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When we sit on a crag overlooking the city, Callum pulls a bottle of Rioja from his rucksack. Handing me two plastic wine glasses, he fills them halfway.
He puts the bottle on the ground and takes a glass, tapping it against my own. “To us,” he says, his accent broader than ever. “And a wonderful weekend.”
I take a sip. The liquid sends a blush to my cheeks, the taste of blackberries lingering in my mouth.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “Thank you for bringing me here.” My voice wobbles a little, enough for him to notice, and he slides across the rock until our hips are touching. His lips are red from a combination of wine and cold air, his eyes bright and clear. I feel everything inside me tighten.
“I'm in love with you.” His voice is deep and strong. “I think I’ve loved you since the minute you walked through my door, all brazen and angry and railing at the world.”
He sets light to me. “Tell me more.”
“You want me to tell you that you're the first thing I think about in the morning?” he asks. “And the last name on my lips at night. You want me to explain that for the first time in years I feel as if I can actually fucking breathe again, and that life might actually be worth living outside of the office?”
I nod, and he gives me a half-smile.
“Maybe I could tell you that every time you walk in a room it's as if somebody's turned the lights on inside my soul. Or that when you leave it, I feel every muscle in my body ache, and I'm counting the seconds until I can see you again.”
“You could,” I whisper. I'm greedy, I want all his pretty words. I want to store them in my mind and replay them time after time. “You should.”
He continues talking as I clamber onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Our empty glasses lay abandoned in the grass, all thoughts of wine forgotten. “You tell me you think this place is beautiful,” he whispers. “But when you're sitting here it looks like any other piece of scenery in any other town, because all I can see is you. I know it's not going to be easy, and I know that somehow we need to keep this under wraps, but I love you Amy Cartwright, and there's nothing wrong with that.”
I grasp his cheeks with my hands, brushing my lips against his. Our noses touch, their tips cold from exposure, but we're grinning at each other anyway.
“That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.” My eyes are filled with tears at his beautiful words. “If I was half as eloquent as you, I'd be able to say it right back.”
“Then do it.” He strokes my hair. I shake my head, teasing, playing. He kisses me hard, enough to make my body rock against his.
“Say it,” he demands again, tipping my head back and running his lips down my throat. “Say it, Amy.”
When he kisses the sensitive skin beneath my ear, it takes everything I have not to gasp. Instead I search for my voice, ready to stop teasing him. “I love you,” I say, my breath ragged. “I really love you, Callum James Ferguson.”
He leans back until he's laying on the rock and I'm on top of him, and we're frantically kissing and repeating the words over and over. Though it feels perfect and blissful, I still have to squash down the niggling thought at the back of my head that's desperate to be heard.
Once you've reached the summit, the only way to go is down.
24
Callum’s mum is nothing like I expected. Not that I know what I expected really. Perhaps a Dame Maggie Smith lookalike, along with the regal accent—but there’s not a hint of the Professor McGonagall to this elegant blonde lady who is sipping her wine across the table from me. She’s youthful, friendly, and delighted to meet me, her eyes twinkling as she talks.
“He’s told me all about you,” she tells me, as Callum rests on the bar, talking with the grizzled old man behind the counter. “I’m so glad you agreed to visit with him.”
“Don’t believe a word he says. It’s all lies,” I tell her. “He’s been trouble ever since I walked into his office.”
“Oh, I can believe that.”
The pub is warm and cosy, the perfect respite from the Scottish winter. A fire blazes in the corner, orange flames licking up like a hungry cat. The walls are half-wood panelled, half-flocked wallpaper, and the dark wooden floorboards bear the scrapes and dents of a thousand footfalls. It’s a typical British pub on a Sunday afternoon.
The door opens and a family hurries inside, their faces pink-cheeked from the bitterly cold Edinburgh wind. I watch as the mother fusses, sitting her children around the large square table, as her husband wanders over the bar to order their drinks.
Margaret must be watching, too, because the next minute she's asking, “Do you want children one day, Amy?”
I'm taken aback by her question. It’s the second time in two days I've had this conversation. First with the son, then with the mother. Until yesterday, it wasn’t something I'd thought about, other than as an abstract 'maybe one day' but somehow I don't think that's what she's asking.
She wants to know how serious I am about her son. It's the equivalent of a father asking a boy's intentions.
“I don't know,” I reply. “I think so. But I'd expect the father to share the responsibility.” For some reason I find myself saying more than I intend. “I was brought up in a single parent home, I wouldn't want that for my children.”
Margaret nods. “That's understandable, nobody wants to bring their kids up alone. But sometimes we don't get any choice.”
