Not only has Cordelia got it right, she’s won plaudits from a wide spectrum of Black activists and writers, who privately have expressed their astonishment that a white writer could have written so passionate and accurate an exposé of the grim truth of life in the RSA.

Lindsay signaled for another cappuccino and quickly read on to the end of the article. To her relief, there was no mention of her and the spy scandal that had led to her exile. It would have been an obvious point for the interviewer to pick up on, given its tenuous parallels with Cordelia’s plot. Maybe it really had been the nine-day wonder Cordelia had predicted. If that was the case, then there truly was no reason why she shouldn’t go home. Or maybe it was simply that Cordelia had excised her so thoroughly from her life that she had insisted on no mention of Lindsay’s name. After all, what right had Lindsay to assume that Cordelia would want her back?

There was only one way to find out. Lindsay carefully folded up her paper, got to her feet, and took the first step on the road home.

2

Glasgow, Scotland, February 1990

“I always maintained that Glasgow was the only truly European city in Britain,” Lindsay stated smugly as she stared out of the taxi window at the rows of sandblasted tenements glowing yellow in the streetlights. “But I didn’t realize till now how right I was.”

“Listen to it,” muttered her companion. “Nine months in Italy and suddenly she’s an expert on European culture.” Eight years of friendship had given Sophie Hartley the right to snipe at Lindsay’s occasional pomposity and she never hesitated.

“Listen,” Lindsay argued. “Nothing you’ve told me about this wine bar we’re heading for sounds British to me. A place where writers, actors, lawyers, and politicians go to drink good wine, eat serious food, and put the world to rights sounds like café society in Paris or Vienna or Berlin, not bloody Glasgow. I know it’s three years since I lived here, but it seems to me that everything’s changed.”

Sophie smiled. “It’s got yuppified, if that’s what you mean. Every other car a BMW. Don’t forget, it’s the European City of Culture now,” she teased.

“As if I could,” Lindsay replied ironically. “Every corner shop has got posters up advertising some cultural beanfeast. Everything from opera to open days, from puppets to psychodrama. I don’t even recognize the streets any more. Where there used to be nice wee bakeries selling cream donuts and every other sort of cholesterol-packed traditional Scottish goody, there are wholefood cafés. I tell you, Soph, I felt less of a stranger in Venice than I feel in Glasgow these days,” she added with a sigh.