He is pulling an absurd male model’s face, sucking in his cheekbones and pouting while Emma wraps one arm around his neck, her face close to his, eyes wide, one hand pressed to her cheek as if star-struck. After this photo was taken they had gone to the graduation tea-party, the pub and then to the party at that house. He can’t remember who lived there, only that the house was packed and virtually destroyed, the party spilling out onto the street and the back garden. Hiding from the chaos, they had found a spot on a sofa in the living room together and stayed rooted there all evening. This was where he had kissed her for the first time. He examines the graduation photo once again, Emma behind thick black frames, her hair a bottle red and badly cut, a little plumper in the face than he remembers her now, mouth split in a wide smile, her cheek pressed to his. He puts the photo to one side, and looks at the next.
It is the morning after. They are sitting together on a mountainside, Emma in 501s cinched at the waist and black Converse All-Stars, Dexter a little way off in the white shirt and black suit that he had worn the day before.
The summit of Arthur’s Seat was disappointingly crowded with tourists and other graduating students, all whey-faced and shaky from last night’s celebrations. Dex and Em raised their hands sheepishly in greeting to a few acquaintances, but tried to keep their distance, keen to avoid gossip even now that it was too late.
They wandered idly around the scrappy rust-coloured plateau, taking in the view from all angles. Standing at the stone column that marked the summit, they made the remarks they were obliged to make in such situations: how far they had walked and how they could see their house from here. The column itself had been scratched with graffiti: private jokes, ‘DG Was Here’, ‘Scotland Forever’, ‘Thatcher Out’.
‘We should carve our initials,’ suggested Dexter, weakly.
‘What, “Dex 4 Em”?’
‘4 Ever.’
Emma sniffed doubtfully and examined the most striking graffiti, a large penis drawn with indelible green ink. ‘Imagine climbing all this way just to draw that. Did he bring the pen with him, d’you think? “It’s a lovely view, natural beauty and all that, but what this spot really needs is a massive cock and balls.”’
Dexter laughed mechanically, but once again, self-consciousness was starting to creep in; now they were here it felt like a mistake, and independently they wondered if they should skip the picnic and simply clamber back down and head home. But neither of them was quite prepared to suggest this, and instead they found a hollow a short way from the summit where the rocks seemed to provide some natural furniture, and they settled here and unpacked the rucksack.
Dexter popped the champagne, which was warm now and foamed forlornly over his hand and onto the heather. They took it in turns to swig but there was little sense of celebration and after a brief silence Emma resorted once more to remarking on the view. ‘Very nice.’
‘Hm.’
‘No sign of rain!’
‘Hm?’
‘St Swithin’s Day, you said it was. “If on Swithin’s Day it do rain . . .”’
‘Absolutely. No sign of rain.’
The weather; she was talking about the weather. Embarrassed by her own banality, she lapsed into silence before trying a more direct approach. ‘So, how are you feeling, Dex?’
‘Bit rough.’
‘No, I mean about last night? Me and you.’
He glanced at her and wondered what he was expected to say. He was wary of a confrontation with no immediate means of escape, save hurling himself from the mountainside. ‘I feel fine! How about you? How are you feeling about last night?’
‘Fine. Bit embarrassed, I s’pose, harking on like that, you know, ’bout the future. Changing the world, and all that. Bit corny in the harsh light of day. Must have sounded corny anyway, specially to someone with no principles or ideals—’
‘Hey, I have ideals!’
‘Sleeping with two women at the same time is not an ideal.’
‘Well, you say that . . .’
She tutted. ‘You can be really seedy sometimes, d’you know that?’
‘I can’t help it.’
‘Well you should try.’ She grabbed a handful of heather and tossed it limply towards him. ‘You’re much nicer when you do. Anyway. The point is, I didn’t mean to sound such a drip.’
‘You didn’t. It was interesting. And like I said, I had a really nice time. It’s just a shame the timing’s not better.’
He was giving her an annoying little consolatory smile and she wrinkled her nose in irritation. ‘What, you mean otherwise we’d be boyfriend and girlfriend?’
‘I don’t know. Who knows?’
He held out his hand, palm upwards, and she looked at it for a moment with distaste, then sighed and took it resignedly, and they sat there, their hands linked uselessly, feeling idiotic until their arms got tired and they both let go. The best solution, he decided, was to feign sleep until it was time to go, and with this in mind he removed his jacket, padded it into a pillow and closed his eyes against the sun. His body ached, the alcohol pulsed in his head, and he began to feel himself slipping into unconsciousness, when she spoke.
‘Can I say something? Just to put your mind at rest?’
Groggily he opened his eyes. She was sitting with her legs raised to her chest, arms wrapped round them, chin resting on her knees. ‘Go on.’
She inhaled, as if gathering her thoughts, then spoke.
‘I don’t want you thinking that I’m bothered or anything. I mean, what happened last night, I know it was only ’cause you were drunk . . .’
‘Emma . . .’
‘Let me finish, will you? But I had a really nice time anyway. I’ve not done a lot of . . . that kind of thing. I’ve not made a study of it, not like you, but it was nice. I think you’re nice, Dex, when you want to be. And maybe it’s just bad timing or whatever, but I think you should head off to China or India or wherever and find yourself, and I’ll get on quite happily with things here. I don’t want to come with you, I don’t want weekly postcards, I don’t even want your phone number. I don’t want to get married and have your babies either, or even have another fling. We had one really, really nice night together, that’s all. I’ll always remember it. And if we bump into each other sometime in the future at a party or something, then that’s fine too. We’ll just have a friendly chat. We won’t be embarrassed ’cause you’ve had your hand down my top and there’ll be no awkwardness and we’ll be, whatever, “cool” about it, alright? Me and you. We’ll just be . . . friends. Agreed?’
‘Alright. Agreed.’
‘Right, that’s that then. Now—’ She reached for her rucksack and fumbled around inside, producing a battered Pentax SLR.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What does it look like? Taking a photo. Something to remember you by.’
‘I look terrible,’ he said, already adjusting his hair.
‘Don’t give me that, you love it . . .’
He lit a cigarette for a prop. ‘What do you want a photo for?’
‘For when you’re famous.’ She was balancing the camera on a boulder now, framing the shot through the viewfinder. ‘I want to be able to say to my kids, see him there, he once stuck his hand up Mummy’s skirt in a crowded room.’
‘You started it!’
‘No, you started it, pal!’ She cocked the clockwork timer, scrubbed at her own hair with her fingertips, while Dexter set the cigarette in one side of his mouth and then the other. ‘Right – thirty seconds.’
Dexter refined his pose. ‘What do we say? “Cheese”?’
‘Not “cheese”. Let’s say “one-night stand!”’ She pressed the button and the camera began to whirr. ‘Or “promiscuous!”’ She clambered over the rocks.
‘Or “thieves that pass in the night”.’
‘Thieves don’t pass in the night. That’s ships.’
‘What do thieves do?’
‘Thieves are thick.’
‘What’s wrong with just “cheese”?’
‘Let’s not say anything. Let’s just smile, look natural. Look young and full of high ideals and hope or something. Ready?’
‘Ready.’
‘Okay then, smile and . . .’