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  ‘We can’t take risks. Not in this challenging retail climate.’

  Lexie could feel Neil pressing on her foot and faked a sneeze to disguise a bubble of laughter.

  ‘Sorry. Beg pardon.’ She needed this laugh.

  ‘I’m afraid I have to go with Morag on this one,’ Tom said, oblivious. ‘Neil, just replace the stock we sold. After all, if we shifted it once, we can do it again, it’s obviously popular.’

  ‘We could sell loads if we had more contemporary stuff to offer,’ Lexie persisted, but her father’s face had closed down. She gave up and opened her sketchbook. Sometimes she found drawing easier than talking. She drew a frown, then glasses, then her father’s face took shape round it. A few squiggles and she captured the sense of hunched shoulders and stress. She could see Morag squinting across at the drawing and flipped the page over quickly. How she viewed her father was private.

  ‘Windows,’ Tom said, flicking through the pile of papers in front of him. ‘Alexa?’

  ‘It’s nearly Easter. Let’s do something really Spring-like and colourful, something that’ll lift people’s spirits, get them excited about coming in.’

  ‘There’s no budget,’ Morag said in a flash. ‘In this challenging—’

  ‘Retail climate,’ Lexie interrupted, wrinkling her nose in Neil’s direction because he had won their bet, ‘I know. But I can do it cheaply. It may not even cost us a penny.’

  ‘Fine. So long,’ Tom added with the once-easy smile, ‘as there are no bunnies or chicks.’ It was a laudable attempt to lighten the discussion. ‘Morag, I’m sure we can find something in the budget if we have to. Which brings me to this marketing plan.’

  He opened the file she and Neil had spent so much time on.

  ‘Thank you for doing this.’

  Lexie’s fingers tightened round her pencil. His voice said it all; he didn’t want to upset them, but knew he was going to have to.

  ‘I do appreciate all the trouble you’ve gone to, but we’re going to have to put it aside for now. The costs you’ve shown for setting up a fully functional website are huge. And we’d have to spend a lot on literature.’ He flicked the pages again. ‘We can’t afford the investment right now. Besides, we’re a traditional, long-established store and that’s what people come to us for.’

  But not enough people.

  ‘We can’t be certain about our market unless we do a survey, Dad.’

  ‘Even a survey would cost us.’ He looked at her above his half-moon spectacles. ‘It’s not for now, Alexa. Sorry.’

  There was exhaustion in his voice. She snapped her sketchbook shut. Something inside her head muttered, If you don’t like my plans, what am I doing here? This wasn’t the time to talk about it. She’d speak to him privately. Later. Soon. If she wasn’t going to win this fight, maybe the time had come for her to claim back her own career.

  ‘We’ll look through it again and see if we can come up with some cheaper options.’

  It wasn’t a good compromise – the marketing plan should be coherent and strategic, not a kind of pick-and-mix – but it was the best she could think of for now.

  Tom shuffled his papers together.

  ‘Fine. Thank you. We’d better open up.’

  ‘You owe me a quid,’ Neil muttered as they headed off.

  Lexie grimaced at him and pulled a coin out of her purse.

  Morag, jostling past, ducked to peer at it, the flyaway, dried-up ends of her permed hair tickling Alexa’s chin.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  Lexie winked at Neil above Morag’s head. Without such tiny pleasures, she’d go insane.

  Chapter Three

  Catalogue number 13: White clog-style leather slip-on comfort shoe, with leather insoles and shock-absorbing heel. Used by neurosurgeon Alastair Whyte during operations. Donor: Alastair Whyte, Edinburgh. ‘During complex, life-saving operations, it’s vital that you are thinking only of the task in hand, and are not distracted by discomfort or tiredness,’ says Alastair Whyte.

  The day went from bad to worse. Lexie’s best friend Molly called at lunchtime, just as she was about to pull on her jacket and head up to Cobbles. While Gordon’s slid shamefacedly towards oblivion, Molly was hard at work building a hugely successful enterprise at Fleming House, a Georgian mansion at the heart of a large local country estate. She’d only launched herself into the job a year ago, but her enthusiasm and sheer hard graft were paying off in a big way. The house had already become a prime venue for weddings, corporate dinners and country fairs and Molly was working on plans to convert the Home Farm into a top-notch restaurant and conference centre. Perpetually rushing, she sounded breathless now.

  ‘Hi Lexie, have you seen Scotland Daily?’

  ‘Haven’t had a minute. Why?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Well, it’s just a little article in the arts section.’

  Lexie groaned. She knew exactly what Molly was going to say.

  ‘Don’t tell me. Patrick’s found a new genius.’

  Molly was apologetic. ‘Something like that. Sorry.’

  Patrick had a knack of discovering new talent, usually young painters or photographers just a year or two out of college, and then proceeding to make them into high-value artists. Being chosen for an exhibition at Capital Art was the pinnacle of a young artist’s ambition. Lexie knew how he worked because she’d been one of the chosen few.

  Molly said into the silence, ‘He’ll take you back, you know, when you’re ready.’

  ‘You’re wrong. Patrick never forgives and never forgets.’

  ‘Then hell mend him.’

  Lexie couldn’t help smiling at her vehemence.

  ‘Thanks, Moll, you’re a true pal. And thanks for letting me know.’

  Molly knew all about the row, of course, but she knew nothing about the affair with Patrick. Lexie had never told anyone – not even her best friend – about the irresistible tide that had swept her from the safety of single status and into Patrick’s arms, and discretion had proved to be its own reward because it had been over almost as soon as it had begun. The last thing she’d needed a year ago was people concerning themselves about her love life. Besides, she was now convinced that Patrick had an affair with every new protégé, so what was there to tell?

  ‘How are you today, Lex?’ Molly said, ‘do you want to meet?’

  Lexie was touched at her concern.

  ‘Maybe later? Are you free this evening?’

  ‘There are no events on, but I’m really busy. As usual.’

  Lexie thought of what her evening would be like, alone with her parents. If they could only sit round the table and talk about Jamie, maybe even laugh at good memories shared, it wouldn’t be nearly so painful, but they were a long way from that, too many questions were still unanswered.

  ‘I’ll call later and see how you’re fixed. I’d really appreciate a drink.’

  ‘No probs. Bye, Lexie—’

  ‘Oh, Molly—’ Lexie was going to tell her about Cameron, but Molly had already hung up.

  Hailesbank was still a relatively unspoiled market town. Once it had been a wealthy place, now it managed to thrive simply because it was within easy commuting distance of Edinburgh. In the centre there were a few fine fifteenth- and sixteenth-century buildings and some grand Georgian houses. The Victorians had added stone-built terraces, arranged like ribs on either side of a spine. A maze of small vennels and wynds lined with workers’ cottages meandered from these like arteries down to the vital life-blood of the River Hailes, after which the town was named. Lexie headed down one of these vennels at lunchtime, with a sandwich in one hand and a copy of Scotland Daily in the other. The sun was blazing down and, in the first lucky break of the day, her favourite bench was free.

  When she could put it off no longer, she opened the newspaper. The story about Patrick was on the arts pages, as expected. ‘Mulgrew’s Magic: A Star is Born’. There was a photograph of him staring at a beaming girl so fresh-faced, despite the heavily-kohl
ed eyes and scarlet lips, that Lexie guessed she was straight out of college. According to the caption, her name was Esther Goldwyn. The picture credit read ‘Joey Wilkinson’.

  She didn’t bother with any more. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sun. Joey Wilkinson. Wasn’t he the photographer who’d taken her picture last year? She could still see his long, thin face and dark eyes, intense and focused as he’d set up his lights and composed his shot.

  ‘Could you just look at your painting, Lexie? Chin up a little more? That’s it, excellent. Patrick, if you could turn your face to the camera … Perfect.’

  And it had been. Except that the pictures had never been used, because before the article had been published, Jamie had died, Lexie had pulled out of the show to come home, and the whole edifice of the career she’d been building had collapsed around her.

  Lexie shifted uncomfortably. Now the vintage clothes she was wearing were too hot. They hadn’t heard of breathable fabric in the 1950s. Why was Patrick creeping into her mind today of all days? She didn’t want to think about him, with his expensive Italian tailoring and all the other expensive trappings he so prized. She particularly didn’t want to think about the mad black hair or the clever eyes that had snared her with their quick humour.

  ‘You finished with yer paper, hen?’

  She opened her eyes. A man was standing in front of her, gesturing at the newspaper, which had slipped from her fingers onto the bench beside her.

  ‘Sure. I was just going to chuck it away.’

  She handed it over and stood up. Who cared about Patrick Mulgrew anyway? Besides, she had someone else to think about: Cameron.

  From up on the High Street came the sound of the clock on the town hall striking two – ding, ding – just as it had rung for more than two hundred years, chasing folk back to work. No time to drop in on Pavel now, the 1940s dresses would have to wait.

  The twenty-first century office is peculiarly quiet. Business is conducted on the internet and by email, and human contact can be minimal. Even Lexie, to her shame, exchanged a stream of emails every day with Neil, who sat in the room next door – so when the telephone rang in the middle of the afternoon, she guessed who it was before she picked it up.

  ‘Alexa, it’s Mum here.’

  She had been refining her ideas for the Easter window. She had sourced a chartreuse green sofa that could be returned later and was playing with the idea of purple and scarlet cushions. If she added a riot of hyacinths and crocuses, daffodils and narcissus, the colour scheme would sing. She clicked on a link to Designers Guild and spotted the perfect fabric. Gran Paradiso, Rose. Bouquets of glorious flowers in a deep pink leapt off the fabric. It would be the only item she needed to spend money on, so Morag could lump it, challenging retail climate or not. She had to have drapes for the room set or the whole effect would fall flat.

  ‘Hello, Mum.’

  ‘I thought we might have fish tonight, darling. What do you think?’

  From the sublime to the ridiculous.

  ‘Didn’t Carlotta come round?’

  ‘Boquerones.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And puntillitas.’

  ‘I see.’

  Carlotta had arrived in Hailesbank as an au pair some years ago and her exotic, olive-skinned beauty had set the entire Hailesbank Hawks squad into a lather before she’d settled on the captain, Jonas Wood. Jonas was a bull of a man, a mountain of solid beef. He could scoop Carlotta under his arm and charge for the posts with her as easily as he could tuck away a rugby ball, but his love for her shone like a star in the night sky, unwavering and constant. She’d given up the au pairing when they’d married and taken to cooking instead. Jonas required considerable feeding. Now she ran Besalú, a tapas restaurant in Hailesbank, where her dishes found popular approval. Since Jamie’s death she’d become extraordinarily attentive to Lexie’s parents and Lexie wondered if it might be because she missed her own family, back in Spain. She loved to shower Martha and Tom with Spanish culinary treats (‘just little leftovers’) – but her parents were conservative in their tastes and viewed some of the offerings with considerable uncertainty. Lexie wasn’t entirely sure what boquerones or puntillitas were, but she guessed they were under suspicion.

  Lexie didn’t understand Carlotta’s constant gifts, nor did she entirely trust her motives. It wasn’t as if she and Carlotta were close, or that Carlotta had been a special friend of Jamie’s. At the same time, she had to admit that her visits had brought relief to her mother – many of Martha’s friends didn’t know how to offer comfort. They were embarrassed about Jamie – not because he was dead but because he was found to have been catastrophically drunk when he’d crashed his car.

  Martha was saying, ‘So I wondered if you might have time to pop into the fishmonger’s? Would you mind terribly?’

  ‘No problem.’ She knows I’ll do it, and that even if I do mind, I’ll pretend I don’t.

  And so the circular dance went on.

  Resigned to the inevitable, she texted Molly with a brave apology.

  ‘Can’t make tonite. Soz. 2morro?’

  She was itching to tell her about Cameron, but jungle tom-toms beat loud and Molly probably already knew.

  Cameron Forrester had taken up residence in Lexie’s head and she’d decided that she would evict him before she reached the Thompson Memorial Park. These days her life seemed to be filled with small milestones and targets.

  Just get through till five o’clock.

  Just get through the night.

  Just get through this year.

  So now it seemed entirely natural to give herself permission to think about Cameron for ten minutes, on the understanding that at the Park she’d banish him. It was a feeling, rather than thoughts, that filled her; a glorious all-pervading warmth. Desire. How strange that she should still find Cameron attractive, even after what he’d done – and how infuriating.

  The elaborate gates of the Park were in front of her and for a few steps Lexie struggled with her resolution. She kicked against dismissing Cameron so soon, but she knew that to dwell on his return would be a mistake, and to read anything into his motives, madness. Still … Maybe she could walk the long way, round the outside of the Park, so it didn’t count? But what would that achieve? She stuck to her resolution, went into the Park, and thought about recipes for trout instead.

  Patrick left the gallery early. He hadn’t intended to, any more than he’d meant to work in Edinburgh today, but he was impelled towards Hailesbank by the idea that he might see Lexie. Naturally, he didn’t admit this to anyone, least of all to himself. Rather, he had decided that he must call his agent in New York and because no-one in Edinburgh was yet aware of his plans for expansion, that this had to be done from the privacy of his home office.

  He turned off the dual carriageway onto the slip road to Hailesbank. A deer skipped out from thick bushes to his right. Patrick braked, but managed to avoid swerving. The deer was pretty. It was a young one, pale russet with creamy patches along the ridge of its backbone. He had time to look right into its wide, startled eyes (which reminded him, inevitably, of Lexie), before the fawn skidded to a halt, swayed into an uncertain turn, and fled back into the wood. Patrick slid down into second and picked up speed again, trying to ignore how shaken the near miss had left him.

  Everything reminded him of Lexie today. And if he was finding it a day for wallowing in memories, how must she be feeling? He itched to press her number on the Bluetooth connection in the car, the one he’d never managed to delete, but he knew it was impossible. There had been moments over the past year when there might have been the chink of an opportunity to say something, to put things right, but pride had intervened and he’d neglected to seize any of them.

  He glanced at the Patek Phillipe on his wrist. The watch was another symbol of success. Patrick liked tangible reminders of how far he had come from his lowly roots.

  It was five thirty. He might glimpse Lexie walking home, but he pl
ayed down the possibility in his mind in an effort to minimise the likely disappointment. She’d be home already; she’d still be at work; her father would have driven her home, so that the family could be together. Still, as he neared the Park, he began to look left and right, right and left, for her distinctive clothing and cropped scarlet hair.

  It was one year since Jamie Gordon had wrapped his car round an oak tree on the road to Forgie and slipped into a coma. Just under one year since Lexie had trudged up the steps to the gallery and announced that she couldn’t finish her final painting, the one that would pull the exhibition together, and since (despite his repeated attempts at persuasion) she’d told him categorically that she was pulling out.

  One year, therefore, since he had lost his temper and driven her away.

  Everything he’d said had been right, of course. She was thoroughly unprofessional. No artist with a shred of self-respect would pull out of an exhibition so near completion. There were too many things to consider: the investment of time and money in her work; the pre-publicity (which in Alexa’s case was substantial); the expectations of all his important customers; the gap it would leave in the gallery’s schedule; the loss of her reputation (and, more importantly, of his own).

  But being right wasn’t enough. Of course he’d supported her publicly (‘Alexa Gordon has our deepest sympathies’; ‘None of us would feel right about going ahead in the circumstances’; ‘We’ll reschedule the exhibition for a later date.’) But could he have dealt with her better? When, five years into their marriage, Niamh had walked out on him and gone straight into the arms of his brother, Aidan, he’d experienced a sense of loss as deep as any bereavement – compounded by the hurt of betrayal. He’d handled his own hurt by adopting a punishing schedule and he’d presumed that Lexie would do the same. But Lexie was different. She was different from every woman he’d ever known (and certainly from Niamh) and he realised now that he hadn’t known her at all. He’d thought her announcement another breach of trust, but others might view it as laudable loyalty to her family. With the benefit of hindsight, would he have behaved differently?