This is volume two of a serial novel which I started to write in
The Scotsman
newspaper and which, at the time of publication of this book, I am still writing. The enjoyment which I have obtained from spinning this long-running tale of a house and its occupants in Edinburgh is, I hope, apparent on every page. It has never been a chore. Not for a moment.

At the end of the first volume,
44 Scotland Street
, I left matters unresolved for many of the characters. Now in
Espresso Tales
we see the continuation of many of the themes begun in volume one. Bertie, that immensely talented six-year-old, is still in therapy, and his plight seems to get worse and worse. Bruce, the unbearable narcissistic surveyor, is still as irritating as before, perhaps even more so. If there is any justice, he will get his come-uppance in this volume (but don't count on that). And Domenica, that sage occupant of the top floor of 44 Scotland Street, continues to comment on the world with her mordant wit.

During the writing of this book, which appeared in daily parts in
The Scotsman
, I received comments from many readers. Some wrote in with suggestions; others occasionally upbraided me for the views which some of the characters expressed. I inadvertently ruffled the feathers of an entire Scottish town at one point, and at another I received a very reproachful letter from a convinced vegan. These, I suppose, are the consequences of writing a novel under the scrutiny of the public eye.

This is, of course, not a work of scrupulous social realism. However, unlike in many other novels, all the places in this book exist, and a number of the characters are real people, who currently live in Edinburgh and who agreed to appear, as themselves, in this story. Other people have, for some reason, imagined that they appear in this story, thinly (or otherwise) disguised. Alas, this is not true. There is no real Bertie; and even if there are many like Domenica, or Angus, or any of the other characters, I had no particular person in mind when writing about them.

When the last episode of this book was published in the newspaper, we had a party in the offices of
The Scotsman
. Many readers attended, and some gave me their frank assessment of what had happened in the series. Others came up to me and said, “You can't stop now. There will have to be a third volume.” At the beginning of the evening I had decided that I would not write a third; by the end I had changed my mind. I am easily persuaded to continue to have fun. And why not?

This second volume is committed to press in gratitude to the readers of
The Scotsman
and in affection for this remarkable city and the people who make it one of the most vibrant and interesting places in the world. Again I express my thanks to those who accompanied me on this particular literary journey: to David Robinson, books editor of
The Scotsman
, to Iain Martin, editor of
Scotland on Sunday
, John McGurk, editor of
The Scotsman
, and Neville Moir of Polygon, that most perceptive and sympathetic of editors. And my thanks are given, too, to Florence Christie, leader of the fans of Bertie, and my friend, Michael Lamont, who has been one of the few readers who showed any sympathy for Bruce. And finally, I would like to thank William Lyons, arts editor of
Scotland on Sunday
, who gave me advice on wine matters and who features in the story as himself. Not having tasted
Chateau Petrus
myself, I assume that what he says about it is correct.

Alexander McCall Smith
Edinburgh