‘Never mind about that,’ I say, glancing in the mirror, horrified at my Edward-Scissorhands hair. ‘So, what about Duncan?’
‘Duncan? No, I like his friend, Drew.’
‘Oh, okay …’
Uh-oh. My attempt at playing Emma is not going the way I planned. I feel bad for Duncan now, but I guess there’s just no predicting chemistry.
‘Come on,’ I say, baring my teeth, checking in the mirrorfor any more bits of vegetation. ‘Our knickerbocker glories will be melting.’
‘Okay, guys, now it’s your turn to speak,’ I say, sinking my long spoon into gooey chocolate and whipped cream. ‘How did you two become friends?’
‘At school,’ Duncan replies, pouring the coffees. ‘More than thirty years ago now – I can hardly believe it. We used to go fishing and camping together in the holidays.We were inseparable.’
‘Aye,’ says Drew. ‘Then when I was in my twenties, I went out to South America to work for The Forestry Commission. Since coming back, I’ve been running the Laird’s estate out at Brig o’Muckhart. Whenever I’m in need of a dram and a blether, I call in on my old pal here,’ he says, draping his arm fondly over Duncan’s shoulder.
Céline’s starry gaze falls to her watch.‘Mon Dieu!’ she groans. ‘It is almost ten. The last train leaves at ten forty-four.’
Duncan signals for the bill, and he and Drew fish out their wallets.
‘Shall we go Dutch?’ I ask, reaching under the table for my bag.
‘Och, away with you, it’s our pleasure,’ says Drew, putting his bank card on the table.
‘Absolutely! What kind of a man invites a lady to dinner, and then expectsher to pay?’ snorts Duncan.
Most of the men I’ve dated, I think.
Generosity: check ?
* * *
I am woken abruptly by the buzzing of my mobile on the bedside table.
One eye focuses on the luminous numbers of the digital clock: 02:10.
‘Who is it?’
‘Emily,c’est moi, Céline.’
I sit bolt upright. ‘Oh, my God, Céline, what’s happened?’ I babble, my mind racing. I shouldhave ordered her a cab instead of allowing her to disappear with a man we only met once. I can picture her at the other end of the line, battered and bruised, waiting at A&E for me to pick her up.
‘I can’t sleep,’ she says, with breathless excitement. ‘I had a wonderful evening, and when I come back from Chicago, I’m going to Breeg … Breeg …merde! … to visit Drew on the estate!’
‘Youcall me in the middle of the night to tell me this?’ I tease, beaming at her down the phone.
Like a pair of giggly teenagers, we dissect every bit of the evening, and by the time we say goodnight, the grandfather clock is clanging three, and I’ve demolished six shortbread fingers and a Bacardi Breezer from the mini bar. Wish I hadn’t ordered kippers for breakfast.
* * *
Vanity workingon a weak head produces every sort of mischief.
~ Jane Austen, Emma
Last day of filming today. More hanging around. More crowd scenes. More disapproving busybody acting.
The sea glimmers like tinsel in the brilliant, afternoon sun. A wispy vapour trail sweeps across the cloudless, forget-me-not blue sky, while The Proclaimers belt out ‘Letter from America’ through my earphones. I pullout my notebook and pen and begin to write …
Dear Duncan,
