We dined on spicy fish which repeated on me for most of the evening in the Jac, meeting pals, until I drowned it in an ocean of beer.
‘Happy New Year!’ Ashley yelled, flourishing a bottle of generic whisky with more enthusiasm than care; she cracked the bottle off the oak-panelled wall of the castle’s crowded entrance hall, but without, apparently, causing damage to either. Clad in a sparkly jacket and a long black skirt, wreathed in silly string and clumps and strands of paper streamers from party poppers, her long hair bunned, she enveloped me in a very friendly kiss, breathing whisky and wine fumes. I kissed right back and she pushed away, laughing. ‘Wo, Prentice!’ she shouted over the noise. The hall was packed with people; music spilled out from the main hall beyond; pipes and fiddles, tabors and accordions, guitars and a piano, several of them playing the same tune.
‘I thought you gave up,’ I said, pointing at the cigarette she had stuck behind one ear. Josh and Becky were still at the doors, greeting people they knew.
‘I did,’ she said, taking the fag from behind her ear and putting it in her mouth. She left it there for a few seconds, then restored it to its previous position. ‘See? Still given up; no temptation at all.’
Ash and I levered our way through the press of people while I undid my jacket and struggled to extricate my half-bottle of whisky from a side pocket. We made it into the hall, which was actually less crowded, though still full. A huge fire roared in the grate; people balanced on the fire-seat which ran around the hearth, and on every other available perch, including the stairs and the piano. A few enthusiasts within the midst of the crowd were trying to dance the Eightsome Reel, which in the circumstances was a little like trying to stage a boxing match in a telephone box; not totally impossible, just pointless.
Ash and I found a space over near the piano. She reached over the piano to a pile of little plastic cups, grabbed one and shoved it into my hand. ‘Here; have a drink.’ She sloshed some whisky into the cup. ‘How’ve you been?’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Broke, and I can see that 2.1 disappearing over the event horizon, but fuck it; I’ve still got my integrity and my Möbius scarf, and a boy can go a long way with those things. You got a job yet?’
‘What?’
‘Let’s stand away from this fucking piano.’
‘What?’
‘Have you got a job yet?
‘Na. Hey.’ She put one hand on my shoulder. ‘Heard what David Bowie’s latest film’s called?’
‘This sounds Lewisian,’ I shouted.
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘ “Merry Christmas, Mister Ceausescu”!’ Ashley laughed like a drain; a teetotaller might have said her breath smelled like one.
‘Very funny,’ I yelled into her ear. ‘Haven’t laughed so much since General Zia got blown up. Where is Lewis, anyway? We were waiting for them to turn up at Hamish and Tone’s but they never showed. He and James here?’
Ash looked concerned for a second, then her smile returned. She put her arm round my shoulders. ‘Saw James over by the accordion earlier. Hey; you want to take a stroll round the battlements?’ She pulled a spliff half out of her breast pocket, let it fall back. ‘Got a number here, but Mrs McSpadden keeps wandering through, and I seem to remember she took inordinate and extremely loud interest in one of these last year when wee Jimmy Calder stoked up. You comin?’
‘Not right now,’ I said, looking around the crowd, acknowledging a few waves and some distant mouthings that were probably shouts. I stood on tip-toes to look round the hall; a paper-plane battle seemed to be taking place at one end. ‘You seen Verity?’
‘Not for a bit,’ Ash said, pouring herself more whisky. I refused. ‘Hey.’ Ash nudged me. ‘There’s dancing upstairs.’
‘Verity there?’
‘Maybe,’ Ash said, raising her eyebrows.
‘Let’s check it out.’
‘Way to go, Prent.’
... No Verity in the Solar, loud with sounds and dark with light, and less crowded still. Ash and I danced, then cousin Josh asked her, and I sat watching the people dance for a while - the best way to extract any real enjoyment from dancing, I’ve always thought, but I seem to be unusual in not gaining any real pleasure from performing the movements - and then saw Helen Urvill, entering the hall holding a lager can. I went over to her, through the dancers.