Pat had experienced her fair share of man trouble in the past. First there had been Bruce, the narcissistic surveyor with whom she had shared a flat in Scotland Street. He had at first infuriated her, and then she had found herself being strangely drawn to him. Fortunately she had wrenched herself free – just in time – as some moths manage to escape the candle flame at the very last moment. Then there had been Matthew, for whom she had felt considerable fondness, but with whom she felt ultimately there was just insufficient chemistry to make it work. Poor Matthew, with his distressed-oatmeal sweater and his Macgregor tartan boxer shorts. She still thought that those were a bit of a cheek, given that Matthew had nothing to do with the Clan Macgregor; but she had bitten her tongue on that, as Matthew seemed to have so little in his life, and one should not begrudge somebody like that a bit of colour, even if only in their boxer shorts.

Matthew had gone off to get married, which had pleased Pat. She wanted him to be happy, and she thought that Elspeth Harmony was ideal for him. She could sort out the distressed-oatmeal issue; she could try to make the flat in India Street a little bit more exciting. There was a lot for her to do. But the important thing for Pat was that Matthew was happy. She had seen him once or twice in town, and he had invited her to drop in on the gallery some day. She had not done that yet, but would do so, she thought, when she was next down in that part of the town. She also wanted to see Big Lou, of course, whom she liked a great deal, and Angus Lordie; and Domenica Macdonald, who had been so kind and supportive to her when she lived next door in Scotland Street. Yes, she would go back at some point and see all these people again.

After Matthew there had been a year without a boyfriend, which had suited her. Then she had met a fellow student at a party and had rather absent-mindedly accepted his invitation to go out for a meal and see a film the following Saturday. He was called Andrew, and he came from Ayrshire, where his parents ran a hotel, the Green Hotel. ‘It’s not green,’ he explained. ‘It’s a reference to a golf green. In case you’re wondering.’

The comment was made in a flat, literal tone; Andrew spoke with the air of one who had explained things many times.

‘I wasn’t, actually,’ said Pat.

‘Well, some people do,’ Andrew explained. ‘You’d be astonished at how many people are surprised to find that our hotel isn’t painted green. They say things like, “We were looking for a green building, not a white one.” You really would be astonished.’

Pat was not sure what to say.