After the manager left, they exchanged stories from their working lives. They talked about books. Films. As the minutes passed, she grew more aware of him physically. His kind eyes. The way he listened closely as she spoke. His curiosity. She liked the way he seemed to laugh easily. That he found her funny. She told more stories from her work with Gillian. He shared stories of badly behaved guests. Now and then, they talked over each other, as if there wasn’t enough time for all they wanted to say.

She asked him about his family. She learned that a childhood that had sounded so cosmopolitan, moving from European city to city, speaking several languages, had been difficult. His father had been declared bankrupt twice. His mother left several times. His father would promise to change; she would go back to him. He’d start a business, it would fail, he’d start another.

She asked him about his late wife. She didn’t know her name. Lawrence thanked her and spoke softly about her. Her name was Sara. They had been married for two years, living in New York, when she fell ill. They had eight months together before she died. ‘I needed to change everything afterwards. My life. My job. Where I lived, especially.’ He had contacted Edgar. They’d met years before at an industry event, when Lawrence was beginning his career. Edgar had asked Lawrence to get in touch if he ever felt like working in, as he put it, ‘the wilds of Scotland’. Lawrence didn’t go into more detail, but he told Eliza that his time there walking, photographing, grieving and remembering had helped him more than Edgar could have known.

They were interrupted by a waiter, asking if they needed anything. They assured him they were fine. When they were alone again, Eliza asked when he was leaving for France. First thing the next morning, he said. She was leaving in three days.

There was a subtle shift in the mood between them. As if they were now on borrowed time.

They talked about the art on display at the Montgomery. Of his favourite painting. Hers. Other artists they liked. He’d been inspired by Olivia’s collection, he told her. In his three years in Edinburgh, he’d gone to student shows, begun his own collection.

‘I’d love to see them,’ she said.

‘They’re in my flat,’ he said.

They could walk there now, he said. That would be lovely, she said.

He insisted on paying. She protested, but there was no dissuading him. She watched as he talked to the manager, settling their bill at the counter.