myself. And I’ll realise that it was all an illusion, that what I’ve built for myself is real, that it means something. That I still mean something, even after everything.

Knowing that it’s only temporary – even if it feels like the longest day of my life at the time – is what keeps me going. Still, it’s hard. Particularly when I have such bothersome colleagues grating on my already stretched nerves.

Darren holds up his hands in mock surrender.

“Touchy. It’s not my fault you got caught out.”

I suppress a sigh. For reasons which utterly escape me, Darren has convinced himself that we’re in competition somehow. The way he carries on, you’d think we were contestants in the final of some lurid reality TV show, not two lowly junior reporters working for a slightly archaic Edinburgh newspaper.

I don’t even know why he bothers; it’s not as if there’s a lot of career progression in print journalism these days. And his toadying approach is woefully misguided when it comes to Steve; watching the expression on his face when Darren puts up his hand like he’s in a classroom is the highlight of my day. It’s like he’s discovered an entirely new species of fungus.

The whole thing would almost be worth it… if the layout of the office didn’t enforce close proximity to Darren, day in, day out. Our desks are so tightly packed together I could practically reach out and touch him, should I be gripped by a sudden desire to do so.

Needless to say, I never have been to date. I can’t see that changing any time soon.

The Illuminator offices occupy a deceptively prestigious address just off the Royal Mile, in the heart of Edinburgh’s famous Old Town; alas, once you get inside, the impression doesn’t last for long. We’re on the top floor, for one thing. The seventeenth-century building might boast a historically interesting service lift, but nothing which was designed to carry a fully grown human. Which isn’t to say that it hasn’t been attempted a couple of times during the latter, hazier hours of the office Christmas party, but that doesn’t really count. But anyway, I’m digressing. The point is that every trip to and from my desk involves six flights of narrow, uneven servants’ stairs. Which, admittedly, is excellent for my thighs, but that’s about the only plus side I can think of.

It’s not even like it improves much once you’re up here. The tiny porthole windows hardly let in any light, casting the place in a perpetual layer of gloom. Which is probably just as well, as what you can see certainly doesn’t invite closer inspection. The decor doesn’t appear to have been changed since the 1950s; there are still cigarette burns on the dark stained mahogany desks, and a smoky atmosphere pervades the air, no matter what anyone does to try and dispel it. It’s like a museum set; the office that time forgot.

I glance over at Steve, who’s scowling with disproportionate ferocity at a proof copy on his desk. I bet he still wishes it was the 1950s, when the newspapers were experiencing a golden age, and editors could shout and swear and do anything to get the story without fear of such pesky inventions as employee rights and regulating bodies swooping in and spoiling all the fun.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, he still shouts and swears with reckless impunity, but the rest… well, journalism’s not what it was. The rise of online platforms has changed the face of news, and little publications like us struggle to keep up. As it is, it’s only our age and reputation which keeps us afloat, although we’ve had to adapt over the years. Once a satirical Victorian start-up, we’ve now evolved into more of a niche local opinion piece, commenting on the goings-on in Edinburgh, both colourful and mundane.

Unfortunately, my role seems to lean heavily towards the more mundane side of things.

Look, it’s not like I’m bored or anything. I mean, maybe it wasn’t exactly what I’d planned when I left university with my shiny new degree in journalism, but then, to say that life hasn’t always shown the utmost respect for my plans would be a laughable understatement. I’ve had to learn to make do with what’s available to me.

And the Illuminator is a respectable publication. People are always impressed when I say I write for them; I expect they think it’s all very glamorous, being a journalist. If only they knew.

Patting a yawn, I half-heartedly type a few more words onto the end of my article. Well, if you could really call it an article. That would be stretching it a tad.

Okay, so yes, I suppose maybe I am a bit bored. Under-challenged, as my grandmother might say.

Which, unfortunately, doesn’t tend to bring out the best in me.

Especially not on a day like today, when I need distraction more than ever. Otherwise, I have to find it in other places.

Taking aim, I ping a rubber band at the back of Darren’s ear. It misses by a mile.

Damn.

I’m just loading up another missile when a familiar voice floats down from above.

“Working hard as ever, I see.”

I count out five long seconds before I allow myself to look up. My heart’s already skipping in my chest; I can’t help it, even if it is to my intense annoyance.

Nate D’Angelo is about the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on in my life. And I don’t say that lightly; believe me, I’m particular about these things. Hemlines started rising office-wide when he joined the paper three years ago as a senior journalist, and they’ve never gone back down since.

Combine sun-drenched Italian looks with the softest hint of a Scottish accent, not to mention an easy-going nature and a winning smile… well, even Margaret who does the accounts perked up considerably, and she’d looked pretty much fossilised before.

“Just… ah… taking a creative break.” I pretend to stretch, wondering what the hell I’m doing. “Getting the juices flowing.”

Great, now I’m blushing, I think crossly. What am I, a teenager?

“I see,” he’s nodding intelligently, though his eyes are sparkling with amusement. Why do I always get the feeling he can see right through me?

“Yes, well,” I blurt out. “Got to… you know, carry on. Articles don’t write themselves.”

Ugh, now I sound like Steve. Perish the thought.

I turn back to my screen, trying to ignore the fact that I can feel his gaze on my face.

The truth is, Nate brings out mixed feelings in me. I mean, yes, he’s gorgeous. Yes, he’s charming. And yes, I’ve always had the sense that there’s something between us, a fluttering attraction which makes every bantering exchange charged with extra meaning. But he’s just a bit… well, maybe I’m jaded and cynical, but those things kind of leave me cold nowadays. He’s just a bit too confident, a bit too smooth. It makes me wary. Because I had someone who was all of those things once before, and all I ended up with was a broken heart and a torn, dusty, white dress.

I’m not venturing there again. That much I’m adamant about. And I’m really not up for dealing with Nate right now; I’m feeling far too fragile. I just want him to go away.

Okay, so I’ll just… look efficient. Pretend that I’m so wholeheartedly engrossed in my latest scintillating article on streetlamp timers that I simply have no time to idle away on mindless chitchat. Or flirting.

Definitely no flirting.

Briskly, I begin to type on my keyboard in what I hope looks to be a suitably efficient manner, glancing up at him cursorily.

Which turns out to be a mistake. The moment I look into his warm, brandy-coloured eyes, my fingers crash across the keys, spilling a load of gibberish across my screen. Because, at the end of the day, I’m only human, for God’s sake.

“Are you all right, Belle?” he enquires mildly.

I jerk upright from my keyboard. “Yes! Yes! Why wouldn’t I be?” I splutter. At the same time, I feel a flash of irritation. Seriously, is there nowhere else he needs to be right now? Why won’t he go away and leave me in peace? Miserable peace, granted, but still.

“You just… look a little flustered, that’s all.”

“It’s the streetlamps, you see,” I hear myself saying, even as I curse myself for doing so. Why do I keep on with these streetlamps? Haven’t I learned that it never ends well? “There’s so much…”

“Nuance?” He supplies, with a wry smile, as he perches on the edge of my desk.

Ah, so he heard that, did he?

“There is,” I say defensively. “Think of the chaos. The whole of Edinburgh plunged into darkness…”

“Of course,” he says gravely. “People getting eaten by foxes, and such like.”

“I never said that,” I say hotly, although my lips are turning up at the corners. Oh God, here we go. This is what happens. This is what he does. It’s impossible to stay annoyed with him.

Immediately, it sets all the alarm bells clanging in my head. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from bitter experience, it’s that no one should possess both pulchritudinous looks and an engaging disposition. It’s a recipe for disaster. With a face like that, he ought to be withered inside, like Dorian Gray.

Maybe he is. I kind of hope he is. It would make it all so much easier.

“So this is how one generates creativity, is it?” He picks up one of the rubber bands between his forefinger and thumb, raising a brow at me.

I tilt my chin impishly. If he wants to play that game, then fair enough. I can play too.

“It’s very effective. You should try it.”

That’ll get rid of him, I think smugly. He’ll never do it. He’s far too responsible, far too—

“All right.” Before I can blink, he’s stretched the band back and pinged it at Darren.

I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp. But the rubber band narrowly misses Darren’s head, landing soundlessly on the floor instead.

One might even say that it was a perfect miss. Too perfect, I’d say.

“Spoilsport,” I accuse him, in a hushed voice. “You missed on purpose. You could easily have got him from there.”

“Of course I did. Can’t have senior journalists injuring the staff, can we? What kind of example would that set?” He leans in across the desk. “But it was fun to watch your face when you thought I’d do it.”

He’s close. Too close for my liking. And the teasing expression has completely slid from his face. My breath hitches, and I steel myself.

“Belle,” he begins haltingly, after a couple of seconds. “I was wondering…”

A heavy file of council minutes crashes onto the edge of the desk, making us both jump.

“Thank you,” Steve thunders sarcastically. “I’m so glad I’ve finally got your attention.” He allows for a dramatic pause before continuing. “Now, what the hell is going on here?”

I can’t decide if I want to bow at Steve’s feet or will the floor to open up beneath them. Emotions crash together, turgid and confused. I blink, trying to keep a handle on my thoughts.

Not that I need to. Nate steps in, ever ready with a smooth answer.

“Just a bit of research, sir.”

My head swivels around. Research?

“Research?” Steve unwittingly echoes my thoughts. He still looks suspicious, but less so. Unlike me, Nate has a spotless reputation.

“Belle has agreed to help me with a story,” Nate explains easily. I blink. Who knew the man was such a good liar? I’d always had him down as Mr Perfect, the ultimate goody-two-shoes. “I could really use her expertise…” he hesitates deferentially, then adds, “with your permission, of course.”

I almost choke on air. Expertise? I’m not sure I have any. Not anymore. Maybe once, when I was fresh and young and full of confidence in myself. Now, I’m just pretending. Pretending that Ed didn’t drive away with that all-important piece of me, along with everything else he threw into the boot of that ubiquitous hire car. I wanted to be a fashion journalist before it happened; these days, I can scarcely trust myself to choose the right shade of lipstick or throw an impromptu supper party for my friends. Things which I never would have thought twice about before now seem almost dizzyingly daunting.

Steve looks as surprised as I do by the suggestion I might actually be of some use to anyone.

“Well, if you really need her…”

“I do.” Nate’s eyes meet mine, and an involuntary shiver runs through me. My heart sinks with foreboding.

“Fair enough,” Steve grumbles, already half turned away. “If you’re willing to put up with her, then by all means. It’s your funeral.”

Charming. I grit my teeth together and try not to scowl.

“Brilliant.” Nate pushes himself away from the desk, as though nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. He starts to head back across the room, but stops to throw back over his shoulder. “Oh, and Belle?”

I sit upright.

“Yes?”

He smiles.

“Try and get some work done today, won’t you?”

I glower at his retreating back, then forcibly smooth out my features. At this rate, if I’m not careful, I might get stuck like that.

Chapter Two

There’s a parcel on the mat when I get home; one of the neighbours must have brought it upstairs. Bending down to retrieve it with one hand I somehow manage to juggle my keys in the other and wedge myself backwards through the front door.

“Belle! You’re home,” Tess’s soft voice floats through from the living room. Rounding the corner, I find her reclining on the kingfisher-blue sofa, a magazine open on her lap. Her naturally blonde hair is gathered up in a loose topknot, with tendrils delicately framing her face. Even in a baggy, off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and fluffy pink socks, she looks amazing. If she wasn’t my oldest friend, I could easily be inclined towards jealousy.

There’s a generous glass of rosé on the coffee table next to her elbow. Following my gaze, she motions towards the kitchen with her head.

“The bottle’s open on the counter. I thought you might… you know.”

She tactfully turns back to her magazine article, and I have to blink against a sudden surge of emotion. Of course she’s remembered what today is. Tess never forgets anything like that.

“Thanks,” I say brightly, as I set about divesting myself of coat, handbag, and bulky parcel forthwith. Rain droplets are showering off me onto the carpet; I put a tentative hand up to my hair, which I can already feel is plastered to my head.

The rain didn’t let up all afternoon. By the time I left the office, it was coming down in sheets, the waterlogged streets devoid of all their usual bustle and life as people retreated into hotels and restaurants. The whole place had a dank, oppressive feel to it; on a day like today, it’s easy to remember why they call Edinburgh one of the most haunted cities in the world. It feels like the ghosts have the run of the place.

“How did you get on today?” I ask cautiously, casting an eye around the flat, which appears unusually tidy. It’s been unusually tidy for so many weeks now that actually, it’s starting to not be so unusual after all.

In most cases, a tidy home is nothing to complain about, but in this instance it’s beginning to get me concerned. I’ll explain. Tess is an illustrator; she creates these incredibly stylised, willowy fashion drawings in ink and watercolour. They’ve been featured all over the place, in fashion magazines, on book covers. I still get ridiculously excited every time I spot one, even if Tess just rolls her eyes and looks faintly embarrassed. She hates any kind of attention. Anyway, she’s super talented, and when she’s in a good place, perfectly productive. But sometimes, usually when something’s bothering her, she just… dries up. She stops drawing, and that’s when she starts cleaning. Which is fine; in fact, I’ve always thought it rather convenient. It means the flat gets a good once-over a couple of times a year.

Usually, though, these phases only last for a week or two.

Tess studiously avoids the question, instead looking at the parcel I’ve set down on the floor.

“Is that another one for Rosie? I didn’t hear the intercom buzz.”

“You were probably hoovering,” I reply mildly, trying not to look pointedly around the spotlessly clean apartment.

My sister appears in the doorway to her bedroom, her arms loaded with bags of what appears to be confetti.

“Is that for me?”

“They’re always for you,” I say flatly. As usual, there’s no preamble from her. No polite greeting, or enquiries about my day. Rosie prides herself on ruthless focus on the matter in hand.

She harrumphs.

“Well, it’s about time. I’ve been waiting ages for that to arrive.”

I already know I’m going to regret this next question.

“What exactly is it, anyway? Surely you can’t need any more wedding stuff.”

The look she gives me is part censure, part pity.

“Favours,” she replies grandly, dropping the bags of confetti into a heap in the middle of the floor. Tess looks far from thrilled, but as usual she doesn’t say anything. Tess always opts for the peaceful route in any given situation.

Rosie, on the other hand… well, you’ll see. She’s a veritable force of nature. Even I scarcely dare to contradict her.

Nevertheless, sometimes it must be done.

“Don’t you already have favours?” I venture, hanging my trench coat on the last available hook. It’s half coming off the wall, and you have to get the balance just right, or the coat simply slides right off again. It’s a shame that Tess has no proficiency for DIY, come to think of it. There’s loads of stuff which needs fixing. I could blame it on ours being an all-female household, but in this modern age that’s not really an excuse. “What about all those boxes of sugared almonds you made us hand emboss about a month ago?”

I will never forget doing that. It took hours. Sometimes I still dream about it, and every time I look over at the pile still left to do, it keeps getting bigger, and…

I suppress a shudder. Rosie’s wedding day cannot come soon enough. Let’s just say it will be the happiest day of my life for more than one reason. I never want to see another scalloped edge, or pastel hue, or hand-lettered initial, as long as I live on this earth.

“These are other favours,” Rosie says deliberately, as though I’m a complete simpleton and the whole thing should be transparently obvious. “You know, secondary favours. Give people a bit of variety. It’s in all the magazines.”

That is not a thing. She’s just made that up. I know, because she’s made me read all of those magazines. Part of my duty as maid of honour, apparently.

Tess catches my eye with a minute shake of the head. I know what she’s saying. Sometimes, it’s just easier to go along with it once Rosie’s set her mind to something.

I watch my sister now as she rips into the box with alarmingly careless abandon for someone wielding an enormous pair of scissors, marvelling at how two people who share DNA can be so totally different. I mean, granted, we do look very similar. We’re what’s affectionately known as Irish twins, which means that we were born less than a year apart. We have the same tawny hair, although hers is cut to brush the tops of her shoulders while mine cascades down my back. And we have the same heart-shaped face, with large, wide-set eyes, except that hers are a pale dove grey whilst mine are striking violet blue.

But apart from that… well, what can I say? Rosie’s just so single minded, so focused. She’s always known exactly what she wants, and she won’t give in until she makes it a reality. She met Leo whilst we were all still at school. Their eyes met across a crowded GCSE English lesson, and that was pretty much that. She decided that he was the one, and she’s never wavered from that conviction since. Neither of them has.

I’m more emotional than that. I make decisions recklessly, assuring myself that in going with my heart, I must be making the right choice. It hasn’t always worked out quite as I’d hoped. But let’s not go into that right now.

Tess looks on in dismay as Rosie delves into the box, sending polystyrene nuggets spilling over the side and all over the carpet.

“Couldn’t you store some of this stuff at Leo’s?” I ask, wearily, picking my way across the sea of chaos towards the kitchen. “We’re beginning to drown under wedding paraphernalia here. And he’s got loads of space at his flat.”

Oh, yes. That’s another thing. Rosie and Leo have elected not to live together until after they’re married. I suppose it’s rather sweet, really. Rosie claims it will give them something to be excited about after the wedding’s over, and the honeymoon, and everything starts to get back to normal. The novelty of living together for the first time, after almost twelve years as a couple. I suggested that the prospect might be more exciting for her than for Leo. I’m still not sure the poor man knows exactly what he’s letting himself in for.

Alas, my little jest was not well received.

But in all seriousness, I’m not really looking forward to the day Rosie moves out, and I know that Tess feels likewise, even if her characteristic reserve means she’s never said it in so many words. I know what she’s thinking. After so many years, we all know what each other is thinking.

It’s always been the three of us; because Rosie’s birthday falls in September and mine the following July, we ended up in the same school year. After our parents’ divorce, we moved up from Hampshire to Edinburgh to live with my grandmother. At first, we stuck out like sore thumbs at our new school, with our English accents and our mismatching uniforms, because we’d started in the middle of term. But Tess wasn’t bothered by any of that. We became friends in the first week, and by the end of the term, we were practically living in each other’s pockets. The only time we’ve ever really been apart was at university; we all went our separate ways then, me to London to study journalism, Rosie up to St Andrew’s to be with Leo while she did her criminology degree, and Tess to art school in Oxford. I’ve never been so lonely. I missed that love, that closeness, so much that it hurt. Looking back, perhaps that’s why I did what I did. Why I allowed myself to be swept up in something which promised all of those things and more.

And then, six years ago, when it all blew up in my face and I was desperate for a fresh start, it seemed that moving back to Edinburgh was the best option. Rosie was already here, she and Leo both having found jobs. Tess was so thrilled that she sorted the whole thing out so we could live together. She persuaded her parents to buy her the flat on the grounds that she needed somewhere to pursue her art. How she convinced them that a four-bedroom apartment was required to do so I’ve never been certain, but she managed it. She has a studio set up in the spare bedroom, so technically it wasn’t a lie, I suppose. Not that I think they’d even have the chance to notice; they’ve never visited. They both have high-powered jobs in banking, and have always been chronically unavailable in both a literal and emotional sense. I think I’ve only met them a handful of times. When Tess was growing up, she all but lived with us and they never seemed to object.

Anyway, it was all worked out and Rosie and I found ourselves a home beyond our wildest expectations. With our salaries, we were staring down the grimy barrel of a studio flat in one of the less salubrious corners of town. Or – and I’m not sure which would have been worse – returning to the house we’d grown up in, where Mum and Gran still live. Well, Mum, Gran, and the latest in the constant stream of Mum’s boyfriends, at any rate.

I’m shuddering just thinking about it.

Anyway, the rent we pay here can safely be described as a pittance, and we even had to fight Tess over that. Initially, she didn’t want us to pay her anything; I’ve never seen her get so stubborn over an issue before. In the end, we reached a compromise, although she doesn’t even take the money. It stacks up in an account, where it ends up paying for spa breaks and weekend getaways.

Which means that the good news is that at least we won’t need to find anyone else to fill Rosie’s room once she’s gone. But that’s small consolation. Rosie might be vexing, and dictatorial, and lacking a certain degree of tact, but it’s going to be very strange without her. Strangely quiet, that’s for sure.

Rosie, who’s busy producing a set of tiny bottles from amongst the wrapping, doesn’t give any sign that she heard my question.

“Look! Aren’t they adorable?”

Adorable indeed. What is happening to my sister? The woman who handles gory evidence for a living and who organises her life with a ruthless efficiency. This wedding is turning her into someone I barely recognise. To be honest, I’m beginning to wonder how I’m going to get through it.

I can still hear her waxing lyrical about mini bottles of elderflower gin as I reach the relative safety of the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine. It’s a pale, peachy blush colour and I swirl it around in the glass, watching the way the light catches it as I lean back against the counter.

The truth is, I’d love to be excited about all of this. The person I once was would have gushed over miniature bottles of gin, would have thrown myself into the parade of pastel with unbridled enthusiasm.

But I’m too jaded to take joy in that sort of thing anymore; Ed’s actions knocked all that romantic dreaminess out of me. They turned me into someone different, someone I’m not sure I even like that much. Someone I certainly never would have chosen to be.

I look at my left hand, wrapped around the stem of the wine glass. The bare finger where there ought to be a ring. I can still picture it: the three tanzanites embedded into the band—violet, like my eyes, Ed said, when we bought it together in Limassol, two days before our ill-fated wedding day. I was so happy then, so full of visions for the future. That ring… it symbolised everything I’d hoped for. Me and Ed, both blue-eyed like the stones. Maybe a blue-eyed baby one day to complete the trio.

I never saw it again after that day. It disappeared along with him.

They say we block out the worst moments of our lives, but I find I can still recall what happened afterwards with a vividness that almost seems clearer than the present. I wish I could go back and erase it all, just for the next ten days, just until after Rosie’s wedding is over. I wish I could go back to how I was before, open-hearted and reckless, confident that life was always on my side.

I take a meditative sip of my wine, then another as I realise it’s actually quite good. Rosie must have chosen it; Tess has unfailingly poor taste in wine. Her entire selection system comprises of choosing the one with the prettiest label.

“Belle!” As though telepathically responding to her name, Rosie hollers from the next room. “What are you doing in there? Come and help us fill confetti cones.”

I briefly consider stalling, but the guilty thought that I’d be leaving Tess on her own is enough to change my mind. With a sigh, I resign myself to another evening of wedding preparations. At least the sheer monotony of it might keep my mind off the past, if nothing else.

Chapter Three

“By the way…” Rosie says casually, after about ten minutes of concentrated work rolling up confetti cones and sticking them together. I know what you’re thinking; it doesn’t sound like a task which requires much concentration. But you’d be surprised at how fiddly it is.

Any hopes that we might finish the job within an hour are fast fading. But then, I shouldn’t be surprised; I’m learning the hard way that most wedding-related things are far more complicated than they first appear. This is why, when I had the choice, I eloped.

I look up sharply. I know that tone. It too is far more sinister than it first appears. “What?”

“Mum’s left a message on the answer machine. She wants to speak to us.”

Somehow, I’ve managed to get my fingers all stuck together with tape. Alas, I’ve never been particularly artistic. I glance enviously over at Tess, who’s assembling a confetti cone with an air of capable serenity, then back at Rosie.

“Really?”

I thought we’d agreed not to give Mum the house number, for the sake of our sanity. We’ll have to play our usual game of rock, paper, scissors later to decide whose job it is to call her back. It can go on for a surprising number of rounds.

Rosie holds up a pristine confetti cone, inspecting it with a critical eye.

“She obviously has news.”

My heart sinks a little. The words ‘news’ and ‘my mother’ rarely bode well when associated with one another.

“Maybe she’s broken up with Carlos at last,” I suggest, brightening at the prospect.

Rosie shoots me a reproving look, but as she turns her attention on to the next confetti cone, I definitely hear her mutter under her breath, “We can but hope.”

As you might have gathered, neither of us is all that keen on Carlos. Oh, he’s all right, I suppose. He possesses all of the usual requirements my mother asks for in a suitor: younger, muscular, and with a limited grasp of the English language. Where she finds them, I don’t know, and I hope I’ll never have to ask. Mum and I pursue a strict policy of live and let live. Anything I don’t need to know, I have no desire to find out. And anything she doesn’t need to know about my life… well, she does everything in her power to try and find out. It’s a bit of a one-sided policy, I suppose.

Of course I want her to be happy. I do. And if Carlos, with his dazzlingly white teeth and unintelligible Spanish accent is what makes her happy, then that’s just… it’s… I’m beyond…

I mean, for all the mercy in heaven, though, is it really too much to ask that just once she might fall for someone even remotely sensible? Someone who’s not half her age would be a start. Someone who doesn’t wear white skinny jeans would be even better.

Finally, I’ve finished one of these blasted confetti cones. Wrestling the fold into place, I survey my creation dubiously. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Rosie’s face. It’s a picture of horror.

“Er, Belle, why don’t you start on the confetti?” She asks, in an overly bright voice, tossing one of the cellophane packets onto my lap.

Tess and I exchange a knowing smile. Rosie’s efforts to be subtle are so bad it’s almost endearing at times.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think I’m getting into a rhythm with these,” I say airily, holding the cone up to the light as though to admire it. I know I shouldn’t play with her, but sometimes it’s just too hard to resist. She’s such an insane perfectionist about things. Admittedly, my effort isn’t quite as neat as theirs, but it’s perfectly passable. Especially when you bear in mind that people hold them for all of thirty seconds before discarding them. Certainly, I can’t see any of the guests performing a full-scale inspection of their craftsmanship. Only Rosie would do that, and as she’s the bride, she won’t even be given one.

She takes a steadying breath and I can tell she’s dying to say something else, but to my astonishment, she lapses into restrained silence instead.

It’s so strange, Rosie being quiet, that eventually Tess clears her throat.

“So, Belle. Anything to report from today?”

“Not really,” I say, keeping my eyes studiously focused on the task in hand. “Just the usual. Steve bellowed, Darren sneered, and the coffee machine broke down. Everything one would expect from a day at the Illuminator office.” I shoot her a suspicious look. “Why?”

She doesn’t look at me, but a faint smile tugs at the edges of her lips.

“You just looked rather… sparkly when you walked in, that’s all.”

Sparkly? I certainly didn’t feel sparkly. No one could after a day spent in the crepuscular environment of the Illuminator office. You can almost feel yourself reanimating with every step you take away from the place.

“Did you speak to anyone this afternoon, by chance?” Tess presses, in a voice laced with honey. “Anyone gorgeously Italianate?”

Despite myself, I feel my cheeks begin to glow with warmth. Oh God, I don’t like where this is going.

“I’m always sparkly,” I murmur defensively, although even I know I don’t sound very convincing. Especially not to the two people who know me best in the world. “It’s my default setting.”

I distinctly hear something that sounds like a tut from Rosie’s direction which I stoically ignore.

Tess claps her hands together gleefully.

“I knew it! I’m never wrong about these things.” She leaps up, showering confetti all over the floor. “I’m going to get the rest of the wine. I want to hear this.”

“There’s nothing to tell!” I protest, raising my voice so it follows her through to the kitchen. “Seriously. When are you guys going to let this drop?”

Rosie raises a disdainful brow. I notice she’s abandoned all pretence of folding confetti cones, and have to suppress a smile. She pretends she’s not interested but she clearly is. “Maybe when you finally admit that you like him?”

I frown. I can’t believe they’re pressing me on this, today of all days.

“I do not like him! Look, you guys are reading way too much into this. He seems like the sort of person who flirts his way through life. I’m just one in a line, I’m sure.”

Rosie leans forward, resting her elbows on her crossed legs.

“You’re doing him a disservice, Belle. He’s really not like that. I know he can come across as a bit…”

“Arrogant?” I suggest pointedly, then immediately feel guilty. I’m on the defensive; I didn’t mean to be so harsh. But I’m not feeling especially generous towards the male population today.

Rosie narrows her eyes.

“Not every good-looking man is a player, Belle.”

Busted. I should have known I couldn’t hide anything from her. Even with the preoccupation of an impending wedding, she still manages to keep a laser-like focus on what’s going on.

“Anyway, Leo says he goes very quiet whenever you’re mentioned,” Rosie adds slyly.

The thought sends a ridiculous flutter through my chest, which I hasten to extinguish.

I always forget that they know each other. It’s a weird, small world when your soon-to-be brother-in-law is an old university friend of your dashing work colleague. It also, as I quickly discovered, has the potential to be highly embarrassing. Rosie’s evidently decided that Nate and I are perfect for one another, and she’s determined to make it happen. Whether I like it or not.

Tess reappears, bottle of wine in hand, eyes luminous with excitement.

“You should ask him out! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

The thought of walking up to Nate and asking him out strikes me as anything other than fun. It makes my blood chill in my veins.

“God, no. I couldn’t do that.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“Why not?” Rosie’s watching me like a hawk.

“It’s not like there’s anyone else, is it?” Tess gives a tinkling laugh. “You would have told us.”

If only she knew. If only they both did.

“Look, why all of the attention on my love life?” I say abruptly, desperate to steer the conversation away from the unwelcome subject of my feelings. “Haven’t you two got other things to be focusing on? There’s the not insignificant matter of a wedding ten days from now. Shouldn’t you be devoting your energies to that?”

“We just want to see you happy, Belle,” Tess says softly, settling down on the floor next to me, tucking her long legs under her as she always does. “Is that so terrible? We’re not the enemies here.”

Suddenly, there’s an uncomfortable sort of lump in my throat, and I take a gulp of wine to wash it away. Sometimes, I wish Tess wouldn’t be quite so lovely all of the time. When she looks at you with those soft, understanding green eyes, it just makes you want to burst into tears and reveal the deepest torments of your soul. I’ve seen perfect strangers on the bus break down and tell her their entire life story.

As it stands, she already knows mine. They both do. I look at my two best friends, and I feel myself relent a little. I’m lucky to have people who care about my happiness. Even if their interference can be excruciating at times, it comes from a good place.

Of course, they don’t know the whole truth, that there’s still only one man on my mind, even now. I’ve worked hard to hide it from them. As far as they’re concerned, I never think about Ed anymore. I never think about what might have been, save perhaps on this one day each year. I couldn’t bring myself to disappoint them, not after they’ve been here for me for all these years, bolstering my confidence, being my cheerleaders.

“I will consider… I said consider,” I reiterate sternly, as Tess’s eyes light up, “the possibility. That’s all I can promise.”

Tess beams and starts topping up the wine glasses. Even Rosie abandons the confetti cones to join us.

I’m smiling at their enthusiasm but inside I’m wondering what on earth I’ve just agreed to.

“To asking a man out,” Rosie proclaims, as we clink glasses. “How hard can it possibly be?”

Chapter Four

I absolutely cannot do this.

I’m hovering in the hallway by the entrance to the Illuminator office. If I lurk out here for much longer, I’m going to be late, but I just can’t seem to make my feet move.

Last night I lay in bed running the scenario over in my mind until I managed to make it all seem just about okay. Because it’s not like it’s a big deal, is it? Asking a man out, I mean. Women all over the world are doing it every single day, and the place hasn’t imploded yet.

Except, I woke up this morning with a sort of weird shivery feeling, and it’s stayed with me ever since. It was there when I made myself a cup of tea. It was still there half an hour later, when the cup of tea had gone cold and I was trying to decide if my new skirt was inappropriately short for workwear. It was there as I stood on the tram, pretending to read the news on my phone. It got even worse when I emerged on to the pavement in front of our building, and now it seems to have stopped me in my tracks altogether.

I have no idea why I’m so nervous about this. I mean, I’m doing it for Rosie and Tess, really. And all right, so perhaps a bit for myself, too. To be honest, after yesterday’s conversation, I couldn’t shake the feeling of embarrassment, like I was hiding a dark, shameful secret. And I suppose I am; pining over a man who left me without a backwards glance isn’t exactly something I want to emblazon across my life CV.

By the time I’d rolled out of bed this morning, I was resolute. I owe it to all of us to try and move on. Even if I just make a show of moving on, just take the first step by asking another guy out, then it’s something. It’s a statement of faith in myself, in my ability to heal.

Besides, it’s a fairly safe experiment to begin with, because it’s highly unlikely that Nate’s going to say yes. He doesn’t exactly strike me as the dating type. He’ll probably just look at me in utter incomprehension, which’ll morph into pity as he concludes that I’ve deludedly mistaken his friendliness for something more meaningful. I’m sure it happens to him a lot. He probably even has a stock response, a way to let them down gently, to assuage the embarrassment.

Luckily for me, I can deal with embarrassment. It’s an old friend. And if it finally convinces Rosie that this vision she has of me and Nate isn’t going to happen, then so be it.

“What the hell are you doing hovering around out here?” Steve barges past me with a scowl. “Come on. We’re about to have a meeting.”

I blink at him in surprise. We never have meetings. Meetings are one of those things that glitzy, modern companies do. They have special meeting rooms with a projector screen and comfortable chairs, and croissants in the middle of the table. We just have… well, we have our dingy, time-worn newspaper office. We don’t discuss things, as such. If Steve wants something doing, he yells it at you, and if there’s something he wanted doing which he forgot to yell at you, then he yells at you for not doing it anyway. It’s not exactly a democratic process, but it’s how things are run. From what I can gather, it’s how things have been run since time immemorial. Something monumental must have happened to change that.

Forcing myself to follow Steve through the doorway into the office, I make a point of not looking to the right as I make my way towards my desk. That’s where Nate sits and I just can’t look at him yet. In a minute, maybe, when I’ve gathered up my courage. It’s one thing telling myself it’s easy when I’m running through it in my head; in practice, my heart’s still pattering with nerves.

I busy myself hanging up my jacket, taking files out of my bag – all the normal, routine things I do when I first arrive in the morning. Of course, normally by this point I would already have looked across the room towards Nate’s desk. I would have smiled at him and he would have smiled back. And then I would carry on with what I was doing, and when I next looked up he would be there in front of me and we’d share a light, joking conversation and…

The thought makes me pause, discomfited. I had no idea that he’d become such an important part of my day. When did that happen?

“Right,” Steve booms, leaning back against the edge of his desk, which is conveniently positioned at the front of the room. All the better to keep an eye on us serfs, I suspect. “Are we all here? Let’s start.”

Don’t look over, I will myself. Don’t look…

“As you’re all no doubt aware, the paper has recently undergone a change of ownership,” Steve says gruffly. He never exactly looks pleased but he looks even less pleased than usual at having to say the words. “And apparently our new American proprietors have their own ideas about how things should be run.”

His voice is filled with disdain. “Not that I see much wrong with how things are now, of course. We’ve run along just fine for decades. But people will come in with their airy-fairy ideas…”

How exactly basic health and safety standards constitute “airy-fairy ideas” is beyond my comprehension, but I decide it’s better not to voice that comment. The urge to look over at Nate is almost overwhelming. I know he’ll be trying not to smile at the same thought. He’s better at keeping a straight face than I am, mind.

Freya, who’s been patting a small yawn and looking indescribably bored up until now, visibly perks up.

“Ooh, are we going to get a coffee bar?”

“No, we are not,” Steve snaps. “You’ve got a vending machine, haven’t you? What more could you want?”

Silently, thirty heads turn to look at the object in question. It’s leaning to one side, propped up on a stack of old papers, the flickering light within illuminating a single cereal bar and a banana milkshake. Both pre-date my arrival here.

Freya sniffs disdainfully, but makes no further protest. Instead, she flips open her mirror and begins to reapply her lipstick. It’s a bright bubble-gum pink, the sort of colour I could never even hope to pull off. But on her, it works.

To be honest, I’ve always been slightly suspicious of Freya; she’s far too glossy-looking for my liking. Even when it’s twenty-eight degrees outside – which, granted, doesn’t happen often up here –she always looks picture-perfect.

She wouldn’t have a problem asking Nate out, I think glumly. In fact, I’m amazed she hasn’t already. She certainly doesn’t hide her interest in him very well, although, come to think of it, I’ve never seen him flirt back at her. He only ever appears politely courteous.

I mean, not that I’ve been watching them or anything. It’s just… hard not to notice things in an office of these proportions, that’s all.

Steve coughs, evidently aware that the conversation is veering off on a tangent.

“Anyway, there are a few things we’ve got to do. Put a few posters up and the like. Should keep them happy. Doubt they’ll check, but we’d better show willing. It’s all nonsense, of course,” he adds bitterly. “If it ain’t broke…” He slaps a hand down on his paper-strewn desk to illustrate, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the air.

I bite my lip to swallow a laugh.

To hell with it. I glance across at Nate’s desk, prepared to catch his eye.

It’s empty.

A part of me knows I should feel relieved but instead I just feel a sharp thud of disappointment. Even though I know I won’t find him, I cast a surreptitious eye around the room just in case. But no, he’s not here.

And suddenly, everything seems a little less bright. Admittedly, the sun does retreat behind a cloud at that moment, casting our already gloomy office even further into shadow, yet I can’t help but feel that’s only pathetic fallacy of a kind.

I can feel Freya watching me, her sharp, assessing gaze on the side of my face, and I quickly turn my head away, pretending to be interested in something on my desk.

“Do you think they’ll send an inspector?” Darren’s asking eagerly, clutching a pad of paper to his chest. He genuinely appears thrilled by the prospect.

I give him a disbelieving look.

Steve, meanwhile, looks revolted by the idea.

“I bloody hope not! That’s the last thing we need. It’s all very well this bloody nannying but we’ve got a job to be getting on with. The paper doesn’t produce itself, you know.”

I presume that’s a rhetorical statement, and apparently everyone else does too, as there’s an awkward beat of silence.

“So, er, is there actually anything you need us to do?” I ask. I feel that someone ought to move this meeting on, lest it turn into one long diatribe on the evils of modern employment legislation.

“What?” Steve looks as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “No, why would I? Don’t talk nonsense, Delphine. I’m just giving you all a heads up, that’s all. Now, get back to it, all of you. I’m not paying you to stand around wasting time.”

As everyone disperses, I sidle up to Steve’s desk.

“Do you, er… know where Nate is this morning? He missed the meeting.”

I kind of hate myself for asking but suddenly I find I really want to know.

Steve’s heavy brows draw together.

“Of course I know. Don’t you think I run this place?” He shuffles papers around his desk clumsily, somehow only managing to put them in worse disarray than before. “He’s at the courthouse, following up on a story. Working, like you should be now. I want the streetlight article on my desk by lunchtime.”

“Oh. Okay.” I make to leave, but he clears his throat, stopping me in my tracks.

I turn and blink in surprise at the transformation. For once, his angry bluster is conspicuously absent. Instead, he looks… well, if I didn’t know better, I might even say embarrassed. But surely that’s impossible. The man’s like a brick wall.

“Er, Delphine, while you’re here.” His tone has dropped low, so low I can barely hear him. I’ve never heard him speak in anything quieter than a dull roar, so this is a revelation in itself. “There is one other thing…”

I push my way out of the glass doors and onto the street. The weather has perked up considerably, all trace of yesterday’s apocalyptic atmosphere already seeming a distant memory. Pale sunlight filters down from a cloud-dotted sky, shimmering through the last of the late spring blossoms. It’s the kind of day that can put anyone in a good mood. I’m convinced everyone looks a little bit happier than usual, even though it’s lunchtime and the streets are absolutely heaving.

I make my way towards the café where I’ve arranged to meet Leo, weaving through the sea of people. I make a quick dash across the street, only just managing to avoid getting hit by a stealthy taxi which looms up on my left side. Raising a hand in tentative apology, I reach the relative safety of the opposite pavement unscathed, vowing to be more careful next time. Edinburgh might be much less chaotic than London, but it’s still a big city.

It can be easy to forget though, I acknowledge, as I turn off into one of the steep, narrow-stepped side streets, and immediately the quietness envelops me. It’s one of the things I love best about it here, how you can still find pockets of tranquillity without having to look too hard for them. They almost seem to find you, somehow.

Pulling open the door of the café, I’m hit by the familiar wave of heat and sound. The clatter of spoons on saucers, the deep whirr of the coffee grinder, the tinny sound of whisks beating against metal jugs. As coffee shops go it’s not big or even particularly quirky. In fact, it’s pretty nondescript, with squashy leather sofas and pictures of Italy on the walls which never seem to hang quite straight. But it’s cosy and inviting, and they take an indulgent view of customers who linger for over an hour with a single coffee, so it’s become something of a favourite haunt.

One of the baristas catches my eye with a half-nod of recognition, something which back in London would have been the equivalent of someone throwing their arms around you and declaring you an old friend. Here, it’s not so uncommon. With an answering smile, I settle myself at a table tucked away in the far corner of the room and order a cappuccino and chocolate muffin while I wait for Leo to arrive.

When he does, it’s with his usual punctuality, on the dot of half past one. He’s clearly in business mode, wearing a smart grey suit and a stern expression, his dark blue eyes scanning the room. When he spots me, though, his face breaks into the wide, boyish grin I recognise.

“Belle,” he gives me a warm hug before sprawling across from me, catching a passing waitress to order an Americano in brisk, impatient tones. She nods so vigorously I’m worried she’ll give herself a crick in the neck, before scurrying off to do his bidding. I look on in fascination. I’ve never understood how he manages to have two such different personalities. I’m always just me, no matter who I’m with, or what I’m doing. Perhaps that’s why I’m not particularly high-powered, nor do I ever look likely to be.

“I’m afraid I haven’t got as long as I’d hoped,” he’s saying now, drumming his fingers on the polished wood of the table top. “Things are a bit hectic at the office today.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Aren’t they always?”

Leo has one of those convoluted, important-sounding jobs that involves lots of intense meetings around glass-topped tables (no doubt piled high with croissants) which go on for hours. He’s paid exceptionally well, from what I can gather, and the whole thing seems to be taken very seriously. He certainly frowns a lot whenever he’s talking about it.

So, I’m sure it’s all very vital and all of that… but honestly, I have to admit, I have absolutely no idea what he actually does. It is a complete and utter mystery to me. He’s explained it on more than one occasion – I can tell you it’s something to do with advising on political policy, but that’s it – and each time I’ve nodded intelligently, all whilst ending up none the wiser.

Secretly, I don’t think even Rosie completely gets it. She pretends she does, but if you ever challenge her about it, she gets all defiant and blustery. That’s a sure-fire sign she’s lying.

He gives a self-deprecating smile.

“I know, I’ve worn out that excuse over the years, haven’t I?”

I wave away his apology.

“Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

I half-expected it anyway, hence why I only ordered coffee and cake. Lunch was never going to happen.

“So, let’s get the business out of the way first,” Leo reaches inside his jacket pocket and produces an envelope. “Here’s the special licence form. I’ve filled in everything in my section. She just needs to sign it, and…” his expression turns incredulous as a muffled bark sounds from somewhere under the table. “What on earth was that?”

As if on cue, the little Scotty dog pokes her head out from behind my handbag and trots over to inspect Leo’s shiny black shoes. I give Leo a sheepish smile.

“This is Frou Frou. It’s a long story, but don’t worry, it’s not a permanent arrangement. She belongs to my boss. Well, his ex-wife. Or at least, one of his ex-wives…” Aware that I’m making more amendments than the average council bill, I take the paper from his outstretched hand, stowing it away in my bag before I forget. It would be just like me to leave it behind on the table, and heaven only knows what the fallout from that would be. Rosie would probably have an aneurism. “Thanks for this, by the way. She’s been tearing her hair out over it.”

As it turns out, even my sister couldn’t foresee absolutely everything. Apparently, when one gets married in a parish separate to one’s own, two sets of banns have to be read before the marriage can take place. Somehow, this piece of information slipped the net and Rosie and Leo only found out about it a couple of days ago, and now it’s only ten days until the wedding, and Rosie…

Well, you can imagine how that went down.

My suggestion that a little bit of tension only adds to the excitement was not well received, let me tell you.

“Can’t think why,” Leo shrugs, looking unconcerned. His coffee arrives at that moment, and he pauses to take a sip. It must be scalding hot but he doesn’t seem to notice. “The special licence essentially does the same job. It’s nothing to get worked up about.”

You see, this is why they’re so great together. This is why it kind of just seems to work between them, even though in many ways they seem totally unsuited. When he’s not at work, Leo’s the calmest, most laid-back person I’ve ever met, the complete opposite of my neurotic whirlwind of a sister. I like to think they neutralise each other, creating a perfect balance.

Although, maybe the reason they work is simply that Leo is just very forbearing.

“You know Rosie doesn’t believe in Plan B,” I remind him lightly.

She didn’t even bother to accept a second choice of university. Madness, if you ask me, but there you have it. I went to my second choice and I had a great time. Sometimes, life takes you in a direction you don’t expect. That doesn’t mean it’s wrong. I’ve learned to believe in that. I’ve had to, really. In a way, you could say that my life so far has been one long Plan B.

I put my drink down in its saucer and as I look back up, I feel a prickle of awareness skimming across my skin. Like static. I look around, searching for something that might have sparked the sensation.

And then it happens. I see someone out of the corner of my eye. A familiar profile, a dark blond head, ruffled in a way which is so heart-wrenchingly familiar that for a moment it seems to stop my breath in my throat. But when I refocus my gaze, they’re gone.

My heart is hammering against my ribs in an irregular pattern and I grip my coffee cup with shaking hands, feeling foolish for getting so worked up. This hasn’t happened for a long time; I thought it had stopped.

Dimly, I become aware that Leo’s talking again.

“Belle? What do you think?”

I jerk to attention to find him looking at me expectantly.

“Well, um…” I stir what’s left of my cappuccino, playing for time. “Of course, you’re right. It’s very…” At his raised eyebrow, I give up. “I wasn’t listening, sorry. What were you saying?”

I daren’t tell him what I thought I saw. I don’t want him to worry about me. He has enough on his plate as it is.

He shows barely a trace of impatience as he dutifully repeats himself.

“I said, do you think Rosie is handling all of this okay? She seems a trifle stressed to me.”

It’s one of my absolutely favourite things about Leo that he can get away with using words like “trifle” in utter seriousness and still maintain an aura of credibility.

“She’s always stressed,” I point out. “It would be stranger if she weren’t. She loves being stressed; it gives her a sense of accomplishment.”

He smiles, but I notice that it doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“I know. It just… she’s so wound up. Nothing I say seems to make it better. I know she wants the day to be perfect, but…” He shakes his head, pushing his coffee cup away. “You’re right, of course. I’m imagining things. We’re just both so tired. It’s felt like a very long engagement, you know?”

When Rosie and Leo first got engaged, he was all for taking off with a handful of family and friends to the coast for a tiny ceremony and a weekend with the people who matter most to them both. I thought it was a pretty sound idea, actually, and I expected that Rosie would too. Despite all her organisational tendencies, she normally can’t stand a fuss. And she detests frills and flounces. I didn’t think she’d have either the inclination or the patience for a big white wedding.

And I was right. To begin with, at least. She was totally on board with the idea; we were looking at little chapels in Dumfries and Galloway, and simple off-the-peg wedding dresses. She was still planning to organise the hell out of the whole thing, of course. She wouldn’t be my sister otherwise. But it was all heading towards a small, intimate wedding. No fuss, no frills. Ideal.

And then, one day, without explanation, everything changed. Suddenly, she wanted it all: a grand country house hotel for the venue, a bespoke designer gown, a four-course wedding breakfast. The whole circus. And we were all getting dragged along for the ride.

It has been, in a word, exhausting.

“I know I can be honest with you, Belle,” Leo says, rubbing his forehead wearily. For the first time, I notice just how tired he looks. There are dark smudges beneath his eyes, tense lines around his mouth. “I’m getting to the point where I can’t wait for this wedding to be over and done with. Is that terrible of me?”

I almost want to smile, despite how despairing he looks. Frou Frou has curled up on his feet and seems to be dozing peacefully. She’s the same colour as his shoes, and if it weren’t for the diamanté on her baby-pink collar sparkling under the lights, she would be rendered almost invisible.

“Of course not. Leo, this happens to everybody in the final weeks before a wedding. It’s perfectly normal.” I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince more, him or me. I pause, then add an afterthought. “I still wouldn’t mention it to Rosie, though. She’s probably a bit too fragile at the moment to be reasonable.”

He holds up his hands.

“I don’t have a death wish. I learned early on in our engagement not to voice even the slightest objection to anything wedding-related.” He stops, looking shame-faced. “Listen to me. I’m sorry, Belle. I know all this must be difficult for you.”

He’s the only person who’s ever really addressed the lingering spectre of my wedding-that-wasn’t. Everyone else just edges around it; I suppose they think it’s easier to simply not talk about it. The classic Delphine way of coping with anything uncomfortable.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Honestly.”

I’m not sure how true that really is, but it’s the line I’ve been parroting for so long I can’t even remember what lies behind it any more.

He sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair, making it stick up in the unruly way it used to when he was a teenager, and suddenly he looks exactly the same. Despite the suit and the world-worn lines at either side of his mouth.

“I just want everything to go back to normal, that’s all.”

Leo and I have known each other for a long time. We’re practically siblings. So I have no compunction whatsoever about what I do next.

I burst out laughing. Frou Frou starts at the sound, emitting an affronted yap.

“What?” Leo pretends to look put out, but his lips are turning up at the corners, giving him away. “I fail to see why that should be so hilarious.”

“Leo,” I splutter. God, the man is so naïve. “You’re going to be living with my sister. You’re going to be married… to my sister. Clearly you haven’t grasped the full implications of what that means.” I shake my head, reaching across to place a hand on his arm. “Enjoy these last few days while you can. Because, believe me, things will never be normal again.”

Chapter Five

I give Leo an extra-long hug as we part ways outside the café. I feel he needs it at the moment. I watch him walk away, his broad shoulders disappearing into the crowd, and I try not to think too much about what he’s said. It’s really not my job to police his and Rosie’s relationship, after all. They’re both adults, even if one of them is as mad as a box of frogs. They’ll sort it out. They always have before.

I turn and head back towards the office, Frou Frou bustling along by my side. She’s not exactly fast, with those short little legs of hers, but I don’t mind. I’m happy to take my time. It’s not often I get to enjoy a sunny Edinburgh afternoon. As I said, the life of a junior reporter isn’t quite as adventurous as one might expect. In reality, most of my time is spent typing up puff pieces to fill the sidebars at the edges of the pages; it’s a rare thing for me to be released from the office.

I’m not certain Frou Frou will be able to manage the steps going back up the street so I decide to take a different, more meandering route through one of the ancient alleyways – or closes, as they’re known here – which cut between the buildings. I don’t use them often and soon I remember why. It’s breath-squeezingly tight down here and shrouded in a sort of perpetual twilight by the cramped overhanging buildings on either side. It’s as though sun hasn’t penetrated this space for years; it’s deathly cold and I shiver. I can easily imagine myself falling back in time, to an Edinburgh which wasn’t known as the beautiful tourist spot it is today, but a dark, brutal place, overcrowded and drowning in plague.

I shake my head, telling myself I’m being over-dramatic. Still, I don’t fancy hanging around.

“Come on, Frou Frou,” I mutter, with a gentle tug on her lead to encourage her to pick up the pace. “Let’s get out of here.”

But she doesn’t move. In fact, she’s rooted to the spot, staring at something in the shadows. Her teeth are bared, a faint, menacing growl rumbling from her throat. My pulse kicks into gear, muscles locking into place as fear sweeps over me. Heart hammering, I peer into the shadows, but everything’s still.

“There’s nothing there, girl,” I’m trying to sound calm, but my voice is shaking. “Probably just a trick of the light.”

She comes, albeit reluctantly, tail down, glancing around her as though expecting at any moment that something’s going to pounce out of the darkness.

Finally, we emerge from the shadowy side street into the hubbub of the Royal Mile, and I release a breath I hadn’t even known I was holding.

Usually, I find the chaos of this part of town more of a nuisance than anything, something to be navigated on my way to and from work. It’s at its worst in August, when the Fringe engulfs every square inch of space. Even now, at the city’s supposedly ‘quiet’ time of year, the street throngs with people.

Well, I say street; if I’m being technical about it, it’s actually a succession of streets, running between Holyrood Palace at one end and the imposing castle at the other. It’s a total tourist trap – every other shop seems to sell exclusively tartan – and with its eclectic medley of churches, pubs, and museums all bunched up against one another, I can see why, even if it is a major inconvenience from my point of view.

Although, right now, I’ve never been so pleased to see it. Being surrounded by other people all getting on with their day, oblivious, is enough to bring my heart rate back to something approaching normality, although the sight of someone dressed up in a beak-like plague mask advertising ghost tours does make me flinch involuntarily.

People are pressed close around us, and, after a moment’s consideration, I pick Frou Frou up, worried she might get trodden on. Not that I think Steve would mind much, judging by some of the colourful language he used about the ex-wife in question – I think it’s the most recent one, but decided it was wiser not to ask – who seems to have gone off on a world cruise of indeterminate duration with her new boyfriend, leaving Frou Frou on Steve’s doorstep.

I look down at the dog who’s snuggling closer into my arms. Despite the ridiculous name and the hideously spangled collar, she’s actually rather sweet. And she did try to protect me. I just hope she doesn’t find Steve’s living standards too much of a shock after the pampered existence she’s been used to.

Letting myself into the office building, I begin the long trudge up the stairs. Already I’m starting to wish I’d brought something else for lunch. It’s not like I wasn’t prepared; I don’t think I’ve ever managed to sit down with Leo for more than fifteen minutes since he got his latest promotion. Even if it’s not during office hours, his phone will be buzzing away with some supposedly vital matter or another. It’s going to drive Rosie absolutely crazy when they’re living together.

I pop Frou Frou into Steve’s office, fluffing up her pink crown-shaped bed and making sure her water bowl is topped up. I head back to my desk and am in the process of collapsing into my computer chair when a hand grasps me lightly beneath the elbow and pulls me back up.

“Ah, good, you’re back. Come on, then. Let’s go.”

Go? Is he serious? I’ve just walked up six flights of stairs in high heels. And now he wants me to go all the way back down again?

“We’ve got some great leads,” Nate announces, to no one in particular. I stare at him, wondering if he’s gone slightly mad.

Which would be a shame, as he’s about the only sane person around here. He’s about the only sane person in my life. It’s kind of what I like about him.

That final thought sends me into a minor flap. When I say… I mean, not what I… oh God, what is wrong with me today?

“Just go with it,” he murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, when he sees me about to protest.

Which I do, but only once the heavy door has closed behind us and we’re in the echoing corridor outside the office. I dig my heels in, forcing us to a stop. Folding my arms, I glare at him. Handsome he may be, but I have very low blood sugar right now, and he’s just got between me and the chocolate crunch bar I’ve remembered is hidden in the bottom drawer of my desk. I know my priorities.

“All right, what’s going on?”

It had better be good.

“We,” Nate says airily, taking my elbow and steering me along the corridor, “are going for lunch.”

I really wasn’t expecting him to say that.

“We… we are?” Cursing myself for stumbling over my words, I make a concerted effort not to stumble over my feet, too. I’m struggling to keep up with Nate’s long strides. To be fair, my new lilac sandals aren’t helping; they’re probably a bit on the high side for work, if I’m being honest, but when my legs look this good in them, who cares? “Won’t Steve have a fit when he finds out we’ve gone?”

I’ve seen Steve lose it before. Many times, as a matter of fact. It’s nothing new. But still, it’s not something you willingly want to incite.

“He’s too busy to care at the moment,” Nate replies with a shrug. “This whole load of documents came through an hour or so ago regarding the new health and safety targets. They’re sending an inspector out next week.”

“Darren’s got his wish, then,” I mutter darkly.

“When I left, Steve was staring into the first aid box with a vacant expression and scratching his head,” Nate continues. His voice is perfectly neutral, but as I steal a glance at his face I can see the humour in his eyes.

“I wasn’t even aware we had a first aid box,” I say, trying not to smile.

I don’t imagine it’s that well stocked. It probably dates from the last war. Despite myself, I can’t help but feel a twinge of pity for Steve. He’s from another age himself. All of this must simply be incomprehensible to him.

Great, now I’m feeling sorry for Steve, of all people. I must be quickening for a fever.

My feelings must be apparent on my face because Nate says wryly, “I think he’ll be just fine. Darren’s beside himself with excitement. He’s already appointed himself in charge of the new accident book.”

I roll my eyes. God, he’s going to be insufferable, isn’t he?

Although, I suppose anything’s got to be better than the previous accident policy, which comprised of Steve responding to every complaint with, “If you’re not dying, then get back to work.”

“Of course, there is a plus side to all this,” Nate adds, opening the door and standing aside to let me go through. “Amidst all this chaos, no one will take much notice of what we’re doing. When I told Steve we were going out together to gather eyewitness accounts for our story, he just told me to bugger off and leave him alone.”

“Is that a direct quote?” I arch an eyebrow questioningly.

“What do you think?”

“Wait,” I wheel to a stop, turning to face him in confusion as my brain finally catches up with what he’s just said. “You told him that we’re still collaborating?”

Why would he do that? I mean… it was just an excuse, surely? I never thought he actually meant it.

“Of course,” Nate shrugs, as though it were the most natural choice in the world. “It’s a pretty good cover, don’t you think?”

“For what?” Now I’m hopelessly confused. I really don’t know what he’s talking about. Is there some covert journalistic operation I’ve missed? This is what comes from disappearing off on long lunch breaks. If I stayed at my desk, eating soggy homemade tuna sandwiches like Darren does, then maybe I’d be more up to date.

Nate raises a dark brow.

“To finally spend some proper time together, of course.”

He says it so casually, but nonetheless it makes me freeze to the spot. All of a sudden, I’m very aware of everything that’s going on in this moment: the soft breeze tousling his hair, the kids splashing around in the puddle over his shoulder, the loose blossom petals dancing around our feet.

“Unless the idea strikes you as particularly repugnant,” he continues lightly, “in which case, I shall naturally return you to the office without delay.”

“No, it’s not…” I’m struggling to take all of this in. Just a minute ago, we were walking along, and everything was fine. Normal. He was gorgeous and I was rambling, and… well, not much has changed in the last sixty seconds, except now I don’t know what on earth is going on between us. It’s like the ground has shifted.

Throughout this entire mental interlude, Nate’s been waiting patiently, his eyes fixed on my face.

“I’m not doing a very good job of this, am I?” He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “I should just say what I mean. God knows, I’ve had enough chances, and I’ve… well, I seem to keep screwing it up.” He laughs, but there’s a nervous edge to it. “Much like I’m doing now.”

“Oh,” I stutter, momentarily unable to summon anything more. “I… I see.”

Immediately, I curse myself. Because I really don’t see. What is he talking about?

“Actually,” I blurt out. “It might be quite useful if you would… you know, elucidate.”

“Of course.” He takes a formal breath. “I’m trying to ask you out. On a date,” he adds, deliberately. “Just so there can be no more ambiguity.”

The sense of surprise hits me square in the chest, blooming outwards. I can feel my lips parting, my eyes widening. I’ve never been able to stop my inner workings from playing out across my face.

He’s watching me silently. He’s better than me; he doesn’t give much away, but there’s a flicker of trepidation in his eyes, and with a jolt, I realise that what I say next matters. It matters a lot.

The realisation that behind all of his confidence, his insouciance, lies someone fallible, forces me to look at him in a whole new way. This is a man who could have anyone he wanted. Someone like Freya, who’s glamorous, accomplished… the kind of woman who has it all together. Who doesn’t spill tea over herself every other day of the week, for starters.

And yet, it’s me he’s standing here in front of, looking earnest, and, dare I say it, even a little nervous? Not words I would ever have dreamed of matching to Nate before this moment. Can it really be me who’s done this?

I can’t deny it; it’s an intoxicating thought. It makes me stall, the automatic rebuttal which was hovering on my lips dissolving. Because of course I was about to turn him down. I always turn them down. It’s as natural now as breathing.

But then I remember what I promised myself last night. What I promised Rosie and Tess. If ever there was such a thing as a celestial shove in the shoulder blades, this would be it.

And there’s something else, too. Something I never expected. A sort of sparkling interest in this new version of Nate. The truth is that if he’d asked me in another way – his usual way, all smiles and charm and effortless confidence – then I might feel very differently about the whole thing. But watching him bungle it so hopelessly… well, it’s refreshing. It kind of makes me want to give him a chance.

“Look, can we just forget I ever said anything?” He scrubs a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “This is why I was afraid to ask you. I never wanted to make things awkward between us.”

“What? No!” I blurt out, slightly taken aback by my own vehemence. Suddenly, I find that forgetting it is the last thing I want. “You took me by surprise, that’s all.”

He looks at me, and his gaze is searching.

“You’ve never thought about it, then?”

“Er, well,” I hedge, all the while wondering why I can’t just tell him the truth. That I haven’t allowed myself to think about anyone in that way for a long time. “It’s not really been… I mean, we’re friends – sort of – and you… well, you’re so…” I trail off, suddenly not sure I want to go there.

“So what?”

Damn. He’s actually expecting an answer. I was hoping to just leave it hanging. There’s no polite way to tell someone that you’ve always thought of them as an arrogant, superficial inveigler.

“So… impossible!” I fling my hands up in exasperation. “You’re so self-possessed, and charming…” I can feel myself starting to redden and his answering grin tells me he’s seen it too.

“You think I’m charming, then?”

He would have picked up on that part, wouldn’t he? I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t been so tactful.

“Now we’ve sorted that out,” he steps closer, until I’m looking deep into his brandy-coloured eyes. And he’s back again, the shiny veneer in place. But it doesn’t bother me so much now, I find. “Shall we go?”

I tilt my chin defiantly. I’m not going to fall that easily. Someone has to make it difficult for him every once in a while.

“I’ve already had lunch.”

“There’s lunch and there’s lunch,” he offers his arm and we begin to walk again. “We’ve been over this, remember? Chocolate cake doesn’t count.”

“I know, I know, it offends your Italian sensibilities,” I roll my eyes, but already I’m smiling. He has a way of putting me at ease no matter the situation. I wish I knew how he does it.

“Food is a serious business in my family.”

“Nothing is a serious business in mine. We’re all equally ridiculous.”

He laughs, and the sound seems to tingle through me, right to the tips of my toes. Immediately, I want to make him laugh again. The thought is so unexpected, so startling, that it almost makes me falter.

“Come on. I know somewhere that does great pasta. I see it as my mission to convert you to proper sustenance. I won’t rest until I’ve succeeded.”

And as we set off into the sunshine together, it occurs to me that, against all the odds, I actually can’t think of a nicer proposition.

Chapter Six

“Well, it might have been a somewhat unorthodox beginning to a first date,” Nate remarks, as we stroll back through the streets of Edinburgh. “But it didn’t turn out so badly, did it?”

“Not at all,” I say softly. In fact, if anything, it’s only left me feeling more confused than ever.

I didn’t expect any trouble when we walked into the restaurant. Actually, I was congratulating myself on my mature, worldly approach to the whole thing. All right, so maybe I was panicking a little bit. After all, it was my first date in six years. My first date as a proper, fully fledged adult. Ed and I just happened; we never had any formal dates. In fact, the last time I did this, it was all sharing a tub of popcorn in the back row of the cinema before getting the last bus home.

So I could admit it was probably past time I had a practice date. Just so I didn’t forget how to do the whole thing. Follow the formula… order food, trying to avoid anything which had the potential to fly off the plate like a missile, or anything with rivers of bright red sauce; chat about uncontentious, superficial subjects… I mean, if anyone’s a perfect candidate for that sort of thing, it’s Nate. He’s practically at professional competition level when it comes to light banter.

Except, somehow, it didn’t go quite how I’d planned. Somehow, I found that we were talking about all sorts of things… or at least, he was. He told me about his father’s cancer diagnosis, the reason he came back to Edinburgh and took the job at the Illuminator. He told me about the editor at the broadsheet he’d been working for in London who threatened that if he left, he’d never get back into serious journalism. He told me about the girlfriend he’d been living with, who wasn’t prepared to do long distance. He told me all of it with such simple openness, and I…

Well, I talked too. I told him about my crazy family, about my salt-of-the-earth Scottish grandmother, who practically had to drag Rosie and me – and Tess, when she was there – up into some sort of respectable adulthood while my mother swanned in and out like a diva at the opera. I told him about how Rosie and I spent the first summer trying to learn the accent so we’d fit in better at school, except we ended up sounding more Russian than anything and our teacher put us both in detention for being ‘disruptive’.

But I glossed over it all, playing it for laughs. I didn’t talk about how I really felt. I didn’t stray towards anything too meaningful. Even after everything, I still can’t bring myself to do that, not with anyone. The impenetrable wall of my armour is rusted into place. Because I told someone else all of these things once before. I handed my heart to him, and he ran away with it.

Deflection is nothing new for me; I’ve spent most of my life doing it. But today it bothers me. I feel… guilty. Like I’ve cheated Nate, somehow, by not returning his honesty. And it’s not just that; I’m painfully aware the whole time of the person hovering just beyond the edge of my vision. It’s like I can feel Ed watching us, like he’s a physical presence, taunting me with the knowledge that I’m not free. That, fundamentally, I still belong to him.

I’m so lost in my introspection that I follow Nate without thinking and it takes me a moment to realise we’re standing outside the gates to Greyfriars Kirkyard, Edinburgh’s most famous cemetery. I falter in my step and he looks askance at me.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.” My voice sounds strained; I swallow and try again. “Just… I haven’t been through here in a while, that’s all.”

“Does it bother you? We can go around it if you like.”

“What? No. That’ll take ages. It’s fine, honestly. It’s just… been a weird day, that’s all.” First the inexplicable sighting outside the café, then Frou Frou growling at nothing in the alleyway, and now this. I’m beginning to feel pretty shaken. “I had a… um, strange experience here once, when I was in my teens,” I explain. “Rosie and I were walking through late one night, and we…” I hesitate at this part. I’ve never told anyone about this before. “Well, we saw something.”

Or at least, I did. Rosie’s never spoken about it; I don’t know if she even remembers. We’d been to a party; no doubt there had been several cans of lurid mixed drinks involved.

“A ghost?” He raises an eyebrow, but not unkindly. Even so, I feel myself flushing.

“I don’t know what it was. It was so quick. More like a shape than anything.”

I look over towards the spot where I saw it all those years ago. In the bright sunshine, on a glorious spring day like this, it suddenly seems very foolish. It’s hard to reconcile this peaceful place with the infamous tales of ghost attacks and body snatching which have become so synonymous with its name.

“I’m sure we imagined it, anyway,” I say briskly. “We were young, impressionable.” A bit drunk, too, although I don’t say that part aloud. “It was dark. There are a lot of stories associated with this place. You can see how it happened.”

He’s watching me carefully. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“And yet you’ve avoided coming back for all this time? It must have had quite an impact.”

I look away, pretending to admire a sarcophagus.

“I think that’s more out of habit than anything.”

More lies, I think, with a flash of guilt. How many am I going to stack up?

Because he’s right; it did shake me. To the core. And I’ve never been able to convince myself that it was a flight of imagination. I know what I saw. I pushed it to the back of my mind but the truth is, the way I look at the world changed that day. Irrevocably. My faith in a steady, explicable universe was shattered forever.

He doesn’t question me any further, and we walk the rest of the way back in companionable silence. Or at least, he seems comfortable with it. My thoughts are churning.

“I have a small confession,” I blurt out, as we reach the front of the Illuminator building. I really don’t want to tell him this, but I feel I owe him one small truth, at the very least. “I was supposed to be asking you out today. You kind of… beat me to it.”

“Supposed to be asking me out?” He looks quizzical. “That sounds ominous. Did Rosie have anything to do with it, by chance?”

He knows my sister far too well. You know, come to think of it, it’s amazing that Nate and I never crossed paths before serendipity brought us together at the Illuminator. There must have been countless parties where we were orbiting the same room and yet somehow never managed to meet. I knew that he existed, of course. I’d heard about him from Rosie and Leo, but even after we finally met I never dared to ask them too much about him. The last thing I wanted was for Rosie’s antenna to start twitching.

“She might have been the… er… catalyst,” I admit reluctantly. Since when isn’t she?

He pauses at the top of the stairs, turning inwards to face me. For an instant, I wonder if he’s going to kiss me, and I freeze. I can feel my heart rate kicking upwards, the blood pounding in my ears.

“We should probably go in separately,” Nate murmurs, and I start, the spell popping around me like a burst balloon.

With an effort, I try to focus on the practicalities. It’s almost four o’clock; we’ve been gone for hours.

“You’re right.” I find myself nodding a bit too fervently, trying to cover my confusion and embarrassment. What the hell was that? Of course he wasn’t about to kiss me, not right here. Not after one sort-of-date. “Even Steve will probably have begun to wonder where we’ve got to by now.”

It’s not even like I wanted him to kiss me, I remind myself feverishly. It was just… a moment of madness. It didn’t mean anything. Immediately, Ed’s face swims into my mind, and I force it away as I’m overwhelmed by a sudden, sharp kick of guilt, followed immediately by self-directed shame and anger. Why, after all this time, after everything he’s done, do I still feel like I owe him fidelity?

“I’ll go first, I think.” Nate smiles down at me. “Your face will give us away in a second. You certainly don’t look like you’ve just spent a tedious afternoon gathering witness statements. You look far too perky.”

Do I? My hand automatically flies to my face, as though I’ll be able to feel the evidence there. That can’t be good.

I would give anything in this moment to rewind a couple of hours, to change the course of events. I wish I’d never seen the moment of vulnerability in his eyes when he asked me out. I wish I didn’t know anything about his life. That he’s a good son, that he’s capable of a long-term relationship, that he values family over career. I wish I could still look at him and see a one-dimensional player, intent only on flirting his way around the office.

“I’m glad we finally did this.” He runs his hand through his hair, tousling his espresso-coloured curls. “I should never have waited so long.”

“Why did you?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them and I curse myself, but at the same time I wouldn’t take them back even if I could. I want to know.

He smiles ruefully.

“Belle, I don’t think you realise… you’re kind of intimidating, you know.”

I’m stunned into speechlessness. Of all the words I might have associated with myself, intimidating is not one of them. Rosie is intimidating. My grandmother is definitely intimidating, especially when she starts waving her walking stick around after a few glasses of sherry. Even my mother is at a stretch, in an alarming, what-will-she-do-next sort of way. But I… well, I fall over my own feet, for Christ’s sake. I’m about as intimidating as a new-born kitten.

And yet he said it so earnestly. He wasn’t joking. Nate D’Angelo genuinely finds me intimidating.

I’ll have to tell Rosie about this. She’ll be thrilled.

Before I can summon up a reply, a door bangs further down the corridor. It seems to refocus Nate’s attention.

“I’ll see you in a minute. Try to look a little less cheery when you walk in, if you can manage it.”

“I’ll think of Darren,” I choke out, forcing myself to joke, to act normally. “That ought to do it.”

He grins and squeezes my hand briefly before releasing it and walking away.

I lean back against the wall, waiting until he’s out of earshot before letting the breath whistle out from between my lips.

I can’t afford to like him. Not even a little bit. I’m not ready; I can see that now. When Ed walked away like that, he left so many unanswered questions, so many trailing threads. If we’d just broken up, it might have been different. There would have been an ending, a sense of closure. But this way… Perhaps I’m cursed never to have that.

I’ve pushed myself away from the wall and am sloping along the corridor, disconsolately pondering the notion, when suddenly, from nowhere, there’s the most almighty crash from somewhere behind me.

I all but screech to a halt. What was that? It sounded like the whole building’s in the process of falling down.

Although, that may not be so surprising. It’s hardly state of the art. There’s a ceiling tile above my desk that’s been looking decidedly precarious ever since I started here. Every day, I’m half waiting for it to fall on my head. A part of me almost wishes it would, just to end to suspense.

There’s another crash, of slightly lesser magnitude than the first, although this time it’s accompanied by the addition of a rather choice expletive.

Avidly curious now, I find myself turning despite myself, retracing my steps back along the corridor.

It seems to be coming from the stationery cupboard, although of course, it can’t possibly be. Who would be flailing around in there?

It’s all gone quiet. Suddenly, I’m very aware of my heartbeat, of how alone I feel out here in this dark, empty corner of the building. If I were to scream, would anyone in the office even hear me? The sound would have to travel along rambling corridors, through stone walls probably metres thick in places. The thought gives me a shiver.

The temptation to back away is overwhelming. Every sense in my body is firing, my muscles aching to move. But I don’t. Telling myself I’m being ridiculous, I edge towards the door warily. At least if I open it, I can prove to myself there’s nothing…

The door bursts open. I leap backwards with a piercing scream.

“Surprise!” A very familiar figure looms in the doorway.

For a long moment, I just stare. The world has begun to blur around the edges. It takes everything I have to gasp out the single syllable on which my world once turned.

“Ed?”

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