Val McDermid - Northanger Abbey

The book ended and Cat drifted into consciousness of the outside world just as they reached the outskirts of the city centre. She squirmed out of her slouch on the back seat and eagerly scanned the neighbourhood, taking in the imposing symmetry of the grey stone buildings that lined the streets, interspersed with orderly tree-lined gardens enclosed by spiked railings. Although the light was barely fading into dusk, in her imagination it was a dark and foggy evening, when this would become a thrillingly ominous landscape. She had come to Edinburgh to be excited, and even at first sight, the city was living up to her expectations.

Mr Allen liked to live well, and he always took comfortable lodgings for his August pilgrimage. This year, he’d rented a three-bedroomed flat towards the West End of Queen Street which came with that contemporary Edinburgh equivalent of the Holy Grail – a parking permit. By the time they’d found a parking space that matched it, then lugged their bags up several flights of stairs, none of them had appetite or energy for anything more than a good night’s sleep.

Cat’s room was the smallest of the three bedrooms, but she didn’t care. It was painted in shades of yellow and lemon and there was plenty of room for a single bed, a dressing table, a wardrobe and a generous armchair that was perfect for curling up and reading. Best of all, it looked out over Queen Street Gardens. Cat had no difficulty in ignoring the constant traffic below and enjoying the broad canopy of trees. Now twilight had taken hold – and to her astonishment, it was already almost eleven o’clock, when it would be properly dark in Dorset – she could see bats flitting among the leaves. She gave a little shiver of pleasure before she closed the curtains and slipped into sleep.

Breakfast with the Allens was an even more casual affair than at the Morlands. When Cat emerged from the shower, she found Mr Allen in his dressing gown reading the Independent by the window, a cup of coffee at his elbow. He glanced up and said, ‘The supermarket delivery came. There’s fruit and juice and bacon and eggs in the fridge. Croissants in the bread bin and cereals in the cupboard. Help yourself to whatever you fancy.’

Spoiled for choice, Cat poured a glass of mango juice while she considered her options. ‘Is Susie still sleeping?’ she asked.

Mr Allen grunted. ‘Probably.’ He made a performance of closing his newspaper and draining his cup. ‘I’ve got a ticket for a show at half past ten at the Pleasance. A sketch comedy group from Birmingham doing a musical version of Middlemarch .’

‘That doesn’t sound very likely.’

He stood up and stretched. ‘And that, my dear Cat, is precisely why it might just work.’

Cat realised she still had a lot to learn about contemporary theatre. With luck, she’d know much more by the end of her four weeks in Edinburgh. ‘Are we coming with you?’

He chuckled. ‘God, no. Susie won’t venture anywhere near a cultural event until she’s kitted herself out in this season’s wardrobe. You two are destined for the shops this morning. I hope you’re feeling strong.’

At the time, she’d thought he was exaggerating, as she knew men are inclined to do on the subject of women and shopping. But by the fifth shop, the fifth pile of clothes, the fifth changing room, Cat was beginning to feel amazement at Mr Allen’s level of tolerance. Admittedly, she’d had little opportunity to observe married life at close quarters, apart from that of her parents. But although she didn’t like herself for the thought, Cat reckoned she had somehow previously missed the realisation that Susie Allen was the most empty-headed woman she’d ever spent time with. What was bewildering about this discovery was that Mr Allen was definitely neither empty-headed nor obsessed with how he looked. It was puzzling. All they seemed to share was curiosity. But while Mr Allen’s curiosity was aimed at finding new wonders to bring to the public’s attention, Susie Allen seemed interested only in spotting famous faces among the crowds that thronged the shops and the streets of Edinburgh.

‘Isn’t that the little Scottish woman who’s always on the News Quiz ? Oh, and surely that’s Margaret Atwood over there, trying on hats? Oh look, it’s that rugby player with the big thighs.’ Such was the level of Susie’s discourse.

Her one saving grace, at least to a teenager, was her generosity. While she lavished a new wardrobe on herself, Susie was not slow to treat Cat to similar delights. Cat was not by nature greedy, but there was never much to spare in the Morland family budget for the vanity of fashion over practicality. Although Cat knew it was generosity enough to bring her on this trip and that her parents would disapprove of her accepting what they’d regard as unnecessary charity, she couldn’t help but be seduced by the stylish trifles Susie thought her due. Even so, by mid-afternoon, Cat was weary of retail therapy and longing to plunge into some cultural life.

Her prayers were answered when they returned to the flat to find Mr Allen sitting by the window with a cup of tea and his iPad. ‘I have tickets for you both for a comedy show this evening at the Assembly Rooms,’ he announced without stirring. ‘I’ve been invited to a whisky tasting, so I’ll meet you in the bar after the show.’

Cat retreated to her room, where she spread her new clothes on the bed and photographed each item with her phone. She posted her favourite shot – a camisole cunningly dyed in gradations of colour from fuchsia to pearly pink – on her Facebook page then sent the others to her sisters. She texted her parents to say she’d spent the day walking around with Susie and they’d be going out to see a show in the evening. Instinctively, she knew what not to tell her parents. Sarah and Emily wouldn’t give her away. Not because they were intent on keeping her confidences, but rather because their annoyance at what they were missing out on would manifest itself in blaming their parents.

The pavement under the triple-arched portico of the Assembly Rooms was busy with people milling around, eyes darting all over the place, eager to spot acquaintances or those they would like to become acquainted with. Posters plastered every surface, over-excited fonts trumpeting the attractions within. Everything clamoured for Cat’s attention and she clung nervously to Susie’s arm as they pushed through the crowds to get inside.

The scrum of people seemed to grow thicker the further they penetrated the building. Mr Allen had spoken of the grace and elegance of the interior, explaining how it had been restored to its eighteenth-century glory. ‘They’ve kept the perfect proportions and returned it to its original style of decoration, right down to the chandeliers and the gold leaf on the ceiling roses,’ he’d told them over their early dinner. Cat had been eager to see it for herself, but it was too crowded to form any sense of how it looked. In between the heads and the hoardings she could catch odd glimpses here and there, but it formed a bewildering kaleidoscope of images. The sole impression she had was of hundreds of people determined to see and be seen on their way to and from an assortment of performances.

‘I know where we’re going.’ Susie had to raise her voice to be heard in the throng. She half-led, half-dragged Cat through the crowd until they finally reached their destination. Susie handed over their tickets and they were admitted to the auditorium.

This was not Cat’s initiation into live performance. She’d regularly attended performances in the village hall and even, occasionally, at the Arts Centre in Dorchester. She knew what to expect. Rows of seats, a soft mumble of conversation, a curtained proscenium arch.