Suddenly Carrie’s words echo in my head: I gather from Ali he’s quite the player. I wonder whether Ben was hoping to see me or Carrie today. Surely Carrie, from the way his eyes lingered on her the other night. It should be Carrie here now, not me. I would prefer it to be Carrie.

I stand up abruptly, under the pretext of taking my mug to the sink, then lean back against the counter and survey him. He’s sitting back in his chair, his legs sprawled in front of him, one of his hands resting on his thigh and the other on the table, his long, slender fingers playing with the teaspoon, turning it over and over lengthways. He glances at me with irises the blue of a springtime sky, and I know he knows why I moved. “So,” he says, clearing his throat. “Do you own your place in London? House prices there are horrendous, I hear.”

The moment has passed. The air is just air; there’s no conduit and no charge. “It’s my boyfriend’s flat. He’s had it for over twenty years.”

“Ah yes, Carrie mentioned the boyfriend. Jonathan Powell, no less.” His lips twist wryly. “No run-of-the-mill London wanker-banker for Ailsa Calder—no, you had to get yourself a national treasure. How are the poor Scottish menfolk to compete with that?” I find myself giggling at his theatrical chagrin. Ali is right. Ben just can’t help himself being a player. “Did he never marry, or is he divorced?”

“Divorced. It only lasted a couple of years. Though he has a son from that marriage—Anthony. He’s”—I screw up my face, doing the math—“gosh, he must be twenty-nine now.” Kind, unassuming Anthony is twenty-nine. Time flies . . . Over the decade or so in which I’ve known him, I’ve only spotted the slightest hint of resentment toward his largely absentee father. Perhaps it’s just as well. He doesn’t possess the backbone to hold Jonathan to account.

“And do you want kids?” Ben asks. I stare at him, trying, not for the first time, to envisage it: a baby. A baby with Jonathan. I try to imagine him holding it, burping it, giving it a bottle, but nothing comes. My oh-so-fervent imagination is always sadly lacking on this exercise. Ben makes a motion with his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep the mark.”

“No, don’t be silly, I just . . . You know, to be honest, I just don’t know. I can’t quite imagine it.”

“But you must remember Carrie being born.”

“Oh, totally. She was gorgeous, of course.”