"Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Who's at the door? Jasmine's at the door!!"

The Edinburgh hotel is plush, traditional and grand, oak panels and porcelain baths. His parents stayed here once, for his graduation, and it's a little more old-fashioned and expensive than he would like, but he thought that if they're going to do this, they should do it in some style. They are staying for two nights -- Dexter, Maddy and Jasmine -- before hiring a car and driving across to a holiday cottage near Loch Lomond. Glasgow is nearer of course, but Dexter hasn't been to Edinburgh for fifteen years, not since a debauched weekend when he presented a TV show from the Festival. All of that seems a long, long time ago now, another lifetime. Today he has a fatherly notion that he might show his daughter round the city. Maddy, aware of the date, has decided to leave them to it.

He is woken by his daughter's index finger pressing his nose as if it were a doorbell.

"Nope."

"Ring-ring. Ring-ring."

"I'm hungry. Can we have room service? What time is the swimming pool open?"

"Daytime!"

"Go and colour something in, will you?"

Edinburgh

"What are you doing, Jas?"

"I'm waking you up. Ring-ring." Her thumb is in his eye now, pulling back the eyelid. "Wake up, lazybones!"

Beside him in the hotel bed, Maddy reaches for her watch. "Half past six," she groans into the pillow and Jasmine laughs malevolently. Dexter opens both eyes, and sees her face on the pillow next to him, her nose inches away. "Haven't you got books to read or dolls to play with or something?"

"What time is it?"

"Of course not. I'll go to the gallery, see that exhibition."

"You're sure you don't mind?" he asks her in the privacy of the bathroom.

He regards her carefully. "And you don't think I'm nuts?"

"I just want to show her some places. Memory Lane. No reason why you should suffer too."

"Like I said, I really don't mind."

The notion that it might rain for forty consecutive days had once seemed far-fetched, but not this year. All over the country it has poured daily for weeks now, high streets disappearing under flood water, and the summer has seemed so unique that it might almost be a new kind of season. A monsoon season, but as they step out onto the street, the day is still bright with high cloud, dry for the moment at least. They make plans for lunch with Maddy, and go their separate ways.

She gives a faint smile. "No, I don't think you're nuts."

"You don't think it's ghoulish or weird?"

"Not at all." If she does mind, she certainly isn't showing it. He kisses her lightly on the neck. "You must do whatever you want," she says.

"Where are we going?"

The hotel is in the Old Town, just off the Royal Mile, and Dexter takes Jasmine on the standard atmospheric tour, down alleyways and secret stairways until they find themselves on Nicolson Street, heading south out of the city centre. He remembers the street as hectic and hazy with bus fumes, but on a Sunday morning it is quiet and a little sad, and Jasmine is starting to get restless and bored now that they have left the tourist trail. Feeling her hand go heavy in his, Dexter keeps on walking. He has found the old address on one of Emma's letters and soon spots a sign. Rankeillor Street. They turn into the quiet residential road.

They are outside now. Dexter peers up at the third-floor window, its curtains drawn, blank and nondescript.

"I'm looking for somewhere. Number seventeen."

"You see that flat there? That's where Emma used to live when we were at University together. In fact that's sort of where we met." Jasmine looks up obediently, but there is nothing to distinguish the unremarkable terraced house from those on either side, and Dexter starts to question the wisdom of this expedition. It's indulgent, morbid and sentimental; what was he expecting to find? There is nothing here that he recalls, and the pleasure gained from nostalgia is slight and futile. For a moment he contemplates abandoning the tour, phoning Maddy and arranging to meet a little earlier, but Jasmine is pointing to the end of the street, the granite escarpment that looms incongruously over the estate below.

"What's that?"

"It's Salisbury Crags. Leads up to Arthur's Seat."

They head for Holyrood Park. Depressingly, his seven-and-a-half-year-old daughter clambers up the mountain path with far more energy than her father, pausing only intermittently to turn back and laugh at him, wheezing and sweating below.

"There's people up there!"

"You can climb it. It isn't hard. What do you think? Shall we try? Do you think you can do it?"

"It's because I've got no grip on my shoes," he protests, and they keep climbing, leaving the main path and clambering over rocks before finally stumbling onto the scrubby rust-coloured plateau at the top of Arthur's Seat. There they find the stone column that marks the highest point, and he inspects the scratchings and scribbles, half hoping to see his own initials there: "Fight Faschism" "Alex M 5/5/07" "Fiona 4ever".

To distract Jasmine from the lewder graffiti, he lifts her up and sits her on the column, one arm round her waist, her legs dangling as he points out the landmarks. "That's the castle, near the hotel. There's the station. That's the Firth of Forth, leading out into the North Sea. Norway's over there somewhere. Leith, and that's the New Town, where I used to live. Twenty years ago now, Jas. Last century. And over there, with the tower, that's Calton Hill. We could climb that too, if you liked, this afternoon."

"Aren't you too tired?" she asks, sardonically.

"Me? You're kidding. I'm a natural athlete." Jasmine wheezes in imitation, one fist clutching at her chest. "Comedian." He lifts her off the pillar, hands tucked in her armpits, and makes to throw her off the mountainside before swinging her, screaming and laughing, under his arm.

They walk a little way from the summit and find a natural hollow nearby that overlooks the city. He lies with his hands behind his head, while Jasmine sits beside him eating salt and vinegar crisps and drinking her carton of juice with great concentration. The sun is warm on his face, but the early start to the day is starting to take its toll and within minutes he feels sleep creeping up on him.

"Did Emma come here too?" asks Jasmine.

Dexter opens his eyes and raises himself up onto his elbows.

"She did. We came here together. I've got a photo of us at home. I'll show you. Back when Dad was skinny."

Jasmine puffs her cheeks out at him, then sets about licking the salt from her fingers. "Do you miss her?"

Her forehead creases in serious thought. "I think it's probably Phoebe," she says, then sucks on the straw of her empty juice carton so that it gurgles rudely.

"Who? Emma? Of course. Every day. She was my best friend." He nudges her with his elbow. "Why, do you?"

Jasmine frowns as she recalls. "I think so. I was only four, I don't remember her that well, only when I look at pictures. I remember the wedding. She was nice though, wasn't she?"

"You can go off people you know," he says, and she laughs with the straw pinched between her lips. "Come here," he growls, making a grab and pulling her backwards so that she lies in the crook of his arm, her head on his shoulder. In a moment she is still and Dexter closes his eyes once again and feels the warmth of the mid-morning sun on his eyelids.

"So who's your best friend now?"

He places a hand on the back of his daughter's neck, fitting his thumb into the hollow there. "You, of course. Why, who's your best friend?"

"Very nice."

"Beautiful day," he mumbles, "No rain today. Not yet," and once again sleep starts to creep up on him. He can smell the hotel shampoo on Jasmine's hair, feel her breath on his neck, salt and vinegar, slow and regular, as he drifts off into slumber.

He is unconscious for perhaps two minutes before her bony elbows are jabbing into his chest.

"Dad? I'm bored. Can we go now, please?"

As they approached the park exit, Emma became aware that they would soon be saying goodbye, and that there was every chance that they would never see each other again. There might be parties, she supposed, but they both knew a different crowd, and besides he would be off travelling soon. Even if they did see each other it would be fleeting and formal, and he would soon forget everything that had happened in that small rented room in the early hours of the morning. As they stumbled down the hill she began to feel regret creeping up on her, and realised she didn't want him to go yet. A second night. She wanted one more night at least, so that they could finish what they had started. How might she say that? She couldn't of course. Fainthearted as usual, she had left it too late. In the future, I'll be braver, she told herself. In the future, I will always speak my mind, eloquently, passionately. They were at the park gates now, the place where she should probably say goodbye.

Emma and Dexter spent the rest of that afternoon on the hillside laughing and talking, offering up information about themselves: what their parents did, how many siblings they had, telling favoured anecdotes. In the middle of the afternoon, as if by mutual agreement, they both fell asleep, lying chastely in parallel until at five Dexter woke with a start, and they gathered together the empty bottles and the remains of the picnic and started to head woozily down the hill towards the city and home.

She kicked at the gravel footpath and scratched her head. "Well, I suppose I'd better…"

She instructed her features to show no delight. "What, now?"

Dexter took her by the hand. "So, listen. Why don't you come for a drink?"

"Not 'til this evening. It's only half-five."

"Or at least walk back with me?"

He was rubbing the knuckle of her forefinger with his thumb. She made a pretence of making a decision. "Go on then," she shrugged, indifferent, and he let go of her hand and started walking.

"Aren't your mum and dad coming round?"

As they crossed the railway at North Bridge and passed into the Georgian New Town, a plan was forming in his head. He would get home by six, immediately call his parents at their hotel and arrange to meet them at the restaurant at eight rather than at the flat at six-thirty. This would give him nearly two whole hours. Callum would be with his girlfriend, they'd have the flat to themselves for two whole hours, and he would be able to kiss her again. The high-ceilinged white-walled rooms were empty save for his suitcases and a few pieces of furniture, the mattress in his bedroom, the old chaise-longue. A couple of dust-sheets and it would look like the set of a Russian play. He knew enough about Emma to know that she would be a sucker for that, and he would almost certainly be able to kiss her, even sober. Whatever happened between them in the future, whatever rows and repercussions loomed, he knew that he very much wanted to kiss her now. The walk would take another fifteen minutes. He found himself slightly breathless. They should have got a cab.

Perhaps she had the same idea because they really were walking very fast as they headed down the steep incline of Dundas Street, their elbows occasionally brushing against each other, the Forth hazy in the distance. After all these years she was still elated by the sight of the iron-blue river in between the terraces of fine Georgian houses. "I might have known you'd live round here," she said, disapproving but envious, and as she spoke she found herself short of breath. She was going back to his well-appointed flat, they were going to do it, and she was embarrassed to find her neck flushing pink in anticipation. She ran her tongue over her teeth, attempting an ineffectual polish. Did she need to brush her teeth? Champagne always made her breath smell. Should they stop for chewing gum? Or condoms, would Dexter have condoms? Of course he would; it was like asking if he had shoes. But should she brush her teeth or should she just throw herself at him as the door closed? She tried to recall what underwear she was wearing, then remembered that it was her special mountain-climbing underwear. Too late to worry about that; they had turned into Fettes Row.

Emma noticed how Dexter dropped her hand, almost throwing it away from him as he crossed the street and embraced his mother. With a further spasm of irritation she noticed that Mrs Mayhew was extremely beautiful and stylishly dressed, the father less so, a tall, sombre, dishevelled man, clearly unhappy to have been kept waiting. The mother met Emma's eyes over her son's shoulder and gave an indulgent, consolatory smile, almost as if she knew. It was the look a duchess might give, finding her errant son kissing the housemaid.

"Not far now," he said and smiled, and she smiled too, and laughed, reaching for his hand, acknowledging what was about to happen. They were almost running now. He said he lived at number thirty-five, and she found herself counting down in her head. Seventy-five, seventy-three, seventy-one. Nearly there. Her chest was tightening, she felt sick. Forty-seven, forty-five, forty-three. There was a stitch in her side and an electric tingle in her fingertips and now he was pulling on her hand and they were both laughing as they ran down the street. A car horn blared. Ignore it, keep going, whatever happens do not stop.

But a woman's voice was calling "Dexter! Dexter!" and all the hope fell out of her. It felt like running into a wall.

Dexter's father's Jaguar was parked opposite number thirty-five, and his mother was stepping from the car and waving at him from across the street. He had never imagined that he could be less pleased to see his parents.

"There you are! We've been waiting for you!"

"I left a message this morning on your machine --"

"Are you sure that I can park here?" said his father.

"-- because if I get a parking ticket, Dexter --"

"Mum, Dad -- this is my friend Emma!"

"Pleased to meet you, Emma. Alison. You've caught the sun. Where have you two been all day?"

"I thought we told you, we'd be coming here at six --"

Emma glanced at Dexter, who seemed wild-eyed with what she took to be shock at the idea. Or was it encouragement? Either way, she would say no. These people seemed nice enough, but it wasn't what she wanted, gate-crashing someone else's family occasion. They would be going somewhere swanky and she looked like a lumberjack and besides, really, what was the point? Sitting there gazing at Dexter while they asked what her parents did for a living, where she went to school. Already she could feel herself shrinking from this family's brash self-confidence, their showy affection for each other, their money and style and grace. She would become shy or, worse, drunk and neither would help her chances. Best give up. She managed a smile. "Actually, I better head back."

"Or dinner?" said Alison. "Why don't you join us for dinner?"

After that, things happened faster than Dexter would have liked. Remembering the faked phone-call, he realised that he was bound to be caught in a lie unless he got them into the flat as quickly as possible, but his father was asking about parking, his mother wondering where he had been all day, and why he hadn't called, while Emma stood a little way off to one side, still the housemaid, deferential and superfluous, wondering how soon she could accept defeat and head home.

Dexter turned to Emma, eyes blazing an apology. "So, do you want to come in for a drink?"

"Six-thirty actually."

"And you, Emily."

"And you. Have a nice life."

"No. Not at all. Emma's just a friend."

"Of course. Emma. Goodbye, Emma."

"Are you sure?" said Dexter, frowning now.

Emma raised her hand. "Bye then."

"Oh. Okay," he said, disappointed. If she had wanted to come in she could have, but "see you around, maybe"? He wondered if perhaps she wasn't that bothered about him after all. There was a silence. His father wandered off to peer at the parking meter once more.

She turned and started to walk away. The Mayhew family watched her go.

"Emma."

She turned to Alison. "Nice to meet you."

"See you."

"And --" She shrugged towards Dexter while his mother spectated. "Well, have a nice life, I suppose."

"Dexter, I'm sorry -- did we interrupt something?"

"Yeah, stuff to do. You go on. I'll see you around, maybe."

"Dexter -- weren't you wearing this yesterday?"

Smiling to herself, Alison Mayhew regarded her handsome son intently, then reached out and took the lapels of his suit in both hands, tugging them gently to settle the jacket on his shoulders.

"What are you going to do with your life?" In one way or another it seemed that people had been asking her this forever; teachers, her parents, friends at three in the morning, but the question had never seemed this pressing and still she was no nearer an answer. The future rose up ahead of her, a succession of empty days, each more daunting and unknowable than the one before her. How would she ever fill them all?

And so Emma Morley walked home in the evening light, trailing her disappointment behind her. The day was cooling off now, and she shivered as she felt something in the air, an unexpected shudder of anxiety that ran the length of her spine, and was so intense as to make her stop walking for a moment. Fear of the future, she thought. She found herself at the imposing junction of George Street and Hanover Street as all around her people hurried home from work or out to meet friends or lovers, all with a sense of purpose and direction. And here she was, twenty-two and clueless and sloping back to a dingy flat, defeated once again.

She began walking again, south towards The Mound. "Live each day as if it's your last", that was the conventional advice, but really, who had the energy for that? What if it rained or you felt a bit glandy? It just wasn't practical. Better by far to simply try and be good and courageous and bold and to make a difference. Not change the world exactly, but the bit around you. Go out there with your passion and your electric typewriter and work hard at… something. Change lives through art maybe. Cherish your friends, stay true to your principles, live passionately and fully and well. Experience new things. Love and be loved, if you ever get the chance.

That was her general theory, even if she hadn't made a very good start of it. With little more than a shrug she had said goodbye to someone she really liked, the first boy she had ever really cared for, and now she would have to accept the fact that she would probably never see him again. She had no phone number, no address, and even if she did, what was the point? He hadn't asked for her number either, and she was too proud to be just another moony girl leaving unwanted messages. Have a nice life had been her last line. Was that really the best she could come up with?

"Hurrah"? You shouted "hurrah!", you idiot. Stay calm. Don't blow it now.

"No, really, it's fine."

"I thought I'd lost you!" he said, slowing to a walk, red-faced and breathless, attempting to regain some nonchalance.

"Oh. Okay."

"Hurrah! A pen!"

She crouched and rooted in her rucksack amongst the litter of their picnic. Find a pen, please have a pen, you must have a pen…

"So -- look. I don't have a pen. Do you have a pen? You must have."

She walked on. The castle was just coming into view when she heard the footsteps, the soles of smart shoes slapping hard onto the pavement behind, and even before she heard her name and turned she was smiling, because she knew that it would be him.

"Sorry about that."

She rooted in her wallet for a scrap of paper, found a supermarket receipt, and handed it over, then dictated her number, her parents' number in Leeds, their address and her own address in Edinburgh with special emphasis on the correct postcode, and in return he wrote down his.

He stood with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. "I wasn't expecting my parents "til later, and then they turned up out of the blue, and I got distracted, and I suddenly realised… bear with me… I realised I didn't have any way to get in touch with you."

"No, I'm here."

"And I hope so too. Bye, Em."

"I hope so," she smiled.

"Not for ever. For a weekend. At mine. My parents', I mean. Only if you want to."

And then it was over. "So. I'll see you around," he said, walking slowly backwards away from her.

"Oh. Right. Why's that?"

"So. I should get back. Are you sure you don't want to come for a drink or something? Or dinner?"

"I don't think I should," she said.

"Why? What do you want to do?" she asked, though she knew the answer. He put one hand lightly on the back of her neck, and simultaneously she placed one hand lightly on his hip, and they kissed in the street as all around them people hurried home in the summer light, and it was the sweetest kiss that either of them would ever know.

"I understand."

"Goodbye. Goodbye."

"No, I don't think you should either." He looked relieved and she felt slighted once again. Why not? she thought. Was he embarrassed by her?

"Because I think if you did I'd go a bit mad. With frustration, I mean. You sitting there. Because I wouldn't be able to do what I want to do."

This is where it all begins. Everything starts here, today.

"Stay with you?"

"Bye, Dex."

"I'm away in France until August, but then I'm back and I thought you might want to come down and stay maybe?"

"Oh. Okay. Yes. Okay. Yes. Yes. Okay. Yes."

"Goodbye."

"This is me." He handed her the precious scrap of paper. "Call me or I'll call you, but one of us will call, yes? What I mean is it's not a competition. You don't lose if you phone first."