“What’s that supposed to mean?” The words slip out before I can stop them. I add a laugh, but it fails to soften the bite. I should have known he would consider my alcohol preferences as just another nail in the coffin of my belonging here. I can only imagine his disgust if he found out I also wouldn’t vote for independence and I’m not comfortable in Glasgow.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right, hen.” His tone is so clearly patronizing that I feel a sudden desire to punch him. “Chill, lassie, I’m not trying to be arsey.”

“Aye right, that’ll be a first,” snorts Fiona.

“Don’t mind Ali,” Ben says. “He’s a softy inside really.”

“Really?” Carrie laces the word with skepticism.

“Nope, not in the least,” says Fiona, and the two of them begin to giggle.

“Thanks, Fi,” says Ali in a surly tone. I can’t tell whether it’s for comic effect. “Fabulous to see I can rely on you for support after all these years.”

Carrie and Fiona are giggling too much to reply, both sitting on the low stone wall that separates the car park from the pavement, bent over with their heads together. Apparently I’m not the only one who’s had a little too much to drink. I move toward them, hovering indecisively. How to extract Carrie? Perhaps it’s very simple. Perhaps I would be expected to herd Carrie home; maybe that’s what older sisters are supposed to do. Or will she feel that I’m being overbearing? Does she in fact want to take Ben up on his unspoken intentions, despite claiming to have sworn off men?

“Are you a whisky fan, Carrie? Yes? Good lass.” Ben turns to me. “And I have plenty else to drink besides whisky. My place is only another hundred meters or so; come for one drink, at least.” I can’t see his eyes properly in the dark.

“Oh shit, I left my coat inside,” exclaims Carrie suddenly.

“Come on,” says Jamie, leaving his jeep. “I’ll help you look for it.” He puts out a hand and pulls Carrie up to standing.

“Thanks,” I say, throwing him a grateful smile. I watch them head back into the Quaich. I hear a snatch of a conversation—no more than a word or two, but I think I hear Jonathan’s name and I glance to where Ben, Piotr and Ali have moved off to one side, involved in an animated conversation that is taking all of their attention. As I watch, Ali darts a glance at me with scornful glee, and seconds later his words float across the car park: Jesus, he must be fifty if he’s a day. Daddy issues, much? A crimson wave of vitriol flows through me, almost blinding me. I have to take a few deep breaths before it recedes.