“Thank-you-for-having-me,” Callum sing-songs at me, clearly a learned phrase, before I can press the point.

“Thank-you-for-having-me-too,” parodies Ben. He’s through the door now, squinting against the sunshine as he looks back at me. The fine creases that form around his eyes when he smiles are even more evident in the bright light. It reminds me that he’s only a couple of years younger than myself. I wonder if his charm will prevail as he ages. I think of Jonathan, several trips round the sun past fifty. I didn’t know Jonathan when he was Ben’s age, but nonetheless, I can see similarities. The same charisma, the same inability to switch it off.

I watch the pair of them cross the garden and leap the wall together to be greeted by the excitable Toast. It’s a thoroughly heartwarming image—the tall athletic figure of Ben next to Callum’s sturdy little frame, and the midnight black dog leaping around them—made all the more so by my brief window into the unselfconscious affection between them. I turn back into the kitchen, carefully locking and dead-bolting the door behind me.

Jamie is finishing his mug of tea, an unreadable expression on his face as he gazes at the photo. He looks up as I join him and flashes his most charming smile. “Peace at last. Though I suppose it’s a lot quieter here than wherever you live in London?”

“A lot quieter—” Suddenly there is a thud from upstairs. “Well, apart from the slamming doors . . . But yes, generally a lot quieter, though somehow I’m not sleeping well. I guess I’m not used to the house yet.”

“Will you be here long enough to get used to it?”

“No.” I think of Callum in the garden. The baby that Jonathan and I don’t have, that I can’t envisage, could play in that garden. “Well, probably not. Though I suppose it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to use it as a holiday cottage. If it’s going to make next to nothing if I sell it, maybe I ought to hang on to it after all.” I look around the kitchen again. “And redecorate. Anyway, you were going to tell me about Fiona’s obsession with the Manse and my father.”

He grimaces. “Aye. Look, I dinnae want to make a big deal out of it or anything.” He pauses, and I incline my head noncommittally. He sighs. “Aye. Well. It’s just . . . Actually, this is harder than I thought to explain. It’s . . . just that Fiona thinks that our dad isnae her dad.” He looks at me expectantly. I shake my head, uncomprehending. He sighs again. “She thinks he was your dad. She thinks her dad was Martin.”

“What?” I stare at him. There’s something guarded about his eyes, like he’s reining in more emotion than he wants to show. “Is that even possible? How old is she?”