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We take a cab into the city, heading for his flat in Marchmont. Callum keeps up a steady spiel as we travel, telling me about the university, about growing up in Morningside, and promising he’ll take me to meet his mum who still lives in a flat there.
When we stop at an imposing row of brown-brick houses, Callum climbs out, walking around to my side of the cab to open my door. I’m still full of questions but struck dumb by the opulence of the buildings, intimidated by their height and beauty, not to mention their age.
It’s obvious this is one of the wealthiest parts of town.
“You said your mum is still in Morningside,” I say as we climb the stairs to the glossy front door. “Is she still in the same place you lived in as a kid?”
He slides his key in the lock. “Yeah. After Dad died it was just me and Margaret in there.”
“Margaret?”
“My mum. She liked me calling her by her first name. She’s funny that way, a bit of an odd one. Not that she isn’t lovely,” he adds.
“It was just the two of you?” I clarify. “No brothers or sisters?”
“Nope, just us.”
“Bliss.” I smile.
Callum chuckles as we walk into the dark hallway. It’s a garden flat, bought a few months after Jane died. “I always wanted brothers and sisters, I hated being an only child.”
“That’s easy to say until you have them,” I tease. “Growing up in my house nothing was sacred. When I started my period the whole street knew thanks to Andie and Alex.”
“I’d like to meet them,” he says softly. “Your family, I mean.”
I feel my chest tighten. As much as I’m desperate for the validation his meeting my family would give our relationship, the thought of Callum seeing my crazy family is enough to give me the jitters. “Soon,” I say, hoping to placate him.
“If I show you mine, you have to show me yours.”
“How old are you?” I ask. “Twelve?”
He grins. “You’d have liked me when I was twelve. I was horny as a dog with the stamina to go with it.”
“Since I was two, I don’t think I’d have been that impressed,” I tell him.
He shakes his head and leads us into the flat, flicking the lights on as he goes. The building is as imposing in here as it is on the outside, with high ceilings, stripped floorboards and long, long windows. The wooden shutters are drawn across them, blocking out the night. I smile when I spot the cast-iron fireplace—black metal surrounded by ornate tiles—and wonder if he’s remembered to buy enough wood to satisfy his pyromaniac tendencies.
I follow him through the rooms, each one more impressive than the last. We end up in a conservatory that leads onto a lush garden. The ceiling is strung with fairy lights, casting a mystical glow across the terracotta-tiled floor. I can tell from the comfortable sofas and blankets that this is the room he uses the most. There are shelves pushed against the back wall, stuffed with well-read books. I can picture him sitting in here on a Sunday afternoon, his feet up, reading a favourite story.
“This is beautiful,” I say.
“It is,” he says, staring at me. His eyes are dark, glinting beneath the hundreds of lights hanging above us.
“Do you ever think of moving back here for good?” I ask. “You must have kept this place for a reason.”
He’s silent for a moment. I sit down in an easy chair that looks out onto the moonlit garden and he hands me a beer from the fridge in the corner.
When he finally speaks, he’s contemplative. “I can’t see myself living in London forever. If I have kids I’d like to bring them up here.”
He’d make a great dad, I know that much. While I’m not ready for babies, and don’t anticipate having them for years, part of me wants to throw myself at his feet and offer my body for procreation purposes.
Is this what they mean by being crazy in love?
“I’ve heard Edinburgh’s a beautiful city.” I change the subject, ignoring my racing heart.
“And you’ll see it tomorrow,” he promises, scooping me onto his lap. “I’ll give you the grand tour. The castle, the cathedral, the volcano. I guarantee you’ll fall in love with Auld Reekie.”
“Auld Reekie?” I question. “And wait a minute, volcano? There’s no bloody volcano here is there?”
