From: a.cameron@myemail.com
To: cameron.a@myemail.com
Date: 1 March, 12:55
Subject: I’m on my way
I’m on my way. Please be there.
The pavement was slick with rain. I charged down Rose Street then out onto Princes Street, dodging my way between the tourists in their free waterproof ponchos from the hop-on hop-off city bus tour. Taking advantage of a brief break in the traffic, I dived across the road and started pounding my way past the National Gallery. Why were there so many people out and about, and why did they have to walk so slowly? I tried to weave my way around them, waving a brief apology as I accidentally photobombed someone. My legs were wobbling, and sweat was beading on my forehead as I pushed forward, but my determination to make that one o’clock meeting kept me going, even as a stitch did its best to slow me down.
Finally, there was a break in the crowd and I could accelerate. I hauled my way up the hill, ignoring the pull in my calf muscles. There was still a way to go when the sharp retort of the one o’clock gun echoed around the city. What if Cameron turned up but didn’t wait for me?
‘Please wait, please wait,’ I repeated in my head, not having the breath to spare to say it out loud.
At last, I arrived at the precinct in front of the castle, lungs screaming and heart beating fit to burst from the double pressure of physical exertion and emotional anticipation. I checked my watch. Six minutes past one. I’d made incredible time getting here, but was I already too late? I gazed around, feeling suddenly helpless. It was all well and good asking a person to meet you outside Edinburgh Castle, but Cameron clearly didn’t appreciate how big an area that was and how easy it would be for us to miss each other.
Should I buy a ticket and go in? But if I did, where within the Castle grounds would I meet him? By the actual one o’clock gun? Everyone knew there was no point in trying to get near it around this time of day. But would Cameron have taken the number of tourists into account? Perhaps it was better to stay here outside the Castle’s walls and hope that he had done the same. This was ridiculous. How was I meant to spot him among the thousands of strangers milling around up here when I still didn’t know what he looked like?
Then I spotted it. Among the sea of dull waterproofs, the blues, greys and blacks, there was a splash of red. How many times had he mentioned the strawberry jam-coloured jackets they wore when they went ashore? I tensed, my jaw clenched tight with nerves, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against my sides. I could hear the dull thud of my blood pumping around my body, my own breathing loud in my ears despite the noisy multilingual chatter of the crowd around me. I stood and watched as the jacket’s wearer paced the width of the Castle forecourt, slowly moving ever closer towards me. I realised there was a pattern to his movements, a steady sweeping search of the crowd, looking for me just as I was looking for him.
‘Cameron,’ I said, my voice far too quiet to cut its way across the crowd to him.
Behind me, a piper started playing, his pipes letting out the usual groaning drone as the bag filled with air before he began the tune. The man I thought might be Cameron looked up towards the Castle gates to see where the music was coming from. And that was when he spotted me. And somehow, he knew it was me. I could see the light of recognition in his eyes immediately.
In his postcard there had been no consideration of the practicalities, no mention of how we would recognise each other. But each of us had come up with our own way. He with his strawberry jam jacket, and me, clutching the Antarctic card I’d been carrying around in my handbag since I received it.
I held the postcard up, pointed at it and then me, so he could be in no doubt that yes, I was the person he was looking for. He seemed to stare at me for a long time, and I wondered what was going through his head. Was I the woman he’d imagined? I’d worried about this moment for so long, imagining the doubts that would rage through my mind, such as whether he’d be disappointed that I was me, whether he’d expected someone taller, thinner, better, how I’d try to compensate for this disappointment by moulding my behaviour into the person I thought he wanted me to be.
But instead, I felt a sense of calm confidence. Standing here in my ugly waterproof, lips chapped from the cold, and rain dripping down my nose, I was content in my own skin. Whatever happened next, whatever confession he had to make, I knew I would be strong enough to deal with it and make the right choices for me.
Now, at last, he smiled at me, and it lit up his whole face. He plucked at his red jacket and shrugged his shoulders slightly. Great minds think alike. All at once he was walking towards me, moving gracefully through the crowd, only pausing briefly to let a woman with a guide dog go past. He took long, easy strides, poised in these unfamiliar surroundings, assured that he was heading in the right direction.
Then, finally, he came to a halt in front of me. He was maybe half a foot taller than me, stubbly like I’d imagined, skin slightly weather-beaten, and intelligent brown eyes filled with warmth. His shoulders were broad beneath his puffy red jacket and his demeanor gave off a sense of wiry energy.
We both hesitated, not sure what to do next.
Then he took his glove off and stuck his hand out.
‘Hello, Amy, I’m Cameron. We meet at last.’
I put my hand in his, appreciating the gentle strength of his palm against mine.
‘Hello, Cameron, it’s good to see you.’
I kept hold of his hand and then spontaneously leaned up to briefly press my cheek against his. He smelled of chocolate, with a faint citrus undertone which I guessed must be from his aftershave.
‘I didn’t—’
‘I wasn’t—’
We both started speaking over each other.
‘You go first,’ I said.
‘No, you,’ he replied. ‘Please.’
I stepped back, and tried to read his thoughts in his features. Since that initial smile, his face had grown serious. What did he have to confess to me? Was he regretting his decision to come here? Had he only done it to tell me in person that it would never work between us because of my own deception? There was only one way to find out. It was time to make another leap of faith.
‘Okay, what I was going to say was that I wasn’t sure you were going to come. I couldn’t help thinking that you wouldn’t have sent the postcard if you’d known the real me. And then your response to my confession seemed so strange. I didn’t know what to make of it. I even thought the whole thing might have been a hoax. I very nearly stayed at work. Why go out and get soaked on a fool’s errand? But sometimes you have to be brave. I decided it was worth running the risk of getting cold and wet. Who would believe it’s the first day of spring?’ I gestured at the sea of umbrellas surrounding us. ‘I mean it’s not a patch on the conditions you’ve been facing over the last few months,’ I added hastily. ‘I’m in no position to complain really. Talking about the weather is an easy excuse to fill awkward silences.’
‘I’d be doing the same if you hadn’t got in there first.’
At last, he smiled again, and I found myself marvelling at the way it made me glow all over, despite all the unanswered questions which hovered between us.
‘Rainy Edinburgh definitely could give Antarctica a run for its money on the cold front,’ he said. ‘And there I go, falling back on the same crutch. Look, there’s a lot to talk about. Shall we go somewhere in the dry to continue this conversation? I’m very happy to stay out in the rain with you, but your lips are getting a little blue.’
The sudden rush of heat his words provoked in me was very effective in counteracting the cold conditions, even if they hadn’t provided me with the reassurance I was looking for.
‘Sure, that sounds like a good plan. I know just the place.’