Sometimes sunlit and benevolent, today it is brooding. Gloomy grey clouds cloak the ramparts, casting long shadows on to the jagged rocks below.
I dodge a throng of tourists heading towards Princes Street Gardens and make a slow climb up Cockburn Street. My stomach grumbles and grinds, as if eating itself, but behind the anxiety I feel curious. I want to see her. I want to know what sheâs been doing with herself for the last twenty-four years. And most of all, I want to know why she got in touch.
Iâm about ten feet away when I spot her, just inside the doorway. Iâm surprised by how she looks. She isnât wearing any make-up and her black curly hair is pulled back in a plain band highlighting the grey that spreads at her temples and forehead. Her clothes are simple â a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, a navy blue cardigan and flat lace-up shoes. Up in the castle, the one oâclock gun goes off and it startles me so that I automatically step towards her and she sees me, calls my name, rushes forward and kisses me on both cheeks. She smells of lavender.
âYou look wonderful,â she tells me, standing back and holding on to my elbows.
We are the same height and our eyes are level; hers are deep brown, almost black, like cocoa-rich chocolate.
âYou havenât aged a bit.â She laughs, looks me up and down and shakes her head. âAdult life suits you, Grace. Come!â She gestures behind her and starts to walk backwards, almost tripping over a chair leg. âIâve bagged us a table in the corner here.â
We sit down. I feel happy, sad, nervous, but most of all I feel awkward. She looks so much like herself and yet the spark is missing. Even at fifteen she was glamorous, mischievous, sexy. Boys trailed behind her, bug-eyed and tongue-tied, and she would flash them smiles so sultry, so promising, that they would melt into puddles of hormones.
She takes a breath, holds on to it as she looks at me, then lets it out slowly. âItâs so good to see you! Iâve thought of you such a lot over the years.â Her eyes grow wistful and then warm again. âDo you have any family photos with you?â
I havenât spoken yet and now all I can do is shake my head. I donât know how to articulate my way past the strangeness.
âWell, never mind. Hopefully, Iâll be able to come up and meet them in person sometime soon.â She gives me a playful smile. âLetâs play catch-up. Last twenty-odd years.â She leans her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands. âStart wherever you want.â
Her stare is piercing and I pick up the menu to occupy my eyes while I think of a reply but before I have a chance to read it, she snatches it from me and says, âIâve ordered for us. I hope you donât mind.â
I do mind. Itâs presumptuous of her. She has automatically assumed the right to make decisions for me, just as she did when we were children. It ignites an irritation in me. Itâs a small flame but hot enough to power me past my silence and into speech. âYou ordered for both of us?â
âI didnât want to waste any time. The food can take a while to come. You know how it is in these little places; they canât always afford enough staff.â
I sit back and look pointedly around the room. There are a dozen tables and three waitresses. I debate with myself whether to take a stand and insist on choosing my own lunch but decide not to. It will only delay matters and I want to get to the crux of the meeting as soon as possible.
âSo how have you been?â I say.
âGood.â She gives me a Gallic shrug that reminds me of her mother. âIâve lived all over, kept myself busy. Nothing as meaningful as having babies. So tell me! I know you have at least one daughter. Any more children?â
âSo youâve spent the last twenty-four years on the move? Thatâs a long
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