“Yes, all good,” I answer with deliberate brightness, though Ali’s story is still a fog around me, and Fiona’s presence has become a dark, throbbing pressure in my mind. I look for an innocuous topic. “You know, I’ve been wondering. You don’t exactly sound like you spent the rest of your childhood here.” There’s another digital beep and Fiona glances at her watch again. I glance at my own: a minute after ten.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t. My folks got divorced when I was twelve and I went to live with Mum in Sydney, but I came back here every summer—every Aussie summer, that is, so over the Christmas holidays—so I kept up with all my Scottish mates. But yeah, the accent does kind of roam.” I can see him as a teenager, moving effortlessly between worlds, his friendly, unruffled demeanor never faltering. Hail fellow well met: I always thought of that phrase as describing a particular type of bumblingly oblivious Englishman, but it fits Ben perfectly and he is neither bumbling nor oblivious. Nor, indeed, English—or Scottish, really. A mongrel.

“Sydney: gorgeous weather and beaches.” I wonder if he surfs. He would be utterly at home on a beach; he has that air about him. Though he was not out of place in the hotel, and nor is he in this bar. But nonetheless, my mind is spinning out a scene of a younger, golden Ben horsing around in the water with friends, playing touch rugby on the beach, cycling to school with sand still dusting those tanned forearms. “Versus Scotland: rain and midges.” I pretend to balance them, judging their weight with one in either hand, then I shake my head. “Nope, not following the logic here.”

He smiles. The stillness of his gaze is in direct contrast to the constant movement of Ali’s sharp, hooded eyes, which from time to time I can still feel upon me. “I think you’re underselling the Highlands. I love it here. It’s so . . . Actually, I’m not sure there’s a word to describe the scenery, the air, all of this . . .” He waves a hand as if to pull the outside in. “And the people are great, really down-to-earth, plus my dad is here . . . So yeah, I’ve lived in a lot of places—I spent a ton of time studying and working in the States, too—but the Highlands kick them all into touch. It’s so . . . raw.” He’s completely unpretentious in his quiet passion; it’s infectious. I incline my head, accepting his points. I know what he means by raw, but it’s not quite the right word. It doesn’t convey the implacability of the landscape.