They got into a lift which was barely large enough for two people. Bruce felt slightly disconcerted to be standing in such close proximity to Nick. And from that distance, from within the photographer’s personal space, he could not help but notice that his new flatmate had not shaved one side of his chin. He noticed the hairs, tiny black eruptions, emerging from the skin like little… like little spikes. And Nick had dandruff too; not very heavy, but small flakes of it on the collar of his jacket. Bruce found his eyes drawn compulsively to these as the lift moved slowly up between floors, and at the fifth floor, with three floors to go, he could no longer control himself, and he reached out to brush the dandruff off Nick’s collar, a friendly gesture, but one which misfired, as the lift lurched slightly and he missed and stroked Nick’s chin instead.

Nick looked at him in astonishment.

“Sorry,” said Bruce, immediately retracting his hand. “I was going to…”

Nick brushed the apology aside. “No, don’t worry,” he said. “It’s just that…”

But he did not finish, as the lift had reached the eighth floor and was opening onto another hall.

“I didn’t mean…” began Bruce, as they moved out. “I didn’t…”

“No, no worries,” said Nick.

“What I meant…”

“I said no worries,” repeated Nick pointedly. “We all have different ways of expressing ourselves.” And then, changing the subject, he pointed to the view from the large plate-glass window at the end of the hall.

“We look all the way over to the Calton Hill on that side,” he said. “And from the infinity pool we look all the way over to Fife.”

They entered the flat. “I’ll show you your room first,” said Nick. “Then I’ll show you the kitchen and where everything is. I’ve got two fridges and so you can keep your food in one and I’ll keep mine in the other.”

“That’s great,” said Bruce. “Did you know that the biggest source of aggro in shared flats is food? People get seriously angry about people eating their food. They even write notes like ‘I’ve licked my cheese’ to put people off.

“And then somebody writes: ‘And so have I.’”

Nick grimaced. “Mind you,” he said. “Eating at home is so…so yesterday. I eat out most nights. I suppose you do too.”

“Always,” said Bruce.

“I thought that we could go and have a bite to eat at the place over the road,” said Nick. “It’s quite a good little bistro. Seafood. And not a bad wine list.”

“Perfect,” said Bruce.

“I was going to meet some of my friends there,” said Nick, glancing at his watch. “But they don’t mind putting another chair round the table. Meantime, take a look round. Make yourself at home. Where are your things, by the way?”

“Her old man is looking after them for me,” said Bruce. “He’s pretty disappointed that Julia and I aren’t a numero any more.”

“Sometimes the parents take it worse than the girl herself,” mused Nick. “They weigh the bloke up and decide that he’s good son-in-law material and then suddenly it’s all over. No more son-in-law. Back to square one.”

“Tough cheese,” said Bruce. “But these things happen.” He paused. “Tell me, what do we do next? Do I get to meet the agency people?”

“Sure,” said Nick. “You can come along tomorrow, if you like. I’ll show them a sheet of shots and they’ll give me their reaction. I can’t imagine that it will be anything other than a big yes. In fact, I know that’s what they’re going to say.”

“And then?”

Nick picked up an envelope from a table and slit it open with a forefinger. “Bills,” he said. “What happens then? Well, for a job this size they’ll involve the owner of the agency. He’s pretty hands-off, as he has lots of other businesses. But when there are hundreds of thousands of spondulicks at stake, then he likes to know what’s going on. He’ll probably want to meet you.”

“That’s fine by me.”

“Good,” said Nick. “He’s actually quite good company. I’ve met him a few times. He owns a couple of wine bars in George Street and places like that. Mister Donald, as everybody calls him. Graeme Donald, I think. Yes, Graeme Donald. Big chap. Funny hairstyle, like Donald Trump’s.”

Bruce stood absolutely still. Julia’s father. If a few words can end a world, they can have no difficulty in ending a career. Although Nick was unaware of it, he had just disclosed the reason why Bruce would never be the face of Scotland. Unless… unless Graeme Donald was a fair-minded man who would not let personal factors influence a business decision. That was always possible.

“I know him,” said Bruce. “I used to work for him.”

“Great,” said Nick. “That means it’s a walkover.”

Matthew and Elspeth returned to Edinburgh on a morning flight from Heathrow Airport. They had again broken their journey with two nights in Singapore, staying once more at Raffles. There, sitting before dinner in the Long Bar, under the swaying, hypnotic movement of the ceiling punkahs, Matthew had turned to Elspeth and said: “I find this very strange. This is the one place in this country where you can drop things on the ground with impunity. And yet I can’t do it. I just can’t bring myself do it.”

Elspeth glanced down at the layer of discarded peanut shells, inches deep in places, that covered the floor in every direction. At the far end of the room, a teenage boy in a sarong swept away at this detritus, a modern Sisyphus.

“It provides release,” she said. “A lot of these people spend their day working in… what? Banks and trading firms and places like that.”

“I had an uncle who lived here,” said Matthew. “He came out here when he was twenty-four and he only came back to Scotland once. My father came here to see him, but he wouldn’t talk about it when he returned. I was about eight then. I remember it quite well.”

Elspeth was intrigued. “He said nothing?”

“He talked to my mother about it. I heard them. But when they realised I was listening they stopped. You know how parents do that – and it only makes you all the more eager to hear what they were talking about.”

“What happened to him?”

“I forgot all about him. Until the time he came back. I was about thirteen then.”

Elspeth took a sip of her drink and reached for a few of the unshelled peanuts in the dish before her. She would only eat one or two, she thought; in that way she would not have to drop the shells on the floor. And yet she wondered why she and Matthew should feel inhibited about dropping the shells – everybody else was doing it. Was it something to do with coming from Edinburgh? Were Edinburgh people the only people who held back from dropping peanut shells on the floor of the Long Bar?

She looked back at Matthew. “And?”

“He turned up virtually without warning. My father suddenly said to me: ‘Your Uncle Jack’s coming for dinner tonight.’ And he did. I went into the drawing room when I came back from school – I had been at a rugby practice – I remember that because a boy called Miller had tackled me and caused a nose-bleed. I had stuffed a bit of cotton wool into my nostril and it was still there. You know how blood dries and the cotton wool makes a sort of plug? It was like that.”

Elspeth knew about nose-bleeds. Occasionally the children had them – Hiawatha, in particular, had been susceptible – and she had been obliged to deal with them. “You have to be careful about that,” she said. “You can breathe the cotton wool in. I think it’s better to let the blood form a natural plug.” She paused, struck by the intimacy of the conversation. And this, she supposed, was what marriage entailed – all sorts of intimate conversations – about nasal matters, for example – that one would not normally have with others. And yet there must be some barriers, she thought. There must be some things that married couples did not talk about between themselves; some areas of reticence. Or was that just Edinburgh again?