'I can't,' Esme said.
James smiled at her. 'Why is that?'
'I…' Esme thought for a moment '…I've hurt my leg.'
'Have you?' James sat back in his chair and surveyed her, his eyes travelling over her ankles, her knees. 'I'm sorry to hear that. How did it happen?'
'I fell,' Esme mumbled, and pushed a piece of fruit cake between her teeth to signal that that was the end of the conversation and, luckily, her mother and grandmother came to her rescue, falling over themselves to offer him the company of her sister.
'Kitty would be happy to-'
'Why don't you go with Kitty, she's-'
'- show you some interesting plants in the far corner-'
'- terribly knowledgeable about the garden, she helps me quite often there, you know-'
James stood. 'Very well,' he said, and offered Kitty his arm. 'Shall we go, then?'
As they left, Esme uncurled her ankles from the chair legs and allowed herself to roll her eyes, just once, up to the ceiling and back. But she thought James caught her because she realised too late that, as he went out through the door with Kitty, he was looking back at her.
And Esme doesn't remember how many days passed before the time when she was making her way under the trees. It was early evening, she remembers that. She'd stayed late at school to finish an essay. Fog was sinking over the city, gluing itself to the houses, the streets, the lights, the black branches overhead, making them seem blurred and indistinct. Her hair was damp under her school beret and her feet icy inside her shoes.
She hefted her satchel to the other shoulder and, as she did so, was aware of a dark shape flitting through the trees on the Meadows. She tried not to glance back and increased her pace. The fog was thickening, grey and wet.
She was blowing on her frozen fingers when, from nowhere, a figure loomed up beside her in the gloom and seized her arm. She screamed and, grasping the leather strap of her satchel, belted the person round the head with all the combined weight of her books. The spectre grunted then swore, staggering backwards. Esme was off down the pavement before she heard him calling her name.
She stopped and waited, peering into the fog. The figure appeared again, materialising from the grey, this time with a hand held to his head.
'What did you want to go and do that for?' he was growling.
Esme stared at the man, puzzled. She couldn't believe that this was the horrid spectre from the gloom. He had fair hair, a smooth face, a good overcoat and a well-bred Grange accent. 'Do I know you?' she said.
He had flipped a handkerchief from a pocket and was dabbing at his temple. 'Look,' he was exclaiming, 'blood. You've drawn blood.' Esme glanced at the white cotton and saw three drops of scarlet. Then he suddenly seemed to hear what she had said. 'Do you know me?' he repeated, aghast. 'Don't you remember?'
She looked at him again. He summoned up a feeling of constriction in her, she noticed, of stillness and boredom. Something clicked in her head and she remembered. James. The suitor who'd liked the garden.
'I came to your house,' he was saying. 'There was you, your sister Katy, and-'
'Kitty.'
'That's right. Kitty. It was only the other day. I can't believe you didn't recognise me.'
'The fog,' Esme said vaguely, wondering what he wanted, when she could decently walk off. Her feet were freezing.
'But I first met you over there.' He gestured behind him. 'Do you remember that?'
She nodded, suppressing a smile. 'Uh-huh. Mr Charming.'
He gave a mock bow, took her hand as if to kiss it. 'That's me.'
She pulled her hand away. 'Well. I must be going. Goodbye now.'
But he took her arm and looped it through his and set off with her down the pavement. Anyway,' he said, as if they were still talking, as if she hadn't just said goodbye, 'none of this is the point because the point is, of course, when are you coming to the pictures with me?'
'I'm not.'
'I can assure you,' he said, with a smile, 'that you are.'
Esme frowned. Her footsteps stuttered. She tried to wrest her fingers out from under his but he held them firm. 'Well, I can assure you that I'm not. And I should know.'
'Why?'
'Because it's up to me.'
'Is it?'
'Of course.'
'What if,' he said, applying heavier pressure to her hand, 'I were to ask your parents? What then?'
Esme snatched away her hand. 'You can't ask my parents if I'll go to the pictures with you.'
'Can't I?'
'No,' she said. 'And, anyway, even if they said yes I still wouldn't go. I'd rather…' she tried to think of something extreme, something to make him go away '…I'd rather stick pins in my eyes.' That ought to do it.
But he was grinning as if she'd said something extremely flattering. What was wrong with the man? He readjusted his glove and twitched his cuff, looking her up and down as if considering whether or not he should eat her.
'Pins, eh? They don't teach you many manners at that school of yours, do they? But I like a challenge. I shall ask you one more time. When are you going to come to the pictures with me?'
'Never,' she retorted. Again, she was amazed to see him smile. She didn't think she'd ever been as rude to anyone as she'd been to him.
He stepped up close to her and she made sure to hold her ground. 'You're not like other girls, are you?' he murmured.
Despite herself, she was interested in this declaration. 'Aren't I?'
'No. You're no drawing-room shrinking violet. I like that. I like a bit of temper. Life's dull without it, don't you think?' The white of his teeth gleamed in the dark and she could feel his breath on her face. 'But seriously now,' he said and his tone was firm, magisterial, and Esme thought this was how he might speak to his horses. The thought made her want to giggle. Wasn't the Dalziel family famous for its equestrian accomplishments? 'I'm not going to waste any pretty words and persuasive phrases on you. I know you don't need them. I want to take you out, so when will it be?'
'I already told you,' she said, holding his gaze. 'Never.'
She felt him catch her wrist and she was surprised by the insistence, the power of his grip. 'Let go,' she said, stepping away from him. But he held on, fast. She struggled. 'Let go!' she said. 'Do you want me to hit you again?'
He released her. 'Wouldn't mind,' he drawled. As she walked away, she heard him call after her: 'I'm going to invite you to tea.'
'I won't come,' she threw back over her shoulder.
'You damn well will. I'm going to get my mother to invite your mother. Then you'll have to come.'
'I won't!'
'We've got a piano you could play. A Steinway.'
Esme's steps slowed and she half turned. 'A Steinway?'
'Yes.'
'How did you know I played the piano?' She heard him laugh, the noise bouncing along the wet pavement towards her. 'I did a little research on you. It wasn't difficult. You seem to be rather notorious. I found out all kinds of things. Can't say what, though. So, you'll come to tea?'
She turned towards home again. 'I doubt it.'
Iris is turning the car off the coast road and on to the bypass for Edinburgh, Esme in the seat next to her, when she decides that maybe she should call Luke. Just to check. Just to make sure he hasn't done anything stupid.
As they accelerate down the sliproad towards the bypass, she takes her phone out of her pocket with one hand, keeping her eyes on the road and her foot on the pedal. She had told Luke in the past that she would never call at the weekend. She knows the rules. But what if he has told her? He can't have. He won't have. Surely.
Iris sighs and flings the phone on to the dashboard. It may be time, she reflects, to excise Luke from her life.
Esme shifted in the armchair. It was covered with a heavy brown fabric, balding on the arms. The sharp ends of feathers poked through it, needling her thighs. She shifted again, making her mother glance at her. She had to stop herself sticking out her tongue. Why had she made her come?