ONE DAY(136)

In a torn paper wallet he finds the graduation photographs and flicks through them without any great nostalgia. Because the photos were taken by Emma herself she barely features in them, and he has forgotten many of the other students anyway; she was part of a different crowd in those days. Still, he is struck by the youth of the faces and also by the fact that Tilly Killick has the power to annoy him, even in a photo at a distance of nineteen years. A snap of Callum O’Neill, skinny and self-satisfied, is swiftly torn in two and plunged deep into the bin-bag.

But at some point she must have handed the camera to Tilly, because there is finally a sequence of Emma by herself, pulling mock-heroic faces in mortar board and gown, her spectacles perched bookishly on the end of her nose. He smiles, then gives a groan of amused shame as he finds a photo of his old self.

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?’