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  “Will all passengers…”

  Mr. Macpherson stepped onto the plane.

  On arrival in Edinburgh, Arthur took a taxi to the Caledonian Hotel and checked in.

  “Welcome back,” said the desk clerk, as he checked his credit card against the customer’s reservation. He handed him a room key and said, “You’ve been upgraded, Mr. Macpherson.”

  “Thank you,” said Arthur, who was shown up to a small suite on the sixth floor, to be greeted with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, and a handwritten note of welcome from the manager. He gave the bellboy a handsome tip.

  Once he’d unpacked, he called Mr. Buchan and made an appointment to see him later that afternoon. Following a light lunch in the brasserie, Arthur took a stroll along Princes Street and arrived outside the bank with a few minutes to spare.

  “How nice to see you again, Mr. Macpherson,” said Buchan, leaping up from behind his desk when Arthur entered the account manager’s office.

  “It’s nice to see you too,” said Arthur, as the two men shook hands.

  “Can I offer you a tea or coffee?” asked Buchan once his client was seated.

  “No, thank you. I only wanted to check that my bank in Toronto had carried out the transfer, and there hadn’t been any problems.”

  “None that I’m aware of,” said Buchan. “In fact, the transfer couldn’t have gone more smoothly, thanks to Mr. Dunbar, and I’m looking forward to representing you in the future. So can I ask, Mr. Macpherson, is there anything you require at the moment?”

  “A new credit card and some checkbooks.”

  “Can I suggest our gold club card,” said Buchan, “which has a daily credit limit of one thousand pounds, with no security checks, and I’ve already put in an order for some new checkbooks, which should be with us by Monday. Would you like me to forward them on to Ambrose Hall?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Arthur, “as I intend to spend a few days in Edinburgh before I return to Ambrose. So perhaps I can drop in on Monday and pick them up.”

  “Then I’ll put a foot on the pedal and make sure they’re ready for you to collect by then.”

  “And my old NBT card?” asked Arthur.

  “We’ll cancel that when we hand over the new one on Monday. Do you have enough cash to see you through the weekend?”

  “More than enough,” said Arthur.

  * * *

  Arthur left the bank and began walking back down Princes Street. What he hadn’t told Buchan was that he intended to do some shopping before he headed for Ambrose, and even take in a concert or recital. In fact he dropped into four shops on his way back to the hotel, and purchased three suits, six silk shirts, two pairs of Church’s shoes, and an overcoat in the sale. Arthur had done more shopping in three hours than he’d previously managed in three years. As he continued down Princes Street, Arthur stopped to look at the painting in the window of Munro’s, a Peploe of a bowl of fruit that he much admired. But he already had half a dozen of his own. In any case, he decided it might not be wise to enter the gallery where Mr. Macpherson had purchased so many pictures in the past, so he continued on his way back to the hotel.

  After a cold shower and a change of clothes, Arthur made his way down to the hotel dining room, where he enjoyed an Aberdeen Angus steak with all the trimmings, and a bottle of red wine he had read about in one of the color supplements.

  By the time he’d signed the bill—he nearly forgot his name—he was ready for a good night’s sleep. He was passing Scott’s Bar on his way to the lifts when he turned and saw her image in the mirror. She was sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar sipping a glass of champagne. Arthur continued on toward the lifts, and when one opened, he hesitated, turned around, and began walking slowly back toward the bar. Could she really have been that attractive? There was only one way he was going to find out. In any case, someone had probably joined her by now.

  A second look, and he was even more captivated. She must have been about forty, and the elegant green dress that rested just above her knees only convinced Arthur she couldn’t possibly be alone. He strolled up to the bar and took a seat on a stool two places away from her. He ordered a drink, but he didn’t have the nerve to even glance in her direction, and certainly wouldn’t have considered striking up a conversation.

  “Are you here for the conference?” she asked.

  Arthur swung round and stared into those green eyes before murmuring, “What conference?”

  “The garden centers annual conference.”

  “No,” said Arthur. “I’m on holiday. But is that why you’re here?”

  “Yes, I run a small garden center in Durham. Are you a gardener by any chance?”

  Arthur thought about his flat in Toronto where he’d had a window box, and Ambrose Hall, that couldn’t have been less than a thousand acres.

  “No,” he managed. “Always lived in a city,” he added, as she drained her champagne. “Can I get you another?”

  “Thank you,” she said, allowing the barman to refill her glass. “My name’s Marianne.”

  “I’m Sandy,” he said.

  “And what do you do, Sandy?”

  “I dabble in stocks and shares,” he replied, taking on the persona of Macpherson. “And when you said ‘run,’ does that mean you’re the boss?”

  “I wish,” she said, and by the time Marianne’s glass had been refilled three times, he’d discovered she was divorced, her husband had run away with a woman half his age, no children, and she had planned to go to the Schubert concert at the Usher Hall that night only to find it was sold out. After another drink, he even found out she didn’t consider Brahms to be in the same class as Beethoven. He was already wondering how far the journey was from Edinburgh to Durham.

  “Would you like another drink?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” she replied. “I ought to be getting to bed if I’m still hoping to make the opening session tomorrow morning.”

  “Why don’t we go up to my suite? I have a bottle of champagne, and no one to share it with.” Arthur couldn’t believe what he’d just said, and assumed she’d get up and leave without another word, and might even slap his face. He was just about to apologize, when Marianne said, “That sounds fun.” She slipped off her stool, took his hand and said, “Which floor are you on, Sandy?”

  In the past, Arthur had only dreamed of such a night, or read about it in novels by Harold Robbins. After they’d made love a third time, she said, “I ought to be getting back to my room, Sandy, if I’m not going to fall asleep during the president’s address.”

  “When does the conference end?” asked Arthur, as he sat up and watched her getting dressed.

  “Usually around four.”

  “Why don’t I try to get a couple of tickets for the Schubert concert, and then we could have dinner afterward.”

  “What a lovely idea,” said Marianne. “Shall we meet in reception at seven tomorrow evening?” She giggled. “This evening,” she added, as she bent down and kissed him.

  “See you then,” he said, and by the time the door had closed, Arthur had fallen into a deep contented sleep.

  * * *

  When Arthur woke the following morning, he couldn’t stop thinking about Marianne, and decided to buy her a present and give it to her at dinner that evening. But first he must get two tickets, the best in the house for a show that was obviously sold out, and then ask the desk clerk which he considered was the finest restaurant in Edinburgh.

  Arthur had a long shower, and found himself humming the aria from Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He continued to hum as he put on a new shirt, new suit, and began to think about what sort of present Marianne would appreciate. Mustn’t be over the top, but shouldn’t leave her in any doubt he considered last night so much more than a one-night stand.

  He went to his bedside table to pick up his wallet and watch, but they weren’t there. He opened the drawer, and stared at a copy of Gideon’s Bible. He quickly c