Chapter Two
Fraser Bell had always loved Hogmanay. He loved the enduring traditions, passed from one generation to the next and maintained with steadfast enthusiasm. No one knew why the first person to cross the threshold of a home after the bells had struck twelve should be a dark-haired man, just as nobody remembered why the crossing of hands when singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ was important, but everyone observed the rituals all the same. He loved the defiance with which they set the sky aglow, an ‘up yours’ gesture to winter and a welcome reminder that the light would return soon. Perhaps most of all, he appreciated the almost palpable sense of renewal, that the dying year passed the baton to a fresh new year on the stroke of midnight and everything began anew, although he imagined most people simply saw it as an excuse for a good drink.
That was the thing with being an actor; everything became a story. Logically, he knew Hogmanay was no different from any other night but, deep in his soul, something resonated. Especially in Edinburgh. It had been years since he’d greeted the new year in the city of his birth and he was determined to soak it up. Although not as determined as some of the revellers in the living room, if the noise they were making was anything to go by. Rugby players, he guessed, knowing his host was an enthusiastic member of the Edinburgh Stags. It wasn’t a sport he’d ever wanted to play, although he enjoyed cheering on his national team as much as anyone.
‘So is this a temporary homecoming?’ The host of the party, Pete, glanced at Fraser as he reached past him for the bottle of Highland Park whisky on the worktop. ‘Or are you back for good?’
Fraser glanced across the kitchen to where his girlfriend, Naomi, stood chatting to Pete’s wife. ‘I’ve been back for a while,’ he said. ‘Since September. I started a ghost tour business in the city centre.’
Pete snorted. ‘Fleecing gullible tourists, is it? Plenty of those around, I bet you’re doing a roaring trade.’
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?’
‘I get by,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a studio at home, and I teach a few days a week. But tell me about you – what have you been doing all these years?’
Fraser wasn’t arrogant enough to be upset that she had no idea he was an actor. He wasn’t especially famous, although several of the adverts he’d starred in had been very successful and he’d enjoyed a number of smaller roles both in TV and on stage, enough to pay the bills and give him a comfortable enough lifestyle. But if he was honest, most of his career had been spent waiting for his big break – the role that would open the door to real success and acclaim – and it was that relentless, never quite satisfied anticipation that had eventually propelled him to try something else. ‘I went to drama school – we must have been in London at the same time. Anyway, I spent a few years as a jobbing actor, auditioning for pretty much anything my agent threw my way, and that led to a few good roles.’
She threw him an enquiring look. ‘Anything I would have seen?’
It was the question most actors dreaded, in the same way that writers hated to be asked whether they’d written anything the other might have read, but Fraser accepted her curiosity as natural. ‘Let’s see now,’ he said, stroking his beard as though pondering. ‘Do you remember the toilet bleach advert a few years back – the one with the man who proposes to a human-sized, cuddly duck?’
There was a brief silence, during which Maura seemed to be trying to work out whether he was being serious. ‘Yes. Did you play the man?’
‘No, I was the duck,’ Fraser said solemnly. ‘Then there were the fast-food adverts starring Louis the chicken, but I doubt you’d have recognized me under all the feathers.’
She shook her head, and Fraser thought she was definitely trying not to laugh. ‘Um, I don’t think I remember—’
‘Or, if you’re into soap operas, I played Marion’s bit on the side in Broadoaks for a few months. And – my personal favourite – I was once horribly poisoned by Penelope Keith in an episode of Death in Dorset .’
That did it – a snort of laughter escaped Maura’s best efforts to hold it in. ‘You’re not serious,’ she said, mirth dancing in her eyes.
‘Oh, but I am,’ he assured her gravely. ‘One of my finest performances. I guarantee you’ll never see anyone faceplant into a bowl of broccoli and stilton soup with more perfectly encapsulated astonishment and regret.’
Maura laughed outright then, just as the blonde woman Fraser recalled introducing herself as Zoe materialized at her shoulder. ‘What’s the joke?’ she asked, glancing from Maura to Fraser with undisguised interest.
Maura grinned. ‘Fraser was just describing some of his favourite acting jobs.’
‘Was he?’ Zoe said, studying him. ‘So did you find out if you were at school together?’
‘We were,’ Fraser confirmed, smiling at Maura. ‘It’s a small world, apparently.’
‘Or Edinburgh is a small city,’ she countered. ‘Although I don’t run into many old St Ignatius students, it has to be said.’
Fraser was about to respond when he saw Naomi making her way across the kitchen to where he stood. Her porcelain features were impassive as she joined the group. ‘Are you keeping these ladies entertained, darling?’ she asked, slipping her arm through his. Her head tilted indulgently towards Maura and Zoe. ‘He’s always the life and soul of the party. Can’t take my eyes off him for a second.’
Fraser cleared his throat. ‘Naomi, this is Zoe, who I’ve just met, and Maura, who I went to school with.’
Was it his imagination or was Maura’s smile a little strained? ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said.
‘Likewise,’ Naomi offered. ‘It’s so nice to get these little glimpses into Fraser’s past. Edinburgh seems to be full of people he used to know.’ She broke off to glance meaningfully at the expensive-looking watch that decorated her wrist. ‘Speaking of which, we really ought to get going if we’re going to catch the fireworks from the Balmoral.’
‘Already?’ Fraser said, checking the time for himself and seeing it was almost 11.15pm. ‘Hell’s bells, you’re right.’ He threw Maura an apologetic look. ‘Sorry, I’m afraid I’ve got to go.’
She waved a hand. ‘I’d be going as well, if I had a ticket to the Balmoral.’ A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. ‘But it was good to catch up.’
Fraser had to agree. Up until half an hour ago, he’d forgotten Maura McKenzie even existed but now he was surprised to find himself more than a little intrigued. It was a shame he had to leave. ‘It was good,’ he said. ‘Really good. I’m glad you’re doing well.’
Whatever Maura had been about to say in reply was interrupted by a commotion in the hallway. A young man stumbled into the kitchen, his face an unhealthy shade of green. He took several uncertain steps forward and then stopped dead in front of the group. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Naomi move hurriedly back and he did the same, just as the youth let out a strangled moan and bent double. With a yelp, Zoe jumped out of the way but Maura was not so lucky. Trapped by the edge of the table, there was nothing she could do to avoid the contents of his stomach. It landed with a splatter all over her feet.
‘Well,’ Naomi said brightly in the silence that followed. ‘I think that’s our cue to leave. So lovely to meet you both.’
Fraser caught sight of Maura’s horrified expression. ‘Shall I get you some kitchen roll?’
‘No,’ she croaked, lifting one foot to create an unpleasant squelching sound. ‘You head off to your party.’
‘But—’
‘Really,’ Maura said, with determined jollity. ‘Off you go. It was great to see you again. Happy New Year.’
He hesitated, caught between the desire to help and the realisation he was somehow only making her feel worse. ‘Um – Happy New Year to you too,’ he said finally. ‘And to you, Zoe. Things can only get better.’
A drunken roar erupted from the living room, causing Zoe to shake her head and wince. ‘I’m afraid it sounds as though things are going to get very much worse.’