“Yes.” I’m too confused to follow the niceties. “What did you mean when you asked if I remember? Have we met before?”

“Yes. A long time ago. At least, we have if you’re the Ailsa Calder from the Manse . . . ?” I nod blankly, and a smile tugs at his mouth. “I wasn’t really in doubt. I remember those eyes.” There’s no hint of an attempt to charm; he’s simply stating a fact. “I was a couple of years behind you at the local primary school. You were the queen of the monkey bars, as I recall.” Instantly I’m transported back: I can feel myself swinging, getting the timing just right to release one hand and reach for the next bar, the cold metal slapping into my palm, my grip sure and solid. He’s right, I was good at it; the best even. I can feel that certainty within the memory. But here and now, I’m still staring at Ben, despite the hubbub and the background music of the bar around me, trying to see the boy he must have been. There’s something about his face: the openness of it, the directness of his gaze. There’s a thread of something—not even a thread; a suggestion of a thread, gossamer thin, floating through my mind. If I chase it down it might break, or vanish entirely, or maybe it was never there in the first place.

“What can I get you?” interrupts the bartender.

“Let me get it for you,” Ben jumps in. “What are you drinking?”

“Oh. Um, a vodka tonic for me and pint of lager for Carrie, but it’s okay, I can get it . . .” But Ben is waving away my mild protestations and delivering his own order to the barman too, which is substantial: either he is on a mission or he is ordering for a large group. There’s something odd about his accent, even in the few words he has uttered. Just when I think I have it pinned down, it throws in something new. He could be Scottish, South African, American or Australian. When he’s done with the bartender, he looks back at me with those startling clear blue eyes. “Consider the drinks an apology. It was such a shock to hear your name at the hotel, I must have looked like a lunatic staring at you—”

“Yep, fairly lunatic-like,” I say lightly, and he grimaces in apology.

“I was hoping to find you to explain. And then I heard there was a bit of drama in the café—I can’t apologize enough. The hotel is actually known to be really welcoming. I’m so sorry you had a different experience.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not blaming the hotel. The staff couldn’t have been nicer.” I hesitate. “The woman . . .”

“Morag.”

“Yes. Do you know why she was quite so . . . ?”