Buzzing with nerves, she climbed the steps and walked into Patrick Geddes Hall, the ridiculously high building opposite the steps, a grey stone courtyard next to the National Assembly Hall.
She knocked on the huge ancient studded wooden door and a porter opened it with a serious look.
‘Hi! I’m looking for Oke … ’
No. She couldn’t remember his last name. Had he told her? Skylar had mentioned it surely. She hadn’t … Goddammit. She hadn’t put him in her phone; she hadn’t googled him; she knew nothing about him. His bloody phone number was written down in the order book, she realised suddenly … that she’d got rid of when she’d brought an old laptop of Sofia’s in to start transforming the admin.
‘OhGod,’ she said to herself.
‘Who?’ he said. ‘Are you on the list?’
‘I wouldn’t think so,’ said Carmen. ‘This is a bit of a spur of the moment … It’s … You’ll know him. Tall. Brazilian. Ties his hair up? Bounces. A lot. Quite bouncy. Serious, but bouncy. Gorgeous. I mean. Amazing. I mean, just a brilliant guy.’
The porter was completely unimpressed.
‘Can you call him?’ he said.
‘I don’t have his number,’ said Carmen through gritted teeth. ‘But you must have seen him around.’
‘There’s four hundred students here, miss.’
Carmen sighed.
‘Oke? Oke? Doesn’t ring a bell?’
‘Is that his first name?’
Carmen realised of course that he’d told her it was a nickname. She didn’t even know his real name.
‘Oh, never mind,’ she said, turning round, her exuberance forgotten. What had she been planning on doing anyway? Throwing herself into his arms?
Maybe.
Stop fretting, she told herself, as she trudged against the snow-turning-to-dirty-old-ice of the courtyard, freezing.
She could see him again. She would. She’d track him down. Skylar would know what his surname was. She could find him again at the university. Oh God, Mrs Marsh could probably do it.
Maybe. And then see. If he was … if he was interested. Or, if it was entirely possible – and at this she sighed – Oke was one of these people who was interested in everything, who found something to like in everyone.
She went outside and up the hill. The castle forecourt was blazing, lit up with footlights so the huge edifice beamed against the snowy sky, and looked out, tiptoeing like a little girl to see over the wall, to stare out at this city, its Christmas lights glowing, its huge Christmas tree shining, stars and snow and joyous people, even now the scent of someone roasting chestnuts, and sighed. She stayed there for a long time, even as her fingers grew numb and her breath was smoke in the air, thinking about everyone down below, so many people, and someone, somewhere in the teeming crowds, the only face she wanted to see; the only green eyes she wanted to look into …
Eventually, she slowly descended the steps again, not even turning her head towards the Quaker meeting house where, if she had, she would have seen his bent head making sandwiches for the homeless with all his might, furiously trying to get rid of some of his pent-up energy and disappointment.
Most of the party-goers – including, thankfully, Blair and Skylar – had gone by the time she re-entered the bookshop, and Mr McCredie was counting up the cash box with an aura of disbelief. Carmen started picking up discarded glasses. Ramsay and Zoe passed her on the way out, Ramsay easily carrying a fast asleep six-year-old in each arm, Zoe waggling the sleepy baby’s hand at her in farewell.
She cleared up. It had been an amazing, sensational evening for the shop as well as a lovely party. She had one thing to thank Blair for at least.
‘How are you doing?’ she said to Mr McCredie. She was amazed he’d managed to stay standing the entire night. As she looked closer, she realised he was extremely drunk and could actually barely stand.
‘Oh goodness,’ she said. In her own drama, she had almost forgotten his.
‘Come on, you,’ she said, taking him in her arms like a child – he was so frail – and, locking the door, walked him up to the flat, made him drink a pint of water, took off his shoes and his jacket and carefully put him to bed with a couple of aspirin and a fresh pint of water next to him.
‘Ssh,’ she said, as he muttered something incomprehensible. His hand was screwed tight shut, gripping something. She carefully unfurled his fingers and extracted the picture. She smoothed it out and placed it carefully underneath the Cherry-Garrard book by his bed, to keep it safe for the morning.
Then she slipped out of the tiny alleyway front door, and once more joined the huge wave of Christmas revellers sweeping down to the Grassmarket, dodging in and out among them, anonymous in the crowd, just like anyone else under the cold-starred sky.
Carmen was dog-tired as she stopped dead on reaching the front door of the house. It was half-open.
