you ignorant boy. And what makes you think I’m going to mention you on Facebook?’
‘Because it’s what you girls say. “Went dancing in Morningside, partnered with weirdo in red trousers who doesn’t even know where Budleigh Salterton is. Duh!”’
She giggled. ‘No way.’
‘Here’s what you should say: “Mrs Alexander partnered me with the best dancer and conversationalist in the room. Ladies, check out the fabulous Henry Tilney.”’
Cat shook her head in pretended sorrow. ‘Anyway, what makes you think I confide everything to Facebook?’
He gave her an incredulous look. ‘You’re female and, I’m pretty sure, under twenty-one. If you don’t do Facebook, how are your sisters and your cousins and your best mates going to be provoked to teeth-gnashing jealousy of your trip to Edinburgh? How else will they know you’re having the time of your life while they’re doing whatever it is they do in Dorset? All you girls do it all the time – Facebook, Twitter. I have this theory. It’s why you’ve all suddenly got so good at writing novels. Chick lit and the serious stuff. It’s because of all the practice you get spinning yarns on your phones and iPads.’
‘You’re telling me that guys don’t do exactly the same thing?’
Henry nodded. ‘We do different stuff. We talk about sport or politics or who got impossibly drunk on Friday night. We don’t do the chit-chat about our lives the way you girls do. We talk about serious stuff. Plus we have better punctuation and grammar.’
Cat hooted with laughter. ‘Now you really are kidding. Here’s one thing that guys do much more than women – trolling. You are the evil that stalks the Internet, with your shouty capital letters and your sweary insults and your truly terrible mangling of the English language.’
Now he was laughing too, enjoying the effect of what she realised was a wind-up. ‘To be honest, I think the honours are pretty much divided between the sexes,’ he said. ‘Men are just as gossipy as women, and you girls can give as good as you get in the abuse stakes.’
Whatever Cat might have said in response was lost, as Fiona was shepherding them all back on to the floor.
‘On your feet, girl,’ Henry said. ‘There are willows to be stripped and eightsome reels to be beaten into submission.’
Cat threw herself into the dance with renewed energy, discovering that the basic steps had finally sunk in. By the end of the afternoon, she could go for several minutes without having to apologise for crushing Henry’s toes. When the final measures of the Canadian Barn Dance concluded and they collapsed on the bench again, she realised she’d had more fun with Henry than she’d ever had on a dance floor before.
‘That was such good fun,’ she said.
‘You’re all set for the Highland Ball now. I take it that’s what this is in aid of?’
Cat nodded. ‘I suppose you’ve been going your whole life?’
‘I’ve been a few times. But I’m not sure whether we’ll still be in Edinburgh by then.’
‘We?’
‘My family. My father gets a little stir-crazy in the city if he’s here too long.’
Before Cat could ask why a grown man’s schedule should be dictated by the preferences of his father, Susie Allen swept through the double doors in an elaborate multi-layered confection of muslins. ‘Cat, darling, over here,’ she called, as if her entrance hadn’t already earned the attention of the whole room. She continued towards them in a cloud of floral perfume. ‘I thought I’d better come and get you. Andrew’s got us an invitation to a preview of Jack Vettriano’s latest show this evening, and it’s over the bridge in some little town in Fife, can you believe it? So he’s outside in the car.’ All the while she was speaking, her eyes were raking Henry from crown to toe, making a mental catalogue of his attributes. She gave him a sultry look that Cat feared was meant to be seductive. ‘And is this your dance partner, Cat? Aren’t you going to introduce us?’
Although she knew she ought not to grudge sharing Henry with Susie, who was the only reason Cat was there in the first place, still she felt a twinge of resentment. ‘Susie, this is Henry Tilney. Henry, this is my friend and neighbour Susie Allen, who has very kindly brought me to Edinburgh.’
Susie extended a hand as if to be kissed. Instead, Henry jumped to his feet and shook it delicately. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, head cocked as if assessing her for the pot. ‘That’s a lovely frock, by the way. I love the way all the layers are cut on the bias so they cascade like a waterfall.’
Susie gave him a shrewd look. ‘Thank you. Are you in textiles yourself? A designer perhaps?’
He laughed delightedly. ‘God, no. I just have a sister, that’s all. Ellie likes to lecture me on the finer points of women’s fashions. She’s got her eye on a design course at the College of Art.’
Satisfied that he wasn’t a gay man in disguise, Susie tucked a hand under Cat’s arm. ‘Sounds like she’d be a perfect pal for you, Cat. I hate to drag you away when you two are just getting to know each other, but we’re on a tight schedule.’
Henry inclined his head politely. ‘It’s festival time. Everyone’s always running to catch up with themselves. No doubt I’ll see you around at the Book Festival. I usually grab a coffee there in the morning.’
‘’Kay,’ Cat said. She followed Susie to the car, completely oblivious to the ache in her feet and ankles.
Amazing. Awesome. Astonishing. Henry Tilney had seen her at her worst, red-faced, sweating and cursing. And still he seemed keen to see her again. That was some consolation for knowing she looked such a mess. Whatever their next encounter might be, she couldn’t look any worse.
Her complete failure to recall anything about Jack Vettriano’s latest collection of paintings was not something Cat was proud of. She’d always admired his work when she’d encountered it on cards and prints. It was the sort of art she could imagine practising herself one day. On any other occasion, she’d have been riveted to see the originals and she’d have snatched at the chance to talk to the artist himself. But Henry Tilney had driven all other thoughts from her mind. She’d even have been hard pressed to remember which town they’d been in, principally because she’d spent the entire journey on her phone researching Henry.
Her first port of call had been Facebook. Disappointingly, Henry didn’t share his information with people who weren’t his friends. And since they had no friends in common, there was nothing she could glean by a more circuitous route. Next she tried Google. There, she did find a Henry Tilney, but since this one was a much-decorated general who had made his name in the Falklands war before Cat had even been born, this obviously wasn’t her dance partner. Out of curiosity, she clicked on the ‘image’ button. Even allowing for the scale of the photo on the phone, the resemblance between General Tilney and her dance partner was so uncanny that the relationship between them was immediately obvious. Father and son, no question about it.
General Tilney had made his reputation on a night operation against the Argentinian ground forces. He’d been a lieutenant-colonel at the
