Annie stretched her legs out on the seat, against all the railway regulations, and leaned into Keith so they could watch the day fade across the North Sea together.

‘I’ve been wondering about something,’ he said.

‘What’s that, love?’

‘A long time ago, you said you had a proposal for me. You were asking me if I wanted to live at number 25. I’ve been wondering if it’s worked out the way you intended.’

‘I remember it very well. I don’t think any day in my life has ever gone quite so spectacularly badly as that one.’

He stroked her hair, feeling the curls under his fingers. ‘You were just being kind, and I was filled with so much stupid pride I couldn’t say yes.’

‘It’s a long time ago now. Twenty years, almost.’

He smiled. ‘Gregor’s tools saved us.’

Annie snuggled in closer.

He felt his heart quicken. ‘I wasn’t joking, you know.’

‘Joking about what?’

‘I said it was a pity you didn’t mean a different sort of proposal.’ He sat up a bit straighter. ‘It’s just, well, standing at the Cenotaph reminded me how short life is. We don’t know how long we’ve got.’

Annie frowned, sat up straight and put her feet back on the ground. She turned to face him. ‘Are you alright, Keith? You’re not telling me you’re poorly, are you?’

‘There’s nothing to worry about.’ He could feel his heart beating even faster. ‘But after all our years together, I’ve decided it’s about time I offered you a proposal of my own.’ He paused. ‘I’m asking you to marry me, Annie.’

She studied his face, age-lined, bespectacled, familiar.

Keith felt as though time was standing still. ‘Or do you need me to hide a screwdriver in the shrubbery before you decide?’

Annie smiled. ‘I think it was a chisel, not a screwdriver.’ She leaned forward and kissed his lips gently, as she had the first time, all those years ago. ‘And my answer is yes, I will.’

2011

Chapter 51

February 2011

Tess looks up to the top floor of the Edinburgh tenement, four sets of sash windows above, and sees that the curtains are partly closed, and there is pale light behind them. It’s a few minutes after eight. Politely late, her father would have called it. Fiona will have been as good as her word, Tess thinks, and will probably be uncorking a bottle of something red, to go with the pizza. There will be a pile of recycling needing to be sorted, and a fortnight’s worth of dust bunnies in the crevices of the hall. It’s all quite comfortingly predictable.

She presses the entry buzzer and waits for it to crackle into life.