Suddenly there’s a chorus of hellos as a tall, thin man with a lean, intelligent face appears behind Ben. “Piotr!” Ben says, standing to give him a greeting that lies somewhere between an arm wrestle and a hug.

“Sorry,” Piotr says, in a marked Eastern European accent. “Accident on the main road, happened right in front of me. I had to wait for the police as a witness.”

“Should have listened to Fi . . .”

“I always listen to Fi. I just didn’t see the message until afterward.” He reaches over to shake my hand. “Hi, Piotr.”

I quickly rearrange my face from confusion to a smile. “Ailsa. And this is Carrie.”

“She inherited the Manse,” puts in Ben.

“The Manse? Isn’t that where—”

“Sit down, Piotr. We’re all famished waiting on you,” Fiona interrupts. “There’s a seat down the other end.”

Piotr lifts a hand then moves off to find his seat. I stare after him, confused, then turn to Ben. “What was all that about the message and the accident?”

But Ben is settling himself down again, and either doesn’t hear me or chooses not to answer. “Where were we?” he says. “What about you? Where have you been calling home for the last twenty-five-plus years?”

“Oh.” I take in his deliberately bland expression and yield. It is his birthday after all; he should be able to talk about whatever he wants to talk about. Or not talk about. “God, everywhere. Nowhere. Literally.” His eyebrows quirk upward inquiringly. “We moved around a lot for the first five years or so, then my mum settled in Surrey.” He looks like he’s about to say something about that, but I don’t want to talk about my mother. I rush on. “Carrie is my half sister.” I see Carrie turn her head and regard me coolly for a moment before she turns back to answer a question from the person on her right. It’s the briefest of moments, but I register the complete lack of expression on her face, and at a stroke, the sense of connection from earlier is severed. I pick up my glass again, then put it down without drinking anything.

“And now?” Ben asks.

It’s a struggle to regain the thread of the conversation. “Well, I’ve been traveling a lot with work since I left uni; it’s hard to say what counts as home.”

“No plans to make it the Manse?” He’s smiling, and I smile back as I shake my head, but it hasn’t escaped me that he, like Jamie, like Ali, has returned again to the same topic, and the leaden unease creeps back into my stomach. Even on a night away from it, meeting new friends, I can’t escape the Manse.