She slings an arm round his shoulders. “Happy birthday, Big Ben. Ding-dong. You’re going to have a good year.” That annoying beep comes again from her watch. Nobody reacts.

“Up you come.” He has her on her feet now, though I doubt there’s much weight on them; it’s all being supported by Ben. “Is that a fact? A Fi fact?”

“A Fi fact. Incontrovertible.” The last word is slurred almost beyond recognition.

Jamie has unlocked the jeep. Ben helps Fiona into the passenger seat, then turns to Carrie and me with a rueful smile. “You’re sure I can’t tempt you both with a nightcap?”

“Another time,” I say.

“Definitely, there will be plenty more opportunities. Well, I’ll see you both soon.” There’s nothing to be read into his words—he’s not putting any particular emphasis on them—but his eyes rest more heavily on Carrie. It occurs to me that I’ve never been in a social situation such as this with a grown-up Carrie before. It occurs to me that it would be Carrie with whom the bartender would be looking for a knee-trembler in the storeroom, and it’s suddenly clear to me that my place in the world has shifted: I thought I was here, but actually I’m there, only I don’t yet know what there is like.

“Hop in,” says Jamie, a touch impatiently, and we do. As Jamie pulls out of the car park, my attention is taken by Fiona. From my vantage point behind her, I can see her reflection in the wing mirror. She has wound down the window and has her head turned to the stream of chilly night air, her hair blown back from her face, her eyes closed as the air streams in. She could be asleep, except I can see that her lips are moving, though I can’t hear any sound.

In a matter of minutes we are back at the Manse, once again lit from within, but this time deliberately—Carrie and I left the hallway light on to welcome us home. Jamie is enough of a gentleman to hop out of his seat and open the car door for us. Carrie thanks him prettily then calls an unacknowledged good-bye to Fiona. Then she heads rather unsteadily for the front door whilst hunting in her bag for her keys. Jamie offers me a hand to help me out of the car.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For not saying anything. She’s doing better . . . I mean, she shouldnae really drink—Ben’s never a great influence for that—but it was his birthday and all . . . Really, she’s doing well.”

“Don’t mention it.” Instantly there’s a feeling of guilt clawing up inside me. Though I doubt Fiona will remember our confrontation in the morning anyway.