It’s not that I don’t want to be happy; that I don’t crave it. But in my memory, happiness is like the chocolate cake my mum used to make for me every birthday since I was a little girl, covered in lashings of chocolate buttercream and decorated with chocolate buttons. I can picture it in my mind’s eye – can even recall the feeling of the fork tines against my tongue and the gooey warmth as the first bite hits the roof of my mouth – but for the life of me I can’t remember what it tastes like.

As Liam brings our drinks over to a table in the corner, I glance at him, grateful that he suggested we rebook the honeymoon that we’d had to so abruptly cancel. He thought I’d want to go somewhere hot and suggested the hotel on Santorini, but I didn’t feel up to going far from home, couldn’t imagine myself lying by a pool under a blazing hot sun. And I’ve always wanted to visit Scotland. My mum and I used to talk about it, both of us having fallen in love with the Outlander books, but we never got around to making the trip. Liam’s roots are Scottish, and he’s really into history, so he seemed happy enough with the idea when I suggested it.

‘Cheers,’ he says, chinking his glass against mine.

‘Cheers,’ I answer.

‘To us,’ he says, leaning across the table and kissing me. ‘I love you,’ he adds in a whisper, his lips warm against mine.

‘I love you too,’ I reply, kissing him back. ‘Happy honeymoon.’

He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers grazing my cheek and sending a shiver down my spine. He grins and I get a flash of memory of the first time I saw him. The very first thing I noticed about him then was the brilliant blue of his eyes and a smile that suggested a certain boyish recklessness and sense of adventure, as well as a level of confidence that I’d only ever aspired to. It’s what I first fell for about him.

After taking another swallow of beer Liam jumps to his feet. ‘Just going to use the loo,’ he says, and strolls towards a door in the far corner of the pub.

I sip my drink and glance around the room. The landlord is sitting on a stool, reading the sports pages of the Scottish Times. My gaze drifts to the man sitting at the end of the bar and to my surprise I find him staring back at me with that same piercing look, his eyes hooded and narrowed.

‘You heading to Shura?’ he asks in a low Scottish burr.

I nod, recognizing the name of the island we’re going to. ‘Yes.’

‘You staying long?’ he grunts.

‘A week,’ I say, wondering why he wants to know.