‘You’re early.’ Euan ambles towards us through one of the big wooden archways. He’s wearing another too-tight tweed suit, a blue silk tie. I realise Will and I are holding hands, and I drop mine to my side.

‘It’s lunchtime,’ Will says.

‘My dear boy, it’s barely gone noon. Practically still elevenses.’ He cocks an eyebrow. ‘She’ll flap.’

‘Ach,’ Will says. ‘She’s fine. Mum loves feeding folk.’

When they embrace, Euan’s laugh is as hearty as ever. ‘And how are you, Maggie?’ he asks, kissing me on both cheeks. ‘Getting the lay of the land?’

‘Just about,’ I say, when Will winks at me. I feel ridiculously nervous. ‘Um, maybe I could help Cora?’

‘That would be very kind of you.’ Euan points towards the largest corridor. ‘Kitchen is the fourth right. We’ll be along in just a jiffy.’

As I go, I hear Euan clear his throat. ‘A good day today, son.’

The kitchen is as vast as everywhere else. A beautiful tiled floor, wall-to-wall wooden cabinets and granite work surfaces, a burgundy six-door gas range. The room is dominated by a huge wooden dining table, currently set for four people. Cora is sitting at its end, shredding lettuce into a bowl.

She looks up as I come in, gives me a vague and polite smile as she wipes her hands on a tea towel.

‘It’s Maggie,’ I say. ‘Will’s friend.’

Her smile remains, but there’s no recognition in it, which is perhaps as well. ‘Will’s here?’

‘Yes. He’s just talking to Euan.’

I can’t quite meet her gaze, and in the following silence, I suddenly realise that I’m behaving towards her the way people have behaved towards me. It’s something of a revelation – how automatic it is: the wariness, the awkwardness, the not knowing what to say, or how to separate a person from what they have said or done.

I glance at the counter where there’s a chopping board full of sliced peppers and tomatoes, and guess that’s what Euan was doing before we arrived.

‘I could finish chopping those vegetables?’ I say.

‘Thank you, dear,’ she says before returning her attention to the bowl and the shredding of her lettuce. Her smile is fleeting. ‘That would be nice.’

On impulse, I reach out to squeeze her shoulder before thinking better of it and retreating to the counter instead. Because it’s not sympathy I feel. Nor empathy. It’s anger. Deep-seated and too hot. How fucking unfair life is. How relentlessly merciless. And we’re just supposed to go on living anyway.

*

‘So how’s the story going, Maggie?’ Euan asks, leaning back in his chair. ‘Will said you were at the town hall on Tuesday. You find what you wanted?’

We’re briefly alone. Cora went for a nap after lunch, and half an hour later, Euan sent Will upstairs to check on her. I wonder now if that was because Euan wanted to ask me this question, although I’m glad of the chance to ask my own with no one else around.