‘I’m sorry. Is—’

Someone jostles my shoulder hard enough that I spill some of my wine over the bar and the hem of my dress. When I turn round, I find myself looking straight into the angry red face of Alec MacDonald.

‘You’re not welcome here.’

Before I or Kelly can say anything, Bruce MacKenzie lets go of a beer pump and moves towards us.

‘Alec. These days, I’m the one gets to decide who’s welcome here or not.’

‘She’s—’

‘Welcome.’ Bruce plants his palms on the bar and leans across it. ‘We clear?’

I don’t look up from my lap until I feel the heat of Alec – of his rage – retreat, and then I take in a breath, look up at Bruce. ‘Thank you.’

He studies me with those dark eyes for a moment, and then nods. ‘No bother.’

‘Don’t mind Alec,’ Euan says, from a little further along the bar. ‘There’s not a person in this world that doesn’t get on his nerves.’

He’s standing next to a woman, impossibly elegant in a silk blouse and linen trousers, and a complicated up-do that has somehow managed to survive the Hebridean wind completely intact. She gives me a smile, less curious than polite.

Euan frowns. ‘I suppose by now you know why?’

‘Well, I …’ I blink. Think of that little stone above Long Stride Beach. ‘Yes.’

There follows an uncomfortable silence, and Kelly shuffles on her stool.

‘So, Cora wanted to meet the new arrival, didn’t you, my love?’ Euan eventually says, gently coaxing the woman forwards. ‘Maggie, this is my good wife, Cora. Cora, this is Maggie.’

Cora smiles again, longer this time, puts her hand out to shake. ‘Hello, Maggie. Pleased to meet you.’ Her voice is soft, almost husky; her accent English, maybe Midlands. She leans briefly closer in a waft of musky expensive perfume. Her pink lipstick has bled into the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her lips.

‘She’s come from London, my dear,’ Euan booms. ‘You Sassenachs have to stick together out here, eh?’ His laugh is jolly and far too loud. I think of You’re Andrew fucking MacNeil, right? and wonder if Euan either doesn’t believe Alec about who I am, or doesn’t remember that I’m actually from Inverness.

‘There you go, Euan,’ Bruce says, setting down a whisky and a wine.

‘Thanking you,’ Euan says, handing over a twenty-pound note. ‘And whatever these lovely ladies would like too.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say, but he only nods as he picks up his drinks and holds out an arm to his wife. She takes it with another smile before they walk back through the lounge.

‘Another two pinots, girls?’ Bruce asks. Kelly nods and he disappears towards the fridge at the other end of the bar.

‘Well,’ she says, draining her wine. ‘That was weird. Next you’ll be getting an invite up to the Big Hoose.’

‘The Big House?’

‘Hoose. You haven’t seen it yet? Christ, you can hardly miss it. It’s the old Laird’s Lodge. Next headland west past yours. Remember I said the whole island was owned by Euan Morrison’s family for eons? Some distant, long-dead Euan – why do rich folk insist on giving each other the exact same name, must be a nightmare at Christmas – he was supposedly given Kilmeray by one of the first Lords of the Isles. The Morrisons owned it for centuries, renting out the land to crofters. Everyone still thinks of Euan as the laird, I guess, but he actually sold most of the estate back to the community years ago. His rellies are probably spinning in their great big mausoleums.’