When the front door bangs open, admitting an icy gust of wind, I recognise the stocky blond man who enters, carrying an accordion in one hand and a fiddle in the other, as Donnie MacKenzie, Gillian and Bruce’s son. He walks over to where a band is beginning to set up on a small stage next to the pool table. Euan Morrison is now muttering testing, one, two into a microphone on a wobbly stand.

I can tell, although she hasn’t said anything at all, that Kelly is dying to ask me more about Andrew MacNeil. But after me telling her about my bipolar, I know she won’t pry. Not yet anyway. And tonight I’m tired of thinking about it, about him. Of hoping, without really wanting to, without really knowing what it is I’m hoping for.

‘It’s my birthday today,’ I say before I’ve any inkling I’m going to.

‘Are you serious?’ Kelly says. ‘Why didn’t—’

I shrug. ‘I don’t really celebrate them.’

‘Right.’ Kelly hops down from her stool. ‘Before any more folk from Urbost arrive and it really starts to get busy, I’ll get us a celebratory bottle of fizz.’ She points a finger at me. ‘No arguments. You keep our spot.’

When she heads towards the far end of the bar, I force myself to turn round and finally face the lounge. It’s a lot busier than I realised: there are few free seats and even fewer free tables. I recognise some people from last night. The small, steely-voiced woman called Isla – Kelly’s She’s a cool dude, tough as old boots – is deep in conversation with Alec’s wife, Fiona, and a younger woman I don’t recognise. The latter is frowning, her dark hair pulled up into a severe ponytail, stark against her pale skin. All three of them are staring at me. Alec himself, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen. Over by the big fireplace, there are two crowded tables of what I assume are more student archaeologists, muddy and young and loud.

Kelly returns unexpectedly quickly, an opened bottle of prosecco wedged under her arm, two full glasses in her hands, her eyes wide.

‘Very Sexy Will at five o’clock,’ she hisses. Sets down the bottle. ‘Wait. He’s coming over here! Just be – Sexy Will! Hi!’ she exclaims, and far too loudly, spinning round from the bar.

Sexy Will is sexy. The kind that knows it. That probably uses it. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, a green-checked shirt rolled up to his elbows revealing tanned and thick forearms. He needs a shave, his dark hair needs a trim, and his eyes are tired and bloodshot. A startling sky blue. I’ve time to wonder why I’m noticing all these things, cataloguing them like some kind of bloody checklist, and then he smiles at me – slow and generous – and my heart thump-thumps once, twice, as if I’m about to be dropped from the lift-hill launch of a roller coaster.

‘Not Sexy Will. Will. Just Will,’ Kelly is saying. Too fast and still too loud. ‘Sexy Will would be weird. Obviously. Hi, Will.’