Stonemouth

Engineering and Philosophy. She was crazy. But, then, why not? Ellie always got what she wanted, always eased through life, accepting her familial, financial and intellectual advantages as her natural right. And if securing courses in the two subjects that most intrigued her at the time took some academic string-pulling via her dad and our local toffs, well, that was cool, even amusing.

At school she had got used to being top of the class in whatever subjects she could be bothered to put any effort into, but she never really studied and consistently underperformed in exams. Her teachers despaired; she was a star pupil but still, somehow, a disappointment. She got A grades, but then was told she could do better. She developed a mindset that found learning rather fun but being tested on it just a hassle; she did better than almost anybody else but still people seemed dissatisfied with her. What was the matter with them?

Nevertheless, when the effort involved in ignoring this chorus of supposedly supportive criticism grew greater and more tedious than that associated with the studying required, she had finally pulled up her metaphorical socks and done pretty well in her last year. All the same, it had been a turbulent time for all concerned; Ellie had never really developed the skill of giving in gracefully.

Even now, when she had Oxbridge-level grades, she’d settled for Aberdeen because home was handily close and so many of her friends and the people she was already familiar with — in other words, people already in awe of her, people who required no fresh exertion — were going there. This meant that, as far as she was concerned, it had the best social scene.

Meanwhile I was going to become a great artist. But just doing the classical stuff — painting and sculpting — wasn’t going to be enough. I was going to draw up plans for buildings, create their interiors with colour and light, design their furniture, fabrics and fittings, and specify everything down to the last teaspoon, doorstop and fire extinguisher. And then I wanted to stage events and place my own art in the spaces I’d created. Plus I wanted to be head of a studio full of other visionary people dedicated to expressing my unstoppable torrent of creativity in other niche artistic media and more technically challenging forms requiring specialist knowledge that it wouldn’t be worth my fabulously valuable time to master (even then I had Ferg down as my go-to man for games design, an honour he seemed oddly casual about, as though he didn’t fully appreciate the accolade). Not to mention I anticipated overseeing an entire social and artistic scene based around some sort of astounding hybrid of club, studio, theatre, gallery, publishing house, virtual environment and image production facility, probably in New York or London initially, before I franchised the concept.

I wanted to be a cross between Charles Rennie Mackintosh, Jeff Koons and Andy Warhol, and make all three of them look a little second-rate, a tad wanting in ambition as well as talent. I was going to take the artistic world by storm; it didn’t know what was coming, but it — all of humanity, eventually, because I would make art matter again in a way it hadn’t for far too long — would thank me later.

Dad told me to get a grip. Mum said that all sounded fantastic, incredible, and art school would help me decide what I wanted to focus on (like she hadn’t been listening either), but Ellie listened to my dreams and told me there was probably not a single thing I couldn’t do if I put my mind to it. I think that was how she phrased it.

Naturally, I heard what I wanted to hear, as you do.

I got a talking-to. I’d known it was coming. It was Fraser and Norrie’s birthday, the first time I’d been invited to the family home as Ellie’s boyfriend, about a month after the beach party.

‘Come and see Fraser’s new wagon,’ I was told, so Murdo, Callum, Fraser and Norrie and I all trooped through the kitchen and utility and into the hangar-like triple garage to admire this horrendous but very shiny jacked-up piece of Americana. It was a Ford Grand-something-or-another, I think. Norrie’s birthday present was a speedboat he’d wreck against a harbour wall four months later. We were clutching drinks. I had a can of something soft because Ellie and I were going to another party later and it was my turn to drive. The guys all had cans of beer.

I’d already gathered that my choice of beverage had produced mixed feelings in the Murston lads:

‘No drinkin?’

‘Driving.’

‘Eh?’

‘Not just me; Ellie’ll be in the motor too.’

‘Aw. Right. Aye, okay then.’

‘Ya poff.’

(Fraser / me. With Norrie right at the end.)

‘Here, have a sit; feel the leather,’ Murdo said, opening one of the monster’s rear doors.