“I know.” He cocks his head, thinking about it. “We’ve been friends since school. Pretty much day one. Ali was this weird, surly, geeky kid, all elbows and knees. One of the older lads tried to steal this toy Ali loved—really loved, I mean, like he couldn’t stand to be without it—just for a laugh, and I punched him. The other kid, I mean, not Ali.” I can imagine him as a boy—more than that, I can almost remember him—with his straightforward view of the world. The other kid deserved a thump and he got a thump, and then it was done, with no hard feelings. For Ben, at least. “Didn’t exactly go down too well with the teacher, mind, but Ali became an instant fan.” The warm light reflects in his blue eyes as he smiles ruefully. “He was too bright for primary school; it wasn’t the most fun for him. He’s actually the smartest person I know, and really funny. And one hundred percent loyal.” I can see how that particular trait would chime with Ben, with what he values, with how he sees himself: he’s a knight of Camelot, riding in, sword aloft, to do the right thing no matter what the consequences. “But Ali . . . well, he’s also a very complicated guy. And like his dad before him, he likes his drink . . .”

“You sound like he’s your responsibility.”

He shrugs. “I think we all have people in our lives that we feel a responsibility to, whether related or not.” But of course Ben would feel that way. He takes care of people: Ali, Fiona, Callum, the hotel guests. I don’t do that. For a long time I didn’t have the luxury, and now that I’m trying, I don’t have the training. I bet Carrie wouldn’t be telling lies if he was her brother and she was his sister. “Loyalty is key, right? You stick together come what may.” There’s an unusual intensity in his eyes as he asks me, “Don’t you think?” I’m saved from having to respond by a waitress appearing to take our order.

Later, when we’ve eaten a frankly delicious meal, and the lights have been turned low to favor tea lights on each table, we stay on. Ben has coffee, which I’ve declined in the hope I might sleep easily tonight. Instead I twist my glass by the stem, watching how the flickering light flows through the butter yellow wine, and find myself thinking of liquid autumn sunlight streaming through the leaf canopy in the wood behind the house, even though I haven’t seen that wood in autumn—at least not for twenty-seven years. Then I find myself saying what I was determined not to. “You know, there’s something odd about the Manse.”

“Odd how?” I can see he’s acutely interested. “Fiona says it’s a special place.”