“Ah.” She absorbs that for a moment. “You want to think it’s rubbish, but you live here. What do you really think?”

“Carrie lives here too. Have you asked her that?” There’s a waspish note to my tone that even I dislike.

Fiona shakes her head. “Carrie wouldnae feel it. Carrie’s anchored to now. None of it would make sense to her.” Except none of it makes sense to me. My exasperation threatens to erupt—I fold my lips to stop myself saying anything at all.

She looks at me, and her expression softens, like she’s taking pity on me. “Look. It’s like this. Imagine you saw a film. And then you saw it again. The second time round, you know how it’s going to end, you know who the good guys and the bad guys turned out to be, right? So you feel differently about some of the characters the second time round, aye?” I nod unwillingly. “Sometimes it’s like that for me. Not on everything, not even on much, but sometimes. I’m scared of things that havenae happened yet, or I’m not scared when I should be because it’s all going to turn out fine. I cannae even get cross with the old biddy who’s mean to Callum because I’ve seen her fall and break her leg, only I dinnae ken if that’s happened already or not, and I cannae be polite to the groom at work that’s going to run over the dog through sheer stupidity. Or maybe he already did that. I’m not sure. And even when I cannae see anything later, before is all jumbled up.” She looks at me wryly. “You’re a journalist. You probably rely on ordered facts.”

“If you can’t rely on those, what can you rely on?” I try to keep my tone light.

“People. Certain people. For the ones you really trust, it doesnae matter what they do. You’re on their side regardless.” She smiles. “I can see you think I’m nuts, but you’ll come round. You and me are going to be pals.”

“You said that before.” She’s right. I think she’s nuts.

“Did I?” It’s not really a question; she’s not looking for me to tell her when.

“I’m sorry, I just . . . It just doesn’t make sense to me. But any friend of Carrie’s is”—I stumble over the traditional end to that sentence—“welcome here.”

She laughs, short and sincerely, from the belly. “Nicely put.”

I aim for a change of topic. “Was Callum really born here?”

She pauses. “Who told you that?”

“He did. Was he?”

“Not according to his birth certificate.”

There’s a challenge in her words, and her half smile. She wants me to ask the obvious question. “And according to you?”