Northanger Abbey. Val McDermid

they’ve got a son around your age. And the Wintersons, their twin girls must be off to university at the end of the summer. But no. Not a soul in sight.’

      Cat felt the bubble of excitement burst within her, pricked by Susie’s discontent. But before she could say anything, Mr Allen appeared, pushing his way through the press of bodies. ‘This is impossible,’ he said, breathing a cloud of whisky fumes over them both. ‘There’s no pleasure in this. Let’s just walk home and have a drink there.’

      ‘But we’ll miss seeing everybody,’ Susie complained.

      ‘You can’t see anybody in this mob, never mind have a conversation. We’ll catch up with people soon enough. This is no introduction to Edinburgh life for poor Cat. Look at the girl, she’s practically melting in here.’

      Cat was sure it had not been his intention, but Mr Allen’s words only served to make her feel more unappealing and unsophisticated. Flushed, she stood up and stepped aside to free Susie from the banquette. As she set off in the wake of the Allens, one of the young men at the table put a hand on her wrist. She startled away from him and he winked at her. ‘Cool top,’ he said.

      She took off after Susie before she lost sight of her flamboyant peasant dress, even more hot and bothered than before. But as they emerged into the chill of the evening, she realised that brief final contact had made the entire evening worthwhile. Edinburgh really was a city of infinite promise.

       3

      Cat was surprised by how quickly her Edinburgh days fell into a routine. In the morning after a late breakfast, she and Susie used the excuse of art to get out of the flat and explore. It was true that they saw many paintings, sculptures and obscure installations, but more than that, they saw the city, from the regimented grid of streets of the Georgian New Town to the multi-layered maze of vennels and closes that formed the old town where Burke and Hare had plied their trade. Cat had googled the dark side of Edinburgh history, and it was she rather than Susie who enlivened their prowls through the city with tales of body-snatchers and Janus-faced citizens who held their sinister secrets behind the mask of respectability. On more than one occasion, Susie put her hands over her ears and laughed nervously, ‘Stop, Cat, you’re scaring me.’ And that was before she even touched on the vampire lore she’d picked up on the Internet. Cat was in her element, seeing potential for terror and adventure around every twist and turn of the narrow streets.

      Of course, neither art nor sightseeing was sufficient to hold Susie’s attention for long. Somehow, their routes around the city centre invariably washed them up against some fascinating shop window like flotsam on the shore at Cramond. Cat understood it was the price she had to pay for the delight of exploring so exotic a city. That and Susie’s constant complaint that she couldn’t understand why she wasn’t bumping into anyone they knew from their London days.

      On the fifth day, they returned footsore to the flat to find Mr Allen laying the table with a selection of cheeses, meats and vegetable delicacies, several of which Cat was depressingly unable to identify. ‘I was passing Valvona and Crolla on my way back from a rather promising show based on the songs of Chris de Burgh, and I thought I would treat us to lunch,’ was his greeting. He distributed plates and cutlery then opened a bottle of pale white wine with a corkscrew that had the look of something that had won a design award. ‘Oh, and this came by hand while we were out.’ He nodded at a thick piece of card tucked into the flap of the sort of heavy white envelope that signals senders with a good opinion of themselves.

      Curious, Susie picked it up and flipped the card over. ‘Oh, Andrew, the Highland Ball! I’ve always wanted to go. It’s been one of my dreams for as long as I can remember.’

      He looked mildly surprised. ‘You never said. They invite me every year. But I’m generally here on my own so I’ve given it a miss.’

      ‘We are going to go, though? Aren’t we?’ Susie reminded Cat of her younger sister Emily faced with the prospect of the latest Pixar animation. She’d been like that once, but she preferred to treat her enthusiasms in a more mature way these days. Even her mother would have struggled to spot just how excited she’d been by the latest Twilight movie, for example. ‘Oh, Andrew, please say we’re going.’ She turned to Cat. ‘The Highland Ball is the social event of the Edinburgh season. Absolutely A-list, Cat. The perfect place for you to find a real catch.’

      Cat felt the tide of colour rising from her chest up her neck to her cheeks. Mr Allen shook his head and gave his wife an indulgent smile as he sat down at the table. ‘Leave Cat alone. Not everyone goes to the Highland Ball to find a man, Susie. But if it matters to you that much, we’ll go. And we can take Cat.’ He chuckled. ‘The Highland Ball. That’ll be an experience for you. All those men in kilts. You do know how to do Scottish country dancing?’

      Susie subsided into a chair. ‘Don’t be silly, Andrew, where would Cat have learned Scottish country dancing? We’ll have to get her some lessons.’

      ‘Robbie Alexander’s wife runs a class specifically geared to the Highland Ball,’ he said. ‘She told me about it a couple of years ago. Why don’t you give her a ring and see if she can fit Cat in?’

      And so that afternoon, Cat found herself on a bus to Morningside, where Fiona Alexander had commandeered the last available church hall in Edinburgh to impress the basics of Scottish country dancing on the novitiate. ‘Think of it as war conducted by other means,’ Mr Allen had said on her way out the door. It hadn’t exactly reassured Cat about what to expect.

      She sidled in, hoping there would be enough people in the hall for her to pass unnoticed. Luck was not her friend, however. There were fewer than two dozen potential dancers in the hall, mostly gathered in clumps of four or five, the young men nudging each other and horsing around, the women rolling their eyes or texting or gossiping with heads close together. Two or three older couples had gravitated to the far end of the room, where a woman of indeterminate age in a tartan skirt and white blouse, hair tied back with a tartan ribbon, stood frowning at a portable CD player. Cat presumed she was Fiona Alexander. She leaned against the wall and waited for something to happen.

      After a few minutes, Fiona clapped her hands for silence. The mutter of voices died away and she launched into her welcome speech, moving seamlessly on to a brief explanation of how the session would be run. ‘And so, ladies and gentlemen, please take your partners. We’re going to keep the same partners, and it’s generally easier if you work with someone you know already.’

      To Cat’s dismay, almost everyone seemed to be already paired up. Two other girls, both of whom she considered much prettier, and two young men were the odd ones out. They gravitated towards each other, leaving her stranded and terrified that she was going to have to dance with Fiona.

      She was saved by a young man thrusting open the double doors of the hall and skidding to a halt on the threshold, panting and dishevelled from running. He bowed low towards Fiona, his thick blond hair flopping forward over his forehead. ‘I’m so sorry, Fiona. I missed the bus and ran all the way from Bruntsfield. I think a bunch of old ladies thought I was a performance artist – they applauded me as I passed the coffee shop.’ He stood up crookedly, one hand pressed against his ribs.

      Fiona gave him a look of mock disapproval. ‘Come in, Henry. At least you’re here now. Which is just as well because this young lady here—’ she gestured towards Cat ‘—is without a partner.’ She smiled at Cat. ‘My dear, I presume you’re Catherine Morland? Susie Allen phoned earlier. This unpunctual reprobate is Henry Tilney, who helps me out with my classes. Henry, meet Catherine.’

      As he moved towards her, pushing his luxuriant honey-blond hair back from his brow, Cat had the chance properly to take stock of him. Henry was the right sort of tall – a shade under six feet, broad-shouldered but slim without being skinny, graceful rather than gawky. His eyebrows and lashes were much darker than his hair, and had it not been for his dark hazel eyes she might have suspected him of tinting them for effect. His forehead was broad and his cheekbones well defined