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 Mobius 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.

"Happy New Year!"

"Hey, Prentice. Same to you…»

I kissed her, then lifted her up and spun her round; she whooped.

"How are you?" I yelled. Helen Urvill, elegantly tall and judiciously lean, straight thick hair obsidian black, dress combat-casual, back on holiday from Switzerland and looking as thoroughly kempt as ever, passed the lager can to me.

"I'm fine," she said.

I looked at the tin she'd handed me. "Carling Black Label?" I said, incredulous. Somehow this did not quite seem Helen's style.

She smirked. Try some."

I tried some; the stuff foamed, went up my nose. I spluttered, stepping back, dripping, while Helen took the can back and stood grinning. "Champagne?" I said wiping my chin.

"Lanson."

"What else? Oh you're so stylish, Helen," I said. "Wanna dance?"

We danced, and shared the can of champagne. "How's Diana?" I shouted above the music.

"Couldn't get back," Helen yelled. "Still out in Hawaii."

"Poor thing."

"Yeah."

Helen continued to circulate; I decided it was time for a pee and then maybe some food, which took me via the garden (there was a queue for the downstairs loo, and the upper part of the castle was locked) to the kitchen.

Mrs McSpadden was in command, over-seeing a production line of sandwiches, sausage rolls, bowls of soup and chilli, slices of black bun and Christmas cake and accompanying slices of cheese.

"Prentice!" Mrs McSpadden said.

"Mthth MnThpndn!" I replied, mouth full of cake.

She shoved a set of keys into my hand. "Will ye pop down to the cellar, for us?" Mrs S shouted. "Get another litre of whisky; it's the second archway on the left. Dinnae let anybody down with you, mind; keep that door locked." The microwave chimed and she hauled a still half-frozen block of chilli out on a big plate; she started breaking it up with a large wooden spoon.

I swallowed. "Okay," I said.

I went through to the utility room, cool and dark after the noise and chaos of the kitchen. I turned the light on, sorted through the keys for one that looked like it might match the door to the cellar. A movement outside caught my eye and I peered through the window; looked like I'd put on an outside light, too.

Verity Walker, clad in a short black dress, was dancing sinuously on the roof of Uncle Fergus's Range Rover. Lewis sat cross-legged on the bonnet of the car, watching her. He glanced over, shading his eyes, and seemed to see me, looking through the window from the utility room. Verity pirouetted. Holding her shoes in one hand, she ran the other down over her body to one thigh, then back to her head and through her cropped blonde hair.

The floodlight outside — harsh and white — lit her like she was on stage. Her hair glowed like pale flame.

Lewis jumped off the Range Rover (Verity wobbled a little as the car bounced on its springs, but recovered); he stood at the side of the car, between me and it, and held one hand up to Verity. She danced on, oblivious, then he must have said something, and she danced seductively, fluidly, to the edge of the roof, hips moving slow, a big smile on her face as she looked down at Lewis, then she threw herself off the roof. Lewis caught her, staggered back a couple of steps, then forward, as Verity wrapped her arms round his neck and her legs round his waist; white glances of thigh against the black. Lewis put his arms round her as he pitched forward.

They thumped together into the Range Rover. I thought the impact must have hurt her back, but it didn't look like it had. Her arms and legs stayed where they were, and Lewis's head bent down to hers. Her hands started to stroke and caress the nape of his neck and the back and sides of his head.