Kirsty Wark

They went to see High Noon, the film her colleagues were all talking account on account of their pash on Gary Cooper. They sat in the back of the packed art deco cinema in Burns Statue Square, cocooned in plush velvet seats, and watched the action through a haze of blue cigarette smoke which hung in the air like a special effect. ‘You’re much more handsome than Gary Cooper,’ Jean murmured in Walter’s ear.
He coloured in the dark and squeezed her hand. ‘And Grace Kelly’s got nothing on you.’ He put his arm around her shoulder and she placed a soft kiss on his neck like a promise.

He stopped suddenly, swivelled Jean towards him, and dropped down on one knee. As soon as he opened his mouth to speak, she bent over him, cupped his face in her hands, and stopped him with a long deep kiss. ‘The answer is yes,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’
They sat at their favourite table at the rear of the Magic Lantern, exotic for the fact that it was the only French restaurant beyond Edinburgh, and because the clientele liberally smoked the Gauloises sold behind the bar. Atop the red-and-white checked tablecloth there was a small posy of flowers and a candelabra. ‘L’hymme à l’amour’ played on the gramophone. ‘You thought of everything, darling, murmured Jean as she sipped her red wine, ‘even my favourite Piaf.’

She looked at him squarely. ‘You love it there, don’t you?’
Walter thought for a moment. ‘I can’t imagine being anywhere else, if that’s what you mean.’
Jean cupped his face in her hands. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing it. It sound very romantic living in a house by a loch.’

Walter knew they were out of sight that he stopped and whirled Jean round to face him. ‘You were terrific, Jean, a natural. You commanded the stage!’
Jean blushed and smiled broadly. ‘You really think so? Well, I’ll tell you a secret: I forget everything when I’m on the stage. I’m a different person, really. I don’t mean the character I’m playing, I mean I feel… free.’ She stood back from him and he admired the way she looked: her primrose-patterned three-quarter-sleeved dress, its full skirt billowing gently, her orange-painted toenails peeping out like a row of petals from her brown sandals.
‘You look lovely,’ he said, ’like a perfect summer’s day.’