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directly from their house to the airport.”
    His hand was still resting on my breast, the fire was still rustling in the grate. On the telephone Lewis had mentioned that there was some problem with his plans for a skiing holiday, but I had not understood that the new arrangements might encroach upon my visit. Once I had begun to cry, it seemed impossible to stop. Lewis fetched me a glass of water. Then he sat down at the far end of the sofa, safely out of reach, and said, “Don’t cry. Tell me what’s the matter.”
    â€œI thought we would spend some time together,” I said. I just managed to utter this modest sentence, into which I had compressed all my hopes and fantasies.
    â€œWe are spending time together, although not as much as either of us would like.” He stood up. “It’s late; I should go. Celia, it’s wonderful to see you. Next time we’ll be better
organised. Happy Christmas.” He patted my shoulder and left the room almost on tiptoe, like a hospital visitor.
    Â 
    Although I had known Lynne and Greg for years, I had never before stayed with them, and in small, unexpected ways it proved to be a strain. My efforts to conceal my misery were only partially successful, and they were out of sympathy with my despair. When I told her what had happened, Lynne said, “But, Celia, what did you expect? Some variation of this has happened twenty times.” She spoke with an exasperated sympathy which drove me to silence. In Edinburgh I had thought that there was nothing worse than being alone, but now even solitude began to seem easier than this perpetual pretence of cheerfulness.
    At breakfast on New Year’s Eve I said that I had been thinking of going back that afternoon; someone at work was giving a party, I claimed. As soon as the words were out I felt like a fool. In vivid detail I visualised my flat and what I would do in it, alone, for the remainder of the holidays. I bent my head over my coffee cup, waiting for Lynne and Greg to protest. I had planned to stay until the third.
    The toast popped up. “That sounds fun,” Lynne said. “As you know, we never do anything at New Year because it’s impossible to get a baby-sitter.” She buttered a slice of toast and handed it to Eve.
    I wanted to say that I would much rather stay, that their company was infinitely preferable to any nonexistent party, that I would not be a burdensome guest. Eve demanded jam, and as I reached to help her, Greg said, “I wish I could come with you. They really know how to celebrate New Year in Scotland.”
    â€œYou’re welcome to go,” said Lynne, smiling. “You and Celia can bring in Hogmanay together while Eve and I keep the home fires burning.”

    â€œI want to go too,” said Eve. Lynne and Greg laughed. Pleased with her success, she said it again.
    Â 
    The train was packed, and many of my fellow travellers had already begun to celebrate. Three different men offered to buy me a drink, and the middle-aged woman across the aisle produced a bottle of Scotch from her capacious handbag. We arrived in Edinburgh late in the afternoon. It was fully dark, and a bitter wind blew down the platform. As the taxi turned out of the station I remembered my arrival four months earlier, when I had not known that the hill beside the Castle was named the Mound. The knowledge of what I was returning to only compounded my desolation.
    The driver of the taxi, however, was anything but desolate; I was his last fare of the day. “Some of the drivers work Hogmanay and make a killing,” he said, “but if you ask me, it’s daft. What’s the point of spending the evening with a bunch of drunken strangers? Money isn’t everything.”
    No answer seemed to be required. Through the window in the partition, he regaled me with a detailed account of the previous New Year, until we reached my flat. Then he switched on the overhead light and