Page 16 of The Love of Our Lives

Pulling something orange from his pocket, he passes it to me, our fingers grazing as he does.

It’s a headband of some sort. ‘I saw you running out there in the rain,’ he says, ‘and I have this, which I’ve never worn, so I thought maybe you could use it on your next run.

Or if you ever need to bolt out of a show again . . .’

I let out a laugh, even as I raise my eyebrows in mock annoyance.

‘I’m not sure whether to say thank you,’ I say, ‘or throw it back at you.’

He grins, those green eyes dancing. ‘It’s good to see you smiling again.’

A pause.

‘Well, I’d better get off to the workshop,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you around, Emily.’

Locking the door behind him, he heads down the stairs, and I can feel something rising up in me; words burbling at the surface. I walk across to the banister.

‘Adam,’ I call over the top, and he looks up sharply from the landing below.

I take a breath in. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy a walk with me later?’

He doesn’t answer for a moment and my breath catches. Maybe he didn’t really mean any of that.

Maybe it was all just hot air?

But then he smiles up at me. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘I think that might work. Early evening OK?’

‘Early evening is great.’

He grins and a moment later he’s gone, leaving me standing on the landing with a tingling down my back and a feeling that perhaps I don’t want to leave this life quite yet.

Later that afternoon, I head into the little express shop where I left the disposable camera.

I’m curious about what might be on it and why it hasn’t been developed yet.

With Emily’s one luxury item being a camera in the flat, I just don’t quite understand why she would have a disposable.

Still, it’s the only stone left unturned as far as I can see.

Once I’ve paid for the photos, I walk quickly out the door and open the packet on the street outside.

Taking out the first one, sunlight bounces off the filmy material, but I still see him – a sandy-haired man.

He’s handsome in that kind of chiselled jawline, film-star way, and he’s smiling at the camera from across the table in some hot-looking piazza.

The next one is a selfie of him and Emily kissing somewhere, her hair tangled into his jacket, his hand holding her cheek, and all of the ones after are similar, just photo after photo of him, or her, or the two of them together, clearly besotted.

Looking at the last one of them in an elevator, the strangest feeling runs through me.

Have I met him before?

I’m still staring down at the photo when I hear a ringing sound. I look around at the other pedestrians, initially thinking it must be one of them, before realising the sound is actually coming from me.

The phone .

Pulling it out of my handbag hurriedly, I look down at the name flashing across the front with panic.

Fran.

For a moment, I think about not picking up – after all, if Emily and Fran are cousins, then she’ll know it isn’t her Emily she’s speaking to. It was different with Adam, because Emily had only recently moved in, but this is someone she’s clearly close to.

No, I can’t talk to her.

But then again, I don’t want to cause Emily any friendship grief either and I can’t just deliberately ignore all the people in her life while I’m here, cause even worse problems. I need to play along for the time being.

‘Hello?’ I say, picking up finally.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I hear a voice say. ‘You are alive then.’

I can’t help smiling. It’s the sort of direct thing Jess might say.

‘Hi Fran,’ I try.

‘Hi Fran?’ she says. ‘That’s all I get? After a lifetime of friendship, then you move to Bonnie fucking Scotland and go radio silent. I know you said you wanted a bit of time to get settled, E, but still.’

Even though I don’t know this girl, I can still hear the trace of hurt under the jokey words.

And a touch of panic too? Her and Emily must be very close.

‘I’m sorry,’ I start to say, ‘it’s just all been quite . . . strange, coming somewhere new.’

‘So, tell me all about it then?’

I try to think what I should say, what would be normal for Emily, but before I can answer she says, ‘Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the wedding admin is going quite well, thank you.’

‘Oh, yes . . . the wedding,’ I say, feeling myself almost light up that I know something about Fran already.

I can work with this. I think of all the prep I did for Jess and Graham’s big day a few years back; she was already pregnant at the time, so I pretty much took most of it over for her and, in a way, it was nice – bonding like that after Cat.

‘How are you coping with it all then?’ I say to Fran now.

‘Pretty good after you gave us that checklist of yours. It’s only the seating chart we’ve got left to do. Speaking of which . . .’ Fran continues, ‘have you spoken to Simon?’

Simon. The man in the photos.

I don’t know how I know that exactly but I just do, like a memory floating back to me. Despite this odd feeling, it dawns on me that Fran might actually have a lot of the answers I’m looking for.

‘Not yet,’ I say slowly, and at least that much is true. ‘Have you?’ I ask cautiously.

‘No,’ she says, ‘although I can’t say I really want to see him, after what he did.’

I pause, as those feelings come to me again, but stronger this time.

‘He was cheating on me . . . when we were engaged,’ I say slowly.

‘Well, you don’t strictly know that,’ Fran says, ‘it was a receipt for a dinner.’

‘For two,’ I whisper.

‘I know . . .’ she says slowly, ‘it doesn’t look great.’

Oh god.

So that’s why Emily moved up here.

It’s all starting to make sense suddenly – the big changes, the expensive stuff around the more humble flat, the man I seem to recognise from the photos. And looking down at it now, I see what I didn’t before – a pale line running around my wedding finger.

But how the hell did I know they were engaged? How did I know he was cheating?

And who with anyway?

As though reading my mind, Fran says tentatively, ‘Did you ever find out who it was? The person he met that night? I can’t believe he left the receipt out like that.’

I find myself shaking my head, and in that moment, I know that also to be true.

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘You sure you’re OK?’ Fran says, worry etched in her voice now. ‘I could come up to see you if you like?’

‘That’s OK,’ I say eventually. ‘Maybe in a bit, I’m still getting used to everything I guess.’

A pause.

‘All right,’ Fran says. ‘You just let me know when.’

I’m about to say goodbye when I hear her take a breath in.

‘I really do miss you, E,’ she says, and I stop. She sounds upset.

‘I miss you too,’ I find myself saying, more because it would be really harsh not to.

‘But I suppose I get why you’ve made the move,’ she continues, like she’s trying to work it out, ‘what with your work hours and the gym every morning and the grilled fish every night . . . though most people would have killed for your life with that rooftop apartment of yours. Not that you ever got to see it much. You were the same at university, looking back; work work work, remember? Then I guess it just didn’t stop – we barely saw you in the last year. ’

I’m wondering who she means by we exactly. And why did Emily come to Edinburgh, for that matter? When she could have gone anywhere?

‘That doesn’t mean I don’t want you to come back,’ Fran adds quickly. ‘Just . . . what I’m trying to say, badly, is maybe you do need some time to chill. Process everything.’

‘Well, thanks for clearing that up.’ I smile.

‘Anytime, E.’

‘And if you need any more help planning your wedding,’ I find myself adding, ‘I’m only a phone call away. I have some experience.’

‘I know,’ she adds with a laugh, ‘and I will hold you to that.’

We finally say our goodbyes and, putting the photos of Simon away in my handbag, I head back to the flat.