Fraser tried not to take offence. The truth was the majority of his customers were tourists. ‘I keep my prices competitive. And there’s a lot of genuine city history mixed in. It’s not all woo-woo, Scooby-Doo stuff.’
Pete laughed. ‘Who needs Scooby-Doo when you have Greyfriars Bobby?’
Fraser couldn’t argue; the story of Greyfriars Bobby was world-famous – a faithful terrier who was so heartbroken when his owner died that he refused to leave his grave for years. There were several ghost tours that visited the gravestone in Greyfriars Kirkyard and claimed the howls of the dog could be heard even now but Fraser tried to avoid the more well-beaten tourist trails. He smiled at Pete. ‘My ghosts are generally less sentimental. The butcher of Fleshmarket Close, the plague doctor of Auld Reekie. You get the idea.’
‘I do,’ Pete said, nodding approvingly. ‘It sounds like you’re well settled then.’
Again, Fraser glanced at Naomi, who had only agreed to relocate from London on the basis that the move was temporary while he recharged his creative batteries. ‘For now,’ he said easily. ‘But enough about me – what have you been up to? Still playing rugby, I assume?’
‘Still playing,’ Pete agreed. ‘Although things creak a lot more than they used to. I’m in the veterans team now, which makes me feel older than the gods.’
Fraser eyed him with some sympathy. ‘I know the feeling. But I prefer to think we’re seasoned rather than old.’
‘Seasoned,’ Pete repeated thoughtfully. ‘I like that.’
‘Or maturing, like a fine whisky,’ Fraser went on, tapping the top of the bottle beside him. ‘We haven’t reached our smoky, delicious best yet.’
Pete sighed. ‘The only time I’m ever smoky is when we’ve had a barbecue.’ He stared into his glass and took a long swig. ‘But there’s no use in moaning; we might as well enjoy the time we have. Can I get you another drink?’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Fraser replied, his lips quirking. ‘I’ll have a beer, thanks.’
As his host made for the garden, where the crates of beer were stashed, Fraser took the opportunity to check his phone. Four more bookings had come in for the next day’s tour, meaning it was very nearly at capacity. He’d better take it easy on the alcohol – performing with a hangover was definitely not his idea of fun.
‘Excuse me.’
He looked up to see an attractive, dark-haired woman before him, her brown eyes quizzical. She was frowning slightly, as though she was trying to work something out. It was a look Fraser had seen before, usually on the face of someone who had seen him in an advert or in a TV show but couldn’t quite place him. ‘Hello,’ he said easily. ‘Can I help you with something?’
She hesitated, studying him as if unsure how to begin. ‘Are you Fraser Bell?’
He nodded, wondering what she was going to ask him to autograph. He’d once signed a paper coffee cup, in lieu of anything better, although that particular fan hadn’t been nearly as pretty as this one. ‘I am. What can I do for you?’
The woman puffed out her cheeks and looked oddly reluctant. ‘This is going to sound really random but you didn’t used to go to St Ignatius School, by any chance, did you?’
It was the last thing Fraser had expected her to say. His eyebrows shot up. ‘I did. Why do you ask?’
‘Because I did too,’ she said. ‘We were in the same year.’
She stopped talking, a little abruptly. He studied her more closely, taking in the glossy dark hair that fell in waves to her shoulders, the lively brown eyes and the roses in her cheeks that contrasted so perfectly with the paleness of her skin. It was as though Snow White had stepped out of the pages of a storybook to stand before him, although she was wearing a much better dress than her fictional counterpart. And then a memory stirred, of a quiet, dark-haired girl who was always on the periphery, never really part of the bubbling teenage maelstrom around her. Fraser followed the breadcrumb trail further into the past, trying to get a better hold on the elusive recollection. What had she been called? Laura? No, that wasn’t it… ‘Maura!’ he exclaimed with a triumphant snap of his fingers, only realising how loudly he’d spoken when she visibly recoiled. ‘Sorry, it just came to me. Maura McKenzie. You did something creative, didn’t you? Not drawing or painting – something else.’
‘Pottery,’ she supplied.
‘Of course,’ Fraser said, looking back across the years and remembering more. ‘I used to see you in the art block, on my way to the drama studio.’
An inscrutable look flashed across her face as she studied him. ‘That’s right. I was in a lot of your other classes, though.’
‘Of course,’ Fraser said, and now he could picture her sitting in the corner, rarely raising her hand. ‘Well, it’s good to see you after all these years. How have you been keeping?’
She tilted her head, sending a lock of black hair cascading over her eyes and he watched as she self-consciously tucked it behind one ear. ‘I’m well, thanks. How about you?’
‘I’m really well too,’ he said. ‘Back in the old place after a few years in London. You know how it is.’
Maura nodded. ‘I do. I spent a few years in London after we left school, then went to study in Glasgow for a while. But I always knew I’d come back to Edinburgh eventually. There’s something about the city that draws you back.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ Fraser agreed. ‘So what did you study? I assume that’s why you went to London.’
‘Ceramic design at St Martin’s College,’ she said. ‘And then a Master’s degree at Glasgow School of Art.’
He blinked, impressed. They were both prestigious institutions and not easy to get into. ‘Very nice. Have you managed to make a living out of it?’
