Page 81 of On Circus Lane

I look curiously at where he’s pointing. A narrow lane leads off the main road, but it’s winding, and I can’t see where it leads.

“What’s this?” I peer at the street sign half hidden by the branches of a tree. “Circus Lane.”

Tom grins. “It’s one of the most recognisable streets in Edinburgh and one of the most Instagrammed.”

“Thisis?” I say doubtfully. It looks like any of the windy streets in Edinburgh.

He nods. “Trust me. Start walking and you’ll see.”

“Okay.” I hesitate. “But first, why here?”

His face reddens, and he suddenly looks almost shy. “I wanted to show you something beautiful and hidden for your photo collection. This is Edinburgh in a nutshell. Beauty around every little corner.”

Ignoring Ivy’s rapt attention, I lean in and kiss him lightly. I can almost feel her astonishment at the affectionate gesture. “Thank you.”

He blinks. “You haven’t seen the beauty yet.”

I raise my camera and snap a picture of him against the stone wall. He’s wearing jeans and a parka, and his skin is golden brown.

“Oh yes, I have,” I say.

“I think I should take a photo of the two of you against the street sign,” Ivy says. I open my mouth to object, and she raises an eyebrow. “For my Instagram.”

Tom throws his arm over my shoulder, dragging me close.

“Smile,” Ivy says sweetly, and I bare my teeth. “Not like that, Bee. You look like a chimpanzee in a zoo.” Tom laughs, and I look up, caught by his affectionate gaze. I hear the click of Ivy’s camera.

“Nice,” Ivy says, looking at her camera and then passing it to me.

I look down and my eyes widen. It’s a lovely photo. We look so right together.

“And at least your hair is your natural colour this time,” she continues chattily as I hand her camera back.

“This time?” Tom asks.

“Oh, he changes his hair styles and colour more than his underpants,” she informs him. “And it’s probably more miss than hit most times.”

“Hey, it’s how I express myself,” I say indignantly. It’s like my camouflage. If people look at my bright hair they miss me.

Ivy rolls her eyes. “And your hair follicles would appreciate you learning how to use your voice for a change.”

It feels cold now I’m not against Tom, but then he takes my hand and leads me down the cobbled lane.

I say, “Oh,” and Ivy immediately echoes me.

Mews cottages line both sides of the lane and each house has different architectural details—windows and doors of differingstyles—but somehow, they form a cohesive whole that is timeless and quite simply beautiful.

I crouch and take some close-up photos of the wisteria winding up a house. The base is thick and twisted. Then I jump to my feet and join the other two. Tom listens to Ivy as she chatters away while snapping pictures.

Hammering comes from a house we’re passing, along with the sound of Christmas music playing. I sneak a look in and catch a glimpse of a room that’s been gutted with wiring hanging out and, beyond it, a small garden.

“Turn around,” Tom says. I look at him enquiringly and he points behind us. “This is the spot that’s most photographed.” I turn obediently and see the church rising above the cottages. It’s so pretty that I snap a photo and then another.

The builder’s radio starts to play Chris de Burgh’s “A Spaceman Comes Travelling,” and somehow, the sweet tune sounds magical in this small, quiet street. I cock my head listening to it, and then squeak as Tom seizes me in his arms.

“What are youdoing?” I gasp as he twirls me down the lane, our boots crunching in the snow.

“Dancing,” he says calmly.

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