Shona McLeod walked down Princes Street watched admiringly by all the men she passed. Watched mainly from behind as her neat little bum wiggled in the shortest and tightest pair of shorts imaginable. The type of shorts she would never have been allowed to wear in Gullane, that backwater of Scottish prurience; the minister would have had a fit.
But Shona was now twenty years old and a student in the Big City. Edinburgh! That Mecca for the gifted and artistic, among whose ranks Shona definitely counted herself. She was, even though she said it herself, a girl who could wear the shortest and tightest of shorts and get away with it. It required a rear that was neither too big nor too small and that was an accurate description of her attributes. She could also get away with a tight tee shirt as she had a slim and willowy figure. Her breasts were neither too big nor too small, and her nipples could poke suggestively beneath the thin cotton material as they were firm enough not to require any artificial support. Her hair was chestnut and worn long, though usually tied back in a pony tail, her face was delightful even if her nose was ever so slightly retroussé and her face ever so slightly too round and freckly. Her eyes were sage green and given character by the slightest of divergent squints which alternated from one side to the other. Altogether she was a girl to turn heads as she marched purposefully down Princes Street from Waverley station in the direction of the National Gallery of Scotland.
Daddy's money was enough, well after all with a house in Gullane (pronounced Gillen according to Daddy to show that they lived 'up the hill' and not down with the peasants) - for her to have found a little flat out past the rugby ground to share with two other girls. Morag and Catriona were not the sort of girls who would turn men's heads. Morag cut her hair short and wore dungarees. Catriona, felt Shona, had let herself go.
Shona walked past the bizarre monument to the memory of Sir Walter Scott wondering, as many others have done, what a writer whom nobody ever read had done to deserve a gigantic edifice bigger than all those dedicated to the heroes of Scotland put together.
She turned into the gallery and descended the stairs to the lecture theatre. It was her first week as an art student and she was keen to learn. Daddy had said she'd never stick it, but then at his age, old Daddy, over fifty, what did he know!
She had determined to attend all the public lectures at the gallery. Learning about the history of art was so important. Not that Daddy would have understood that.
The lecture was on Burne-Jones, the Pre-Raphaelite painter of willowy young ladies with chestnut hair and sage green eyes, more often than not not wearing any clothes. At the post-lecture drinks Shona attracted much attention as the most Pre-Raphaelite beauty there. She was the subject of much flattery, and with Shona flattery got you everywhere. It got Shona into the nightmare she was in now: hiding on a Scottish hillside, shivering in the cool breeze, trembling with fear - and stark naked.
****
Shona could hear voices from down below her, getting nearer, she would have to run. Though she risked being seen, she would have to run and she would have to run fast.
**********
"Hello, I'm Archie Gillespie," Shona saw that the smooth cultured 'Posh Scots' accent belonged to a smooth cultured posh Scotsman more than a few years older than the impressionable Shona, but not old like Daddy. He was tall, he was dark and he was handsome and Shona felt her knees wobble a bit at being addressed by him. Archie noticed the wobble in her knees and the tremble in her voice as she replied. He was used to it. He knew the effect he had on women and he knew how to exploit it. He enjoyed exploiting it.
"Shona McLeod," Shona held out a shaky hand which Archie gripped firmly.
"I do so admire Burne-Jones," purred Archie, "a much underrated painter in my opinion."
"A very good artist," Shona knew her response was a bit pathetic, but her mind seemed to have gone a blank.
"Painter, darling," said Archie in his lilting posh Scots accent. He liked to call girls 'Darling', it somehow established his authority, "Artists perform in the Music Hall - works such as this," and his hand swept round the gallery, "are created by painters."
"Yes, of course," gabbled Shona, feeling her provincial inadequacies acutely at this put-down, "I meant painter, of course."
Archie, his intellectual superiority established, smiled benignly, "No you didn't," he said, and Shona felt even smaller than before.
"Burne-Jones," continued Archie, "was a true aficionado of the female nude. Don't you think so Miss McLeod? Or may I call you Shona?"
"Er yes..." Shona's mouth moved but fearful of a further intellectual solecism no more words came out.
"Er yes... You agree with me concerning the merits of Burne-Jones or 'Er..Yes' I may call you 'Shona'? But it is the latter of course. As I am right about Burne-Jones any disagreement would be simply deliberate rudeness for the sake of argument, and you do not look to me like a girl who would be deliberately rude," this was said without a trace of irony, and Shona suddenly realized that it was her turn to speak.
She had quite liked the pictures, or were they paintings? She found herself quite tongue-tied.
"Shona, you can call me Shona," she gabbled. It seemed the safest thing to say.
"Has anybody ever told you, Shona, that you are quite the Pre-Raphaelite beauty yourself?"
Of course nobody ever had. Daddy hadn't, he liked pictures of Scottish glens with stags and purple heather. He would felt that pictures of willowy ladies with no clothes on were the work of dissolute foreigners and the like.
Shona was at the same time both deeply flattered and deeply embarrassed by the remark. It seemed to her that Archie must be imagining her with no clothes on, which in turn made her feel that she had no clothes on. It was a sensation which awakened in her an extraordinary feeling of eroticism. Which of course had been the intention.
Archie saw the reaction, saw the touch of colour come to her face and spread down her neck and he smiled to himself. It was the smile that set Shona on the path to where she found herself now.
********
Where to run to? That was the problem. She had to get completely away. It was still hours to sunset. She had to get somewhere where she could hide. But she was completely naked. She had nothing on her feet. That was the big problem. Running in bare feet was going to be difficult. But she had no choice. She was going to have to run and risk being seen. Suddenly she broke cover and ran for it. Half a mile down the valley the hunter put his binoculars to his eyes and saw the naked figure running.
"There she goes," he said, and quickened his pace.
*******
"Thank you," stammered Shona at last, trying to accept the compliment gracefully.
"And are you a painter yourself?" Archie raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"I'm studying art at Raeburn College," said Shona proudly, relieved that the conversation had moved on from her personal attributes.
"Indeed," said Archie, "you know what - I'm having a few people round my place tonight. A few drinks. A few nibbles. Why don't you come? You'll meet some... Some interesting people."
Shona couldn't believe her luck. An invitation to a party; a party at which she would meet, in her mind at least, a cross-section of the Edinburgh glitterati. Daddy would never believe it.
"Oh yes," she gasped, "where is it you live."
"I've a small place in the New Town - in Queen Street."
Queen Street! The guy must be rolling in it! She just had to find out how he got the money.
"Very nice. Er... Did your father buy it for you?"
Archie gave a condescending smile, "The Old Man! No chance of that. No - I work in the city. Edinburgh is fast becoming the financial capital of Europe you know."
