Val McDermid - Northanger Abbey

‘Weird.’ Bella dismissed the subject. ‘So, Henry, is he your type, then? Because if he is, we need to keep an eye out for guys that look like that, to take your mind off him.’

Confused, Cat frowned. ‘I don’t think I have a type. I either like people or I don’t.’

Bella opened her eyes wide. ‘Double weird. You’re such a strange one, Cat. Now I know exactly the kind of man who makes my heart beat faster.’ She looked dreamily around the bustling Spiegeltent. ‘And I think you could probably guess what my type is without having to try very hard.’

‘I don’t—’

‘No, no, don’t embarrass me. I always give myself away.’ She raked around in her bag and took out a tiny mirror and her lipstick. As she applied a fresh coat of scarlet to her lips, she carried on talking. ‘There’s two guys over by the coffee counter, they totally can’t take their eyes off you.’

Startled, Cat followed her friend’s gaze. One of the young men in question gave her a louche wink, then nudged his friend, who had turned away to pick up two cartons of coffee. A moment later, they were gone. ‘You’re mistaken, Bella. They’ve gone off.’

Bella tutted and flicked her hair out on both sides in a gesture of impatience. ‘Oh, come on then, there’s nothing happening here. I’m literally going to die of boredom if I have to sit here a minute longer.’

Without checking whether Cat was ready to leave, Bella strode off, apparently driven by some inner urgency to be away from the confines of the Spiegeltent. They emerged into the humid air trapped beneath the tented walkways of the festival. Bella paused, like a pointer sniffing the air, then hustled off towards the exit. Cat thought she saw the two young men from the coffee counter ahead of them, but she couldn’t be certain.

‘Do keep up,’ Bella said impatiently.

And Cat obeyed, not quite sure why they were in such a hurry. But she had observed her friend with her sisters and understood that when Bella was in this mood, it was better to obey.

If the burghers of Edinburgh had conspired to transform the traffic flow of the capital into a circle of hell that Dante would have recognised, they could have done no better than their plan to bring trams back to the city. Road closures, diversions and temporary lights had made the centre almost impossible to navigate.

The junction of George Street and Charlotte Square had always been one of the most awkward street-crossings in the city, with a constant hurtling of vehicles back and forth and round the tight corners of roads built for carriages, not buses. But this year, the felony had been compounded by the closure to traffic of most of George Street. True, it had created a Continental feel the length of this major artery, with restaurant tables and temporary event venues in the middle of the road. But it had also funnelled the festival-fattened flow of traffic into ever fewer capillaries.

As they emerged on to the pavement, Cat was momentarily bewildered by the transition from the genteel crowds of the Book Festival. But Bella was as sharp-witted as ever. She pointed to her left, towards Bute House, the official residence of the Scottish First Minister. ‘Let’s walk this way, Cat,’ she urged, linking arms with her friend.

Cat couldn’t help but notice that the two young men from the coffee stand were crossing the quieter side of the square towards the First Minister’s grand grey Georgian pile. The realisation made her faintly uneasy, but before she could examine the feeling, the long bonnet of a bright scarlet sports car screeched to a halt beside them. Startled, she swung round to see two young men waving at her and Bella from their open-topped vehicle. As is often the way when we are confronted with those we know in unexpected situations, it took Cat some seconds to realise that the passenger was her brother James.

Any exclamation of surprise she may have uttered was lost in the screech of delight from Bella and the answering whoop from the driver.

‘Johnny! And Jamie,’ Bella screamed. ‘I don’t believe it. Totes amazeballs.’

The driver jumped out of the car without opening his door and bounded up the steps to the pavement level where the young women had stopped in their tracks. He threw his arms around Bella and the pair of them pogoed together in a tight circle that was clearly the product of much practice, all the while whooping like savages.

James Morland meanwhile made a more decorous exit from the passenger door and trotted up to his sister, giving her a quick hug. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded with a delighted laugh, pushing him away from her but holding firm to his upper arms.

‘Spur of the moment, Sis. Johnny turned up at my flat last night and persuaded me to join him. I think he’s missing his mum – I swear he’s got a boot full of dirty laundry for her.’ James gave her his familiar quick and easy grin, but she was so excited to see him, Cat failed to notice how his eyes kept flicking across to her friend.

‘Shouldn’t you be working?’

James winked. ‘My pupil master’s extended his holiday in Tuscany, so I’d just be twiddling my thumbs in chambers. They told me not to bother coming in, then Johnny showed up and twisted my arm.’ He was speaking to Cat, but his attention was all on Bella, whose ecstatic dance with her brother had just ended.

John Thorpe broke away from his sister and seized Cat’s hand, swooping low over it in a mock-heroic gesture. ‘And you must be the famous Cat Morland I’ve heard so much about from Bella and Jamie. I’m Johnny Thorpe, and you must be delighted to make my acquaintance.’ He released her hand and beamed at her, his plain face revealing how pleased he was with himself and his attempt at humour.

Cat giggled uneasily, not quite sure how to handle so bombastic an introduction. ‘Bella’s told me all about you.’ There was some truth in that, though his sister had not mentioned his paunch or his thinning hair.

He raised his eyebrows in an arch expression. ‘God, I hope not,’ he said in exaggerated style. ‘So, Cat, I bet you can’t guess how long it took us to drive up the bloody awful A1 from Newcastle.’

Cat, whose studies in British geography had left her with gaps the size of Wales in her knowledge, looked to James for help. ‘I don’t know how far it is.’

Her brother tore his attention away from Bella long enough to say, ‘About a hundred and twenty miles.’

‘More like a hundred and fifty,’ John corrected him. ‘Given the time it took. So, Cat, what do you think? How long?’

Cat frowned, trying to do the sums in her head. ‘About two and a half hours?’ she hazarded.

John slapped his thigh in a gesture of incredulity. ‘Are you kidding me? Have you seen my flying machine? An hour and twenty minutes. I noticed the church clock on Shieldfield Green said ten o’clock as we passed it on our way up from the Quayside.’

James laughed. ‘You’ve lost an hour, Johnny. We left at nine.’

John’s chest puffed up under his pink and grey striped polo shirt. ‘At nine?’ He turned to Cat for support. ‘Is he always like this? Picking a fight when he knows he’s in the wrong? I tell you, just look at this car of mine and tell me you think it would take two and a half hours to travel a hundred and fifty miles.’

‘A hundred and twenty,’ James said weakly.

‘It does look fast,’ Cat said, trying to make peace between the pair before their mock argument turned, as they so often do between men intent on impressing women, into the real thing.

‘Fast? She goes like the proverbial. Just touch the gas and she shoots forward like a bullet. She’s hand built, engine tuned to within an inch of its life. Look at that cream leather interior, the black walnut dash, the perfection of that chrome. Spring-loaded drink holders, on-board wifi and subwoofers to blow your ears off. And don’t get me started on the brake horsepower and the torque.’