CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Arthur’s Seat
SATURDAY 15 JULY 1988
Rankeillor Street, Edinburgh
Dexter showered in the shabby mildewed bathroom, then put on last night’s shirt. It smelt of sweat and cigarettes so he put the suit jacket on too, to hold the odour in, then squeezed toothpaste onto his index finger and polished his teeth.
He joined Emma Morley and Tilly Killick in the kitchen, beneath a greasy wall-sized poster of Truffaut’s Jules et Jim. Jeanne Moreau stood over them laughing as they ate an awkward, bowel-tweaking breakfast: brown toast with soya spread, some kind of aggregate muesli. Because this was a special occasion, Emma had washed out the continental-style espresso maker, the kind that always seemed to be mouldy inside, and after the first cup of oily black liquid Dexter began to feel a little bit better. He sat quietly, listening to the flatmates’ self-consciously larky banter, their big spectacles worn as a badge of honour, and had the vague feeling that he had been taken hostage by a rogue fringe theatre company. Perhaps it had been a mistake to stay on after all. Certainly it had been a mistake to leave the bedroom. How was he supposed to kiss her with Tilly Killick sitting there, babbling on?
For her part, Emma found herself increasingly maddened by Tilly’s presence. Did she have no discretion at all? Sat there with her chin cupped in her hand, playing with her hair and sucking her teaspoon. Emma had made the mistake of showering with an untested bottle of Body Shop strawberry gel and was painfully aware of smelling like a fruit yoghurt. She badly wanted to go and rinse it off, but didn’t dare leave Dexter alone with Tilly, her dressing-gown gaping open on her best underwear, a red plaid all-in-one body from Knickerbox; she could be so obvious sometimes.
To go back to bed, that’s what Emma really wanted, and to be partially dressed once again, but it was too late for that now, they were all too sober. Keen to get away, she wondered aloud what they should do today, the first day of their graduate lives.
‘We could go to the pub?’ suggested Dexter, weakly. Emma groaned with nausea.
‘Go for lunch?’ said Tilly.
‘No money.’
‘The movies then?’ offered Dexter. ‘I’ll pay . . .’
‘Not today. It’s lovely out, we should be outside.’
‘Okay, the beach, North Berwick.’
Emma shrank from the idea. It would mean wearing a swimming costume in front of him, and she wasn’t strong enough for that kind of agony. ‘I’m useless on the beach.’
‘Okay then, what?’
‘We could climb up Arthur’s Seat?’ said Tilly.
‘Never done it,’ said Dexter casually. Both girls looked at him, open-mouthed.
‘You’ve never climbed Arthur’s Seat?’
‘Nope.’
‘You’ve been in Edinburgh four years, and you’ve never? . . .’
‘I’ve been busy!’
‘Doing what?’ said Tilly.
‘Studying anthropology,’ said Emma and the two girls cackled unkindly.
‘Well we must go!’ said Tilly, and a brief silence followed as Emma’s eyes blazed a warning.
‘I haven’t got proper shoes,’ said Dexter.
‘It’s not K2, it’s just a big hill.’
‘I can’t climb it in brogues!’
‘You’ll be fine, it’s not hard.’
‘In my suit?’
‘Yes! We could take a picnic!’ But Emma could feel the enthusiasm starting to slip away, until Tilly finally spoke:
‘Actually, you two should probably go without me. I’ve got . . . stuff to do.’
Emma’s eyes flicked towards her, catching the end of a wink, and Emma thought she might very easily lean across and kiss her.
‘Alright then. Let’s do it!’ said Dexter, brightening too, and fifteen minutes later they were stepping outside into the hazy July morning, the Salisbury Crags looming over them at the end of Rankeillor Street.
‘We’re really climbing up there?’
‘A child could do it. Trust me.’
In the supermarket on Nicolson Street they shopped for a picnic, both a little uncomfortable in the strangely domestic rite of sharing a shopping basket, both self-conscious about their choices; were olives too fancy? Was it funny to take Irn Bru, ostentatious to buy champagne? They loaded Emma’s army surplus rucksack with supplies – Emma’s joky, Dexter’s would-be sophisticated – then doubled back towards Holyrood Park and began the ascent along the base of the escarpment.
Dexter tagged along behind, sweaty in his suit and slippery shoes, a cigarette held between his lips, his head thumping with red wine and the morning’s coffee. He was vaguely aware that he should be taking in the splendour of the view, but instead his eyes were fixed on Emma’s bottom in faded blue 501s, cinched in tight at the waist, above black high-top Converse All-Stars.
‘You’re very nimble.’
‘Like a mountain goat, me. I used to go hiking a lot at home, when I was in my Cathy phase. Out on the wild and windy moors. Dead soulful I was. “I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!”’
Half-listening, Dexter assumed that she was quoting something, but was distracted by a strip of dark sweat forming between her shoulder blades, a glimpse of a bra-strap at the slipped neck of her t-shirt. He had another momentary image of last night in bed, but she looked round at him as if warning him off the thought.
‘How you doing there, Sherpa Tenzing?’
‘I’m fine. I wish there was some grip on these shoes, that’s all.’ She was laughing now. ‘What’s funny?’
‘Just I’ve never seen anyone smoke and hike at the same time.’
‘What else am I meant to be doing?’
‘Looking at the view!’
‘A view’s a view’s a view.’
‘Is that Shelley or Wordsworth?’
He sighed and stopped, his hands on his knees. ‘Okay. Fine. I’ll look at the view.’ Turning, he saw the council estates, the spires and crenellations of the Old City beneath the great grey hulk of the castle, then beyond that in the haze of the warm day, the Firth of Forth. Dexter had a general policy of not appearing impressed by anything, but it really was a magnificent view, the one he recognised from picture postcards. He wondered why he had never seen it before.
‘Very nice,’ he allowed himself and they kept climbing towards the summit, wondering what would happen when they got there.