I toss another peanut and catch it. I’m clearly on a roll. Maybe this boho look I’ve adopted comes with extra skills. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve spent years perfecting this as my party trick,’ I lie. ‘I’d always hoped I could try that holding-lipstick-in-your-cleavage thing that Molly Ringwald does in The Breakfast Club, but I don’t wear lipstick and my tits aren’t big enough.’ The last part is true, at least. Something that caused many sleepless nights when I was a teenager, but is actually quite a relief now, when my peers are complaining about sagging and I barely need to bother with a bra. Besides, I’ve never had any complaints.

She laughs. ‘Oh … well, if we’re talking party tricks, I’ve got something much more impressive…’

Before I can ask what it is, she’s got two fingers in her mouth and she’s whistling – high pitched, loud – like a builder hanging out of a white van. Everyone in the bar looks at us, and the waitress scurries over, smiling.

‘More beers?’ She does another semi-bow and scuttles back off.

We collapse into fits of laughter.

‘Oh man, I didn’t expect her to come over like that … she must think I’m so rude!’

I drain the rest of my pint. ‘Oh, you are rude. They’re probably spitting into your glass as we speak.’

‘Don’t. I used to work in a pub. I never actually saw him do it, but the chef was always threatening to do disgusting things to people’s dinners. Especially if they were the “oh can I have salad not chips and the sauce on the side, and is it possible to have the fish grilled instead of fried?” type.’

‘I thought everyone in Scotland ate everything fried.’

‘Racist.’ She throws a peanut shell at me and it gets trapped in my hair. We start giggling again, and as we shake with laughter the poor waitress has to dodge in between us to lay our pints on the table, and we ignore her. I’ll make sure we leave a good tip. Assuming Carrie has cash, that is.

‘We have to cater for the tourists,’ she says. ‘Some of them eat vegetables.’

‘Except the Americans.’

‘Well, unless they’re Californians. But not many of those make it all the way to Scotland. It’s a long way to travel to wander about in the rain looking for haggis.’ She snorts.

I can’t stop laughing. My face aches from it. My throat dry, so dry that I almost choke, and while I’m choking, Carrie throws another peanut shell at me, and she’s off again. I can’t remember the last time I’ve laughed like this. Not with Sam. Not with anyone. Not for a very long time.

Carrie wipes her face with a cocktail napkin. ‘Besides … spitting is actually OK in this country. As is squatting on toilet seats.’