Under the appreciative gaze of the urbane stranger at the bar, Bruce thought: These chaps find me attractive, which is quite understandable; who wouldn’t? But sorry, I don’t play for your team! The difficulty, he felt, was conveying this delicate social message without appearing to be hostile. And sometimes the message was just not received, as it seemed that some people took the view that one never knew one’s luck. That could be awkward, and occasionally one just had to be blunt.

He took a sip of his beer and, as he did so, cast an eye around the room, studiously avoiding looking in the stranger’s direction.

Suddenly the stranger addressed him. “Bruce Anderson?”

Bruce gave a start. He had not expected this. “Yes. That’s me.”

The stranger put his glass down on the surface of the bar and extended a hand. “Nick McNair. Remember? Morrison’s. I was two years above you. We were in the photography club together. You came with me to take a photograph of that eagle up in Glen Lyon. Remember? The geography teacher drove us up there in his clapped-out Land Rover. Remember?”

Bruce looked at the other man and it came back not vividly, or clearly, but in patches. Crouching in the rain holding a tripod for the older boy. Feeling the rain trickle down the back of one’s neck. Brushing away the midges.

“Of course. That’s some time ago, isn’t it? Sorry that I didn’t recognise you. You know how…”

“How it is. Of course I do. I doubt if I’d recognise half the people in my year if I saw them again.”

Bruce smiled. “There are some you’d want to forget. Some you’d like to remember.”

“People remember you, though, Bruce. They wouldn’t forget.”

Bruce looked away in modesty. Why would they remember him?

“You were a real looker then.”

Bruce blushed. It was true, he thought, but did one want it spelled out, particularly by Nick McNair?

“Thanks.”

“Not at all,” Nick said. “In fact, that’s the business I’m in these days. Photography. I do adverts.”

Bruce looked up. “Magazines? That sort of thing?”

Nick nodded. “Yes, for my sins. Fashion photography, it’s called. I went down south, you see, to London and did a course at Saint Martins. Had a few lean years taking wedding snaps, that sort of thing. Then I got lucky with a series of shots in Tatler and Vogue. After that, no problem.”

Bruce listened with interest. Who would have thought it: from taking photographs of eagles in Perthshire to international fashion photography? He looked at Nick McNair. There was nothing special about him, and it seemed to Bruce fundamentally unfair that he should lead such a life while he, Bruce, was stuck behind in Edinburgh.

“Where are you based?” Bruce asked.

“Right here,” said Nick. “I have a flat in Edinburgh. Down in Leith, in one of those new places, you know. Infinity pool on the eighth floor.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Infinity pool?”

“Yup. Not that I use it all that much. But it’s great when you do.”

Bruce swallowed. “It’s your own? Just for your… your flat?”

“Yup.”

There followed a short period of silence. Then Nick reached for something in his pocket and handed it over to Bruce. A card. Nick McNair, Photographer. Fashion. Cars. Places.

Nick was studying Bruce, who found it rather disconcerting. Is he? Bruce asked himself. He had an infinity pool, after all. And Saint Martins. “It’s fortuitous our meeting,” Nick said. “I’ve been given a big job by the Scottish Government. A bit of a change from women draping themselves over cars and such like. It’s a big project on developing the Scottish image abroad.”

Bruce nodded knowingly. “Promotion?” he asked. “Scotland the brand?”

Nick warmed to the theme. “Dead right. They want to get the idea over that Scotland is somehow – well, not to put too fine a point on it – sexy.”

Bruce smiled. That’s where I come in, he thought.

“And it just occurred to me,” Nick continued, “that this is where you might come in.”

“Could be,” said Bruce. “What’s your angle?”

“Well, we need a face, a body, the whole deal. We need somebody who would look good in posters. Somebody who can wear a kilt and not look like Harry Lauder. We need to have somebody who says: Scotland.”

“Scotland,” said Bruce, and smiled.

Nick raised his glass. “I can’t guarantee anything at this stage,” he said. “I have to go back to the clients and show them the images. But you might just be the answer to my prayers. I’ve been hanging about for weeks looking for somebody who looks just right. Trying different bars, looking for a face. I’ve had some funny looks in the process, but it’s work.”

“You could be misunderstood,” said Bruce.

Nick shrugged. “Photographers have thick skins. We get used to going about sticking our lens into people’s faces. You get used to it.”

“When…” Bruce began.

“When can we get started? Well, I need to do an exploratory shoot – we could do that any time. Tomorrow? And then I have a conference with the agency people and they see whether you’re right. I’m sure there’ll be no problem there.

“They want an open face, good looks, a hint of West Coast and Braveheart. In other words, the sort of face that projects a dynamic, good-looking country that’s… well, also a bit sexy. In other words, you.”

Bruce looked at his watch. “All right. I do dynamic. I also do sexy. I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow.” He took the card out of his pocket. “This is the studio address?”

“That’s it. I want morning light, so ten o’clock?”

“Perfect,” said Bruce. “But listen, I have to go. I’m going to a party with my fiancée.” He thought that he might just mention Julia, before the photo shoot. “Round the corner. Clarence Street.”

“I used to live on Clarence Street,” said Nick. “Before I emigrated to Leith. Whose place are you going to?”

“Watson Cooke,” said Bruce.

“Oh,” said Nick. “A rugby player. I thought about him for a beer advertisement I was doing once, but decided against.”

That was all the information Nick offered on Watson Cooke. Bruce took his leave and walked down St. Stephen Street. As he walked past the window of a small shop, he glanced at his reflection in the pane of glass.

He saw the face of Scotland looking back at him.

Watson Cooke occupied a first-floor flat in Clarence Street. His front door, recently painted with a thick black gloss paint, had a small brass plate on it on which “Watson Cooke” had been engraved. To the right of the door, a folded piece of paper had been stuck, which, when unfolded and read by Bruce, bore the message: “Watson, Please don’t forget to put Nancy’s rubbish out on Wednesday, bearing in mind that she won’t be back from Brussels until Friday. You’re a trouper. Thanks, Kirsty.”

Bruce refolded and replaced the scrap of paper. So Watson Cooke was a trouper. And where exactly does he troupe? He reached for the old-fashioned bell and gave it a firm tug; too firm in fact, as he heard the bell chime loudly at the same time as he felt the wire within give way. This released the brass bell-pull lever, which flopped uselessly out of its housing. Quickly he pushed the end of the wire back in and tried to stuff the lever back; to no avail. Then the door opened.

A tall well-built young man, somewhere in his late twenties, stood in the doorway in front of Bruce.

“Watson?” asked Bruce, stretching out a hand. “I’m Bruce Anderson.”

Watson looked at Bruce and frowned. He seemed puzzled. “Oh, Bruce… Yes.” He glanced at the protruding bell-pull. “No, don’t touch that again. I’ll get it fixed.”

Bruce realised that further explanation was necessary. “I’m Julia’s…”