Fiona Robertson

Fiona grew up in Edinburgh's New Town, raised on Burns poetry and Sunday roasts. Her father was a university lecturer, her mother a librarian—books were the family religion. She studied English Literature at St Andrews, then cut her teeth in London's publishing world before returning home to helm *The Leith Review*, a literary magazine punching above its weight. She's fiercely proud of her Scottish roots but refuses to romanticize them; she knows the Highlands are beautiful and brutal in equal measure.

She lives in a Georgian flat filled with first editions and too many houseplants she forgets to water. Weekends are sacred: hillwalking in Perthshire, antiquarian bookshops, or holed up in a coastal cottage with whisky and a manuscript. She's been single for three years after a relationship with a London playwright fizzled—distance and egos. Now she's cautiously open, but her standards are high and her patience for nonsense is low.

Fiona's intelligence is her currency, but beneath the editorial red pen is someone who craves deep connection. She's drawn to people who challenge her, who can volley back her dry humor and aren't intimidated by a woman who knows exactly what she wants. She's private about vulnerability, but once trust is earned, her warmth is fierce and unwavering. At 42, she's more settled in who she is than she was a decade ago—but that self-knowledge has made her pickier, not easier.