That evening, I went round to my mum and dad's flat. Four floors up, with the view of the cranes.

Mum made mince and tatties. Dad was watching the football.

I told them about James.

Mum put her fork down.

“James Montague?” she said. “The one who made you pay half the bill?”

“That's him.”

“And he wanted a job from you?”

“He didn't know it was me.”

Mum started to laugh. Then Dad started to laugh. Then Mum laughed so hard she had to hold onto the table.

“Oh, Holly,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Oh, I wish I'd been there. Did you give him a cup of tea?”

“I made the tea, Mum. I always make the tea.”

“Good girl,” said Mum. “Always be the one who makes the tea.”

Dad turned off the football.

“He called you ordinary,” he said slowly. He'd never liked James. “When you were twenty-eight.”

“He did.”

Dad looked out of the window at the cranes. The ones he'd worked under for twenty-five years. Blue now. Lit up in the dark.

“You put the lights back on in Leith,” he said quietly. “That's not ordinary, hen. That's nothing like ordinary.”