The Last Letter from Your Lover

laid his napkin on the table, feeling the drag of disappointment. ‘You can’t,’ he said, and added hurriedly, ‘I’m still not sure if I’ve overridden your previous opinion of me.’
    ‘Really? Oh, I suppose there is that.’ She turned her head, saw Richard Case at the bar with friends. He looked away swiftly, as if he had been watching them.
    She studied Anthony’s face. If she had been testing him, he appeared to have passed. She leant forward and lowered her voice: ‘Can you row?’
    ‘Can I row ?’
    They walked down to the quay. There, she peered down at the water, as if she wasn’t confident of recognising the boat without double-checking its name, and finally pointed him towards a small dinghy. He climbed down into it, than gave her his hand so that she could take the seat opposite him. The breeze was warm, the lights of the lobster boats winking peaceably in the inky darkness.
    ‘Where are we headed?’ He removed his jacket, laid it on the seat beside him and picked up the oars.
    ‘Oh, just row that way. I’ll show you when we’re there.’
    He pulled slowly, listening to the slap of the waves against the sides of the little boat. She sat opposite, her wrap loose around her shoulders. She was twisted away from him, the better to watch where she was guiding him.
    Anthony’s thoughts had stalled. In normal circumstances he would have been thinking strategically working out when he would make his move, excited at the prospect of the night ahead. But even though he was alone with this woman, even though she had invited him on to a boat in the middle of a black sea, he wasn’t convinced he knew which way this evening would go.
    ‘There,’ she said, pointing. ‘It’s that one.’
    ‘A boat, you said.’ He stared at the vast, sleek white yacht.
    ‘A biggish boat,’ she conceded. ‘I’m not really a yacht person. I only pop aboard a couple of times a year.’
    They secured the dinghy and climbed aboard the yacht. She told him to sit on the cushioned bench and, a few minutes later, emerged from the cabin. She had shed her shoes, he noted, trying not to stare at her impossibly small feet. ‘I’ve made you an alcohol-free cocktail,’ she said, holding it towards him. ‘I wasn’t sure you could face more tonic water.’
    It was warm, even so far out in the harbour, and the waves were so gentle that the yacht barely moved beneath them. Behind her he could see the lights of the harbour, the occasional car making its way up the coast road. He thought of Congo and felt like someone airlifted out of hell to a heaven he might only have imagined.
    She had poured herself another martini and tucked her feet neatly under her on the bench opposite.
    ‘So,’ he said, ‘how did you and your husband meet?’
    ‘My husband? Are we still working?’
    ‘No. I’m intrigued.’
    ‘By what?’
    ‘By how he . . .’ He checked himself. ‘I’m interested in how people end up together.’
    ‘We met at a ball. He was donating money to wounded servicemen. He was seated at my table, asked me out to dinner and that was it.’
    ‘That was it?’
    ‘It was very straightforward. After a few months he asked me to marry him and I agreed.’
    ‘You were very young.’
    ‘I was twenty-two. My parents were delighted.’
    ‘Because he’s rich?’
    ‘Because they thought he was a suitable match. He was a solid sort, and he had a good reputation.’
    ‘And those things are important to you?’
    ‘Aren’t they important to everyone?’ She fiddled with the hem of her skirt, straightening and smoothing it. ‘Now I ask the questions. How long were you married for, Boot?’
    ‘Three years.’
    ‘Not very long.’
    ‘I knew pretty quickly that we’d made a mistake.’
    ‘And she didn’t mind you divorcing her?’
    ‘She divorced me.’ She eyed him, and he could see her assessing all the ways in which he might have deserved it. ‘I wasn’t a faithful husband,’ he added, not sure, as he spoke, why he should tell her this.
    ‘You must miss your son.’
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I sometimes wonder whether I’d have done what I did if I’d known how much.’
    ‘Is that why you drink?’
    He raised a wry smile. ‘Don’t try to fix me, Mrs Stirling. I’ve been the hobby of far too many well-meaning women.’
    She looked down at her drink. ‘Who said I wanted to fix you?’
    ‘You have that . . . charitable air about you. It makes me nervous.’
    ‘You can’t hide sadness.’
    ‘And