He arrived at the Braxfield Tower and walked past the little sheltered area where he and Nina had shared their first cigarette. Cutting through the lobby, he got in the lift and emerged on the fifth floor, where Matlock now had his office. Matlock was yet to arrive, so Sam took a seat in the office and settled in to wait.
When he heard the door open and close behind him he turned around expecting to see Matlock. Instead, it was Nina. She was back to her glossy, stylish self in a smart black trouser suit, an acid green scarf at her neck and elegant high heels on her feet. Sam looked her over for just a moment too long. He had almost forgotten that she could look like that. She rushed toward him and gave him a hug. Sam tried very hard not to remember the last time her soft, warm body had been pressed against his.
"How did you know I started back today?" Nina asked. "Ugh, it's been strange being back — not to mention frustrating! Everyone keeps asking me about Matlock's new fucking book. Did I help him write it, or did I even go in the first place? God, it's exhausting having to keep giving out polite answers! Look, I've got a class to teach in about ten minutes, but do you want to go and get some dinner after that? "
Sam opened his mouth, then shut it again. Then opened it. Then shut it. How did she know? he wondered. That thought was swiftly joined by another. She thinks I'm here to see her. And I'm not. At least not entirely. Not even primarily. Oh, god…
"Dinner would be great!" Sam decided to concentrate on the positive stuff first. "I can hang around here until you're done with teaching. There's a really nice wee Mexican place around on the Canongate, if our time in Argentina hasn't put you off that whole continent's food for life."
"Sounds great!" Sam could have sworn he heard Nina giggle. "I'd better go. You can wait in here if you like, but I should warn you — this is actually Matlock's office. I know the receptionist just directs people in here if they ask about German history, just so you know. In case you don't fancy rehashing old times. Or having to wax lyrical about his fucking book."
In a fist of excruciating honesty, Sam thought it best just to come clean. "That's… actually what I'm here about. Oh, don't get me wrong, I wanted to see you too! But my editor sent me here, because they want an editorial feature on his book ahead of its publication… Nina, don't. Don't look at me like that!"
Her hands had balled into tight fists, her fingernails digging into the palms. "Like what?" she asked with acid sweetness. "Like you're a money-grubbing bastard who would sell me out for the sake of a story? Like you're a fucking traitor who would work with someone who stole all my best material and even the idea in the first place and would fuck me over and not care? Oh, well guess what, Sam Cleave, I'm looking at you that way because that's exactly what you are! No, don't touch me. Don't talk to me. We should have left you behind in Antarctica. I said don't talk to me!" She stormed over to the door and flung it wide, then stepped through it and fired her parting shot back over her shoulder. "And you can forget about dinner tonight — or any night!" The door slammed. She was gone.
Ah well, Sam thought with a deep sigh. That's the end of that. He sat down in the chair opposite the desk, then swiftly began to wonder where Matlock's secret stash of alcohol would be. Every academic had one, he was certain. Matlock's, it emerged, was relatively easy to find — a bottle of Highland Park in the top right drawer. Sam poured himself a tumbler of whisky. Matlock won't mind, he told himself. And if he does, well… that's the price of publicity.
Sam settled into Professor Matlock's leather armchair, sipped the whisky and looked idly out of the window at the rugged beauty of Salisbury Crags. He raised the glass in a silent toast, as he usually did when drinking alone — but for the first time in a long time, his toast was not to Trish and the hope that he would soon be with her. It was to life, to the prospect of adventures yet to be had, and to Samuel Fergusson Cleave being very much alive.