Page 58 of The Typo

‘No buts, Amy. Haven’t you got some social media posts to schedule? And I want to check them before you publish anything. It’s clear that you can’t be trusted to perform your role properly without close supervision.’

I put my hands in my pocket so he couldn’t see that they were trembling from the frustration and helplessness which I was experiencing. And then I felt it, the cool surface of the little violin keyring, and the important message which was engraved on it.

Be brave

I could hear Cass’s voice saying the words in my head. She was taking a huge chance moving her family to the other side of the world. But even if it turned out to be a failure, at least she’d have tried, and wouldn’t have to spend every day wondering ‘what if?’ I’d been brave enough to follow my instincts to open the Cellar Bar and to start playing the violin again. Perhaps it was time I listened to my gut and took another leap of faith, rather than condemning myself to a life of regret.

Why was I standing here listening to Ian rant? The man was rude, patronising, and had no clue about the business he was running. If he was determined to continue underestimating me like this, then I was done. I had my own ambitions to pursue, and at this particular moment, I had a more important place to be.

‘Actually, I’m going to take my lunch break now,’ I said. ‘And take the rest of the afternoon off too. I’m owed the overtime after all the extra hours I put into making the Cellar Bar a success.’

Ian fixed me with a glare designed to make me shrink. I merely stared back at him.

‘If you walk out of the theatre now, I shall consider that your resignation.’ He delivered his ultimatum calmly, a small smile on his face.

It was the smile that gave me the courage to do what I did next.

‘In which case, I’ll be back tomorrow to clear my desk and discuss the terms of my departure. I have bigger dreams to chase. Have a good afternoon.’

I left the theatre at a run. There was no time to consider the magnitude of the choice I’d just made. I needed to get to Edinburgh Castle, and time was not on my side.

ChapterTwenty-Nine

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: 1 March, 12:55

Subject: I’m on my way

I’m on my way. Please be there.

The pavement was slick with rain. I charged down Rose Street then out onto Princes Street, dodging my way between the tourists in their free waterproof ponchos from the hop-on hop-off city bus tour. Taking advantage of a brief break in the traffic, I dived across the road and started pounding my way past the National Gallery. Why were there so many people out and about, and why did they have to walk so slowly? I tried to weave my way around them, waving a brief apology as I accidentally photobombed someone. My legs were wobbling, and sweat was beading on my forehead as I pushed forward, but my determination to make that one o’clock meeting kept me going, even as a stitch did its best to slow me down.

Finally, there was a break in the crowd and I could accelerate. I hauled my way up the hill, ignoring the pull in my calf muscles. There was still a way to go when the sharp retort of the one o’clock gun echoed around the city. What if Cameron turned up but didn’t wait for me?

‘Please wait, please wait,’ I repeated in my head, not having the breath to spare to say it out loud.

At last, I arrived at the precinct in front of the castle, lungs screaming and heart beating fit to burst from the double pressure of physical exertion and emotional anticipation. I checked my watch. Six minutes past one. I’d made incredible time getting here, but was I already too late? I gazed around, feeling suddenly helpless. It was all well and good asking a person to meet you outside Edinburgh Castle, but Cameron clearly didn’t appreciate how big an area that was and how easy it would be for us to miss each other.

Should I buy a ticket and go in? But if I did, where within the Castle grounds would I meet him? By the actual one o’clock gun? Everyone knew there was no point in trying to get near it around this time of day. But would Cameron have taken the number of tourists into account? Perhaps it was better to stay here outside the Castle’s walls and hope that he had done the same. This was ridiculous. How was I meant to spot him among the thousands of strangers milling around up here when I still didn’t know what he looked like?

Then I spotted it. Among the sea of dull waterproofs, the blues, greys and blacks, there was a splash of red. How many times had he mentioned the strawberry jam-coloured jackets they wore when they went ashore? I tensed, my jaw clenched tight with nerves, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against my sides. I could hear the dull thud of my blood pumping around my body, my own breathing loud in my ears despite the noisy multilingual chatter of the crowd around me. I stood and watched as the jacket’s wearer paced the width of the Castle forecourt, slowly moving ever closer towards me. I realised there was a pattern to his movements, a steady sweeping search of the crowd, looking for me just as I was looking for him.

‘Cameron,’ I said, my voice far too quiet to cut its way across the crowd to him.

Behind me, a piper started playing, his pipes letting out the usual groaning drone as the bag filled with air before he began the tune. The man I thought might be Cameron looked up towards the Castle gates to see where the music was coming from. And that was when he spotted me. And somehow, he knew it was me. I could see the light of recognition in his eyes immediately.

In his postcard there had been no consideration of the practicalities, no mention of how we would recognise each other. But each of us had come up with our own way. He with his strawberry jam jacket, and me, clutching the Antarctic card I’d been carrying around in my handbag since I received it.

I held the postcard up, pointed at it and then me, so he could be in no doubt that yes, I was the person he was looking for. He seemed to stare at me for a long time, and I wondered what was going through his head. Was I the woman he’d imagined? I’d worried about this moment for so long, imagining the doubts that would rage through my mind, such as whether he’d be disappointed that I was me, whether he’d expected someone taller, thinner, better, how I’d try to compensate for this disappointment by moulding my behaviour into the person I thought he wanted me to be.

But instead, I felt a sense of calm confidence. Standing here in my ugly waterproof, lips chapped from the cold, and rain dripping down my nose, I was content in my own skin. Whatever happened next, whatever confession he had to make, I knew I would be strong enough to deal with it and make the right choices for me.

Now, at last, he smiled at me, and it lit up his whole face. He plucked at his red jacket and shrugged his shoulders slightly. Great minds think alike. All at once he was walking towards me, moving gracefully through the crowd, only pausing briefly to let a woman with a guide dog go past. He took long, easy strides, poised in these unfamiliar surroundings, assured that he was heading in the right direction.

Then, finally, he came to a halt in front of me. He was maybe half a foot taller than me, stubbly like I’d imagined, skin slightly weather-beaten, and intelligent brown eyes filled with warmth. His shoulders were broad beneath his puffy red jacket and his demeanor gave off a sense of wiry energy.

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