‘Bloody hell, Kelly.’ He laughs. ‘How many of them have you had?’ His voice is low, his island accent soft.

Kelly has gone a very blotchy pink. ‘Not enough,’ she mutters. And then she swallows about a third of her prosecco.

‘You must be Maggie,’ he says, holding out his hand to me. ‘Just wanted to say hello.’ He smiles again. ‘And welcome.’

I take his hand, half expecting it to electrocute me. When it doesn’t, I’m almost disappointed. And realise that we’ve both allowed the handshake to go on far too long – enough that it’s not a handshake any more – only when Kelly lets out a half-snort, half-cough. I let go and step back against the bar. I’d quite like to down at least a third of my prosecco too, but in the end, I’m saved by the sudden appearance of Donnie MacKenzie.

‘Here you go, mate,’ he says to Will, handing him a pint of lager. He clears his throat as he looks at me, not quite meeting my eyes. ‘Donnie MacKenzie.’

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Maggie.’

There’s a short squeal from the pub’s speakers that makes everyone wince before looking over to the stage.

‘Evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Am Blàr Mòr,’ Euan Morrison says, jowls wobbling. There’s a sheen of sweat across his brow and damp patches under his suit jacket’s armpits. ‘In a few minutes I’ll be calling the first dance of tonight’s ceilidh.’ A grin of his very white dentures. ‘The Gay Gordons. So I hope you’ve all got your dancing shoes on.’

There’s a cheer, a few claps.

‘Better go.’ Donnie looks immeasurably relieved. His smile transforms him; it’s open and easy like a child’s, infectious enough that I find myself smiling back. ‘I’m the piper.’

‘So, it’s a Scots tradition,’ Will says, once Donnie’s disappeared into the crowd, ‘that every new stranger must dance the first dance of any ceilidh with a local.’

I try to look like the prospect of this doesn’t seem like both the best and worst idea ever, but my heart thump-thumps again, and I can feel my face getting red. My hands have gone clammy.

‘I can’t. I’m here with Kelly. We—’

‘Christ.’ Kelly laughs, as the band launches into a very loud ‘Scotland the Brave’. ‘It’s your birthday. Go and dance with him before we all spontaneously combust.’

My face gets hotter when he leads me towards the tiled square of dance floor and the couples already forming a wide circle around its periphery. People are looking again, and it makes me feel even more uncomfortable. When Will takes my left hand in his and reaches behind my back with his right, I can smell his skin, feel his breath against my cheek, and I’m gripped with a terrified kind of adolescent exhilaration, as if I’m about to jump off a cliff. Which isn’t only ridiculous, it’s alarming. One of Dr Abebe’s very many Warning Signs for Maggie is disproportionate excitement. And poor impulse control. Although I’m not sure that the latter isn’t something I was born with.