‘I’ve never met your husband.’

  ‘No, you haven’t, have you? He’s terribly nice, and the children are nice, too, most of the time, but they’ll probably be in bed by the time we get back, so you won’t have to think up things to say about them.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘He’s working harder than ever. He keeps threatening to retire, but we all pray he won’t, because goodness knows what he’d do to himself without his precious hospital. And my mother’s opened a shop!’

  ‘And Douglas?’

  ‘Brother Douglas is in the Army, so you won’t see him, I’m afraid. But Henrietta’s still at home, and going to art school. She suddenly developed a flair for design.’

  Alistair shook his head in disbelief. He remembered Henrietta with long, pale plaits of hair and stick-thin legs emerging from her school tunic.

  ‘And Wimpy?’

  Wimpy had been Henrietta’s dog.

  ‘Poor Wimpy had to be put down. But Henrietta got another dog …’

  Janey chattered on, and he felt comfortable and suddenly happy, sitting beside her, listening to her voice. He had always been fond of her – never in love, but always loving. They had become close in those years when they were living, cheek-by-jowl, in the same house. It was like having the very closest sort of sister except that they never quarrelled.

  ‘… he’s called Charles, but he’s got no breeding whatsoever.’ He realised that she was still talking about the dog. ‘But tell me about you.’

  So he told her, very briefly, ending by explaining the purpose of his visit. Janey was immediately excited.

  ‘I can’t think that it wouldn’t be a success. And it’d be super if you came back to run it.’

  ‘Now, hold on, I haven’t said I’m going to yet. I don’t know if I want to leave London.’

  ‘But it would be a challenge. You always used to be a great one for challenges.’

  He knew that was true. But somehow he couldn’t explain to Janey how things had changed, how he found himself in a dilemma he seemed incapable of resolving. He was on the point of telling her about Maggie, but she suddenly said, ‘Nearly there,’ and he realised that they were now in the familiar crescent of tall Georgian houses. He saw the wide flight of steps leading up to the fan-lighted front door and the facade of the handsome stone house.

  They got out of the car, and Janey led the way. She opened the door, and a woolly mass of dog came to greet them, and behind him, with her arms outspread in welcome, Mrs Randall.

  The house had been converted, but nothing could change the warmth that pervaded it. The brightness of the fire, the overflow of books, the profusion of plants and flowers, family photographs, and unfinished knitting. The smells of delectable cooking, and polish and wood smoke. And Mrs Randall herself, white hair like an aureole about her cheerful face, lipstick slightly askew, laughing with excitement.

  ‘Oh, Alistair, isn’t this the most thrilling thing? And you look just the same. Take off your coat, come along in, it’s such a cold night.’

  She led him in, literally pulling him by the arm. And there, in the sitting room, was Dr Randall, still looking as if he had bought his suit at a rummage sale; and another man, younger and bespectacled, who was introduced as Janey’s husband, George. And then they all had a drink and were sitting down, deep in the sagging armchairs, out of which, Alistair knew from experience, it was almost impossible to heave oneself.

  What made it even more impossible was that the dog, Charles, who was not small, decided that Alistair’s knee was infinitely preferable to his own lumpy cushion on the hearth rug, and leaped into Alistair’s lap where he settled himself in heavy comfort.

  They were on their second drink and still talking when the door opened. He had forgotten about Henrietta, but all at once, Mrs Randall stopped talking in midstream, looked toward the door and said, ‘Darling!’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

  The dog leaped from Alistair’s knee and went to greet her. She shut the door behind her and stooped to stroke his head, as people do when they are, perhaps, a little shy. Alistair set down his glass and hoisted himself to his feet.

  ‘You remember Henrietta, don’t you?’

  He said, ‘Yes, of course.’ But he didn’t. This was somebody totally new. Tall and slender, her hair wrapped close to the delicate shape of her head, one or two tendrils escaping to frame her features. She wore a long dress with a tall collar that emphasised her elegant neck. Her eyes were deep-set and dark; her mouth smudged with dimples when she smiled.

  ‘Hello, Alistair.’ She came toward him and gave him a kiss on his cheek. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I was working and I lost track of time. And then I was so grubby I had to go and have a bath. How lovely to see you again.’

  He said, ‘You’ve grown up.’

  ‘Of course I have.’

  ‘It’s just that all the rest of the family are so exactly the same, I thought you would be too.’

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

  ‘I’m not disappointed,’ he told her.

  * * *

  They dined in what used to be the gloomy morning room, which Mrs Randall had turned into a countrified kitchen. There was a pine dresser, loaded with patterned china, baskets hanging from the ceiling, and a long scrubbed table. They ate homemade soup, and then pheasant with all the delicious trimmings, and a gooseberry fool. When this was finished, Mrs Randall made coffee, and Dr Randall went off to investigate the recesses of some cupboard and returned with a bottle of Drambuie.

  ‘I haven’t had such a meal,’ said Alistair, ‘since …’ he tried to think, and ended up, ‘since I went away, all those years ago.’

  ‘You must come back,’ said Mrs Randall. Over dinner, he had told them about his firm’s plans. ‘I really think it’s time you wiped the dust of London from your feet and came back to us all.’

  But he knew he could not commit himself. He looked around the table at the smiling faces turned toward him, the candlelight, the steaming cups of coffee, the golden glint of the liqueur and told himself that this was simply an interlude. One delightful evening with old friends could never be reason enough to dig up one’s roots, to leave forever a person like Maggie.

  When he’d been in his early twenties with everything in front of him, this had been enough. But he had been away for a long time. It wasn’t always a good thing to turn back. However much one wanted it, things could never be quite the same.

  He looked up, and realised that for once they were all quiet, watching him. He pulled himself together. ‘Yes, perhaps. But I have a life in the south too. Commitments.’ His glance moved, and all at once he met Henrietta’s eyes. She was turned from the sink, her rubber-gloved hands slowly scrubbing a saucepan. A revelation struck him: She’s beautiful.

  ‘You talk as though you were a middle-aged man with a home and a family,’ said Mrs Randall. ‘It’s not even as though you’re married.’

  Henrietta turned back to the sink, and set the saucepan on the draining board. The back of her neck seemed to Alistair as vulnerable as a child’s. He said, ‘No, I’m not even married.’

  * * *

  When Alistair said that it was time to go, the old kitchen clock pointed only to eleven o’clock. But he had a long drive ahead of him the next day, and he knew that the Randalls’ workday started earlier than most.

  Janey’s husband offered to run him back to the hotel, but Alistair refused his kind offer and said that he would walk. ‘I’ve had no fresh air all day.’

  In the hall he found his coat and said goodbye to them all. He kissed Mrs Randall and Janey, shook hands with the men.

  He looked for Henrietta, and saw her emerging from a door at the end of the hall, buttoning up an old tweed overcoat, and carrying a lead for the dog.

  ‘I’ll walk with you a bit of the way,’ she said. ‘Charles has to go out anyway.’

  So they went together, out into the still, cold night. They fell into step, Henrietta’s long legs matching Alistair’s pace, pausing every now and then while Charles sniffed at suspicious lampposts.

  After London, it seemed amazingly quiet. Their footsteps rang on the icy pavement as they walked.

  She said, ‘It must seem very different from London. And funny to come back.’

  ‘Not so much funny as disconcerting. Any place where you spent a fair amount of your youth is bound to be disconcerting.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Dreams, I suppose. Plans. You suddenly remember them all over again.’

  ‘What were your dreams?’

  ‘Making a million. Driving a Porsche. The usual.’

  ‘Did they come true?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘Not in the least. The great thing is that the important things haven’t changed.’

  After a little pause Henrietta said, sounding as if she were making a confession, ‘That’s what I’m afraid of. Things changing. Sometimes I feel so feeble. I mean, I’ve always lived here. I was born here, and I went to school here, and now I’m at art college here and I don’t ever want to go away. All the girls I was at school with rushed off to London or America or Paris, and they think I’m the most ineffectual sort of person because I don’t really want to go anywhere.’ She looked at Alistair and smiled anxiously. ‘Perhaps there’s something wrong with me.’

  ‘I don’t see why. If you’re happy in a place, why can’t you just stay there?’

  ‘I thought when I’ve finished this course, I might go to Australia. A girlfriend of mine is going.’

  ‘What’ll you do when you get there?’

  ‘I could work in a shop or something.’

  ‘I must say, you don’t sound enthusiastic.’

  ‘It’s just that I don’t really want to go.’

  A thought struck him. ‘Suppose,’ he said slowly, ‘suppose you met some chap and he wanted to marry you, and you wanted to marry him, and he was going to spend the rest of his life in Timbuktu. He was going to sell real estate in Timbuktu. What would happen then?’

  Henrietta considered this problem as they walked in silence. ‘I haven’t even thought about marrying,’ she told him at last. ‘I can’t imagine loving a man so much that I’d want to spend the rest of my life with him.’

  ‘Imagine it now.’

  ‘And he’s going to sell real estate in Timbuktu?’

  ‘That’s the position.’

  ‘Well, of course, I’d go.’

  ‘The Timbuktu bit wouldn’t put you off?’

  ‘Well, yes, it would dreadfully. But if I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this man, then I wouldn’t be happy anywhere else. So I might as well go.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be lonely?’

  ‘If you’ve got a friend, you’re never lonely. And a husband’s meant to be a friend. At least, that’s what I’ve always thought. That’s the way my parents are. Janey and George too. They never stop talking and giggling away together. That’s the way I’d like to be.’

  They had come to the main road, the traffic lights. Charles suddenly decided that he had walked far enough, and sat firmly on his haunches, so Henrietta stopped too. She said, ‘This is as far as we usually come. That’s why he’s sitting down.’

  ‘Then you must go back. You’ll be all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It … it seems a little unfriendly to say goodbye right here.’ Lamplight shone on her face. A gust of wind wrapped a long tendril of hair against her cheek.

  ‘Not unfriendly at all.’

  She hesitated, then, sounding as shy as the child he remembered, said, ‘It was great seeing you again. We all loved it.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, then turned down the hill, walking, then running, with the dog galloping at her heels to keep up with her.

  He watched until she was swallowed into the darkness. He crossed the street and went on, over the brow of the hill. He stood and looked up at the castle, crouched in the darkness like a sleeping lion. There were lights spangled all the way up the hill of the Old Town, and the trees’ bare branches shivered in the bitter wind.

  How old was Henrietta? Twenty. But she had known, instinctively, what he and Maggie, for all their sophistication, had been too blind to see. That if it was right between two people, it didn’t matter where you lived. If Maggie didn’t want to come to Edinburgh with him, then she didn’t love him enough to want to spend the rest of her life with him. And he, terrified of making a mistake, had clung to his relationship with her as though it had been some sort of emotional lifeboat. But the truth was that it was simply a relationship. Amusing, rewarding, delightful, but nothing more.

  Darling, I’m late, I’m late …

  It was too cold to stand still. He turned and started toward the hotel. He walked with a purpose, a man who knew where he was going. Tomorrow he would return to London. It would take some weeks to tie up the details of the new office. He would have to find premises, choose a staff, look for a place to live. He would have to say goodbye to his friends. He would, finally, have to say goodbye to Maggie.

  He was visited with a mental image of her, struggling into the Candide with her bundles, apologising, looking fantastic. And he smiled, because the very thought of her had always filled him with affection. But it wasn’t enough, and already it seemed as though she belonged to another life.

  He was coming back to live and work in this cold, beautiful northern city. He did not quite know when or how his decision had been made. He only knew that the dividing of the ways was behind him. So much lay ahead that he didn’t think too much about Henrietta. Sooner or later, though, they would come together again. He hoped that she would wait for him, because he had a feeling that this time it would probably be for good.

  The Stone Boy (The Winds of Chance)

  Arriving at night – met at the airport by her cousins, Julie and Harry, and driven the ten kilometres or so to the villa – there was no way for Liz to gauge the countryside or assess her new surroundings. She’d never been to this particular Mediterranean island before, and all was unfamiliar, yet not entirely strange. The velvet-blue darkness she remembered from other holidays, as well as the constant chirp of cicadas, and the smell of pine and juniper.

  Even the villa was something of a mystery. Harry parked the car some distance from the dark shape of the house. A string of lights illuminated a path that descended in a series of small flights of steps. Julie led the way, and Liz followed, carrying her flight bag. Harry brought up the rear, with her suitcase and the raincoat she had needed in London.

  In front of the house ran a terrace crowded with terracotta pots filled with flowers. Julie switched on a light, and all at once everything was floodlit like a stage set, but this brilliance only intensified the surrounding darkness, and it was impossible to imagine what lay beyond.

  From the terrace, a door led into the house. This was not a modern villa, but a rustic island dwelling that Julie and Harry had recently bought and renovated. The night was warm, but the thick-walled interior, with red-tiled floors and white walls, felt cool.

  There were huge sofas and chairs upholstered in white canvas, bright cushions and rugs. At one end of the room, a fireplace contained the ashes of some bygone fire; at the other end stood a long scrubbed-pine table, surrounded by simple wooden rush-seated chairs.

  Julie said, ‘Now … would you like something to eat?’

  ‘It’s nearly midnight.’

  ‘No matter. I can rustle up some food if you’re hungry.’

  ‘I’m not hungry. Just tired.’

  ‘Bed, then.’

  Julie led the way up a narrow staircase, the riser of each step faced with tiles. There were flowers everywhere, and the floors were a natural wood, sometimes a little uneven. ‘You’re sleeping here …’

  Liz followed Julie into a small room of charming simplicity. Dark beams barred the whitewashed ceiling; shutters closed over a small window. There were a few hooks for clothes, and an old carved chest with a mirror hung above it. Freesia stood in a glass mug, and a white cotton cover topped the narrow bed.

  ‘It’s not very smart, I’m afraid,’ Julie went on, ‘but it’s not meant to be a smart house. The bathroom’s down the hall, and there’s a mosquito net over the bed. I’d advise you to use it. Now, you’ll be all right?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but gave Liz a kiss, and then said, ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  Left alone, Liz kicked off her shoes and felt the coolness of the tile beneath her feet. She went to the little window, folded back the shutters, and took deep breaths of the dark, scented air. Instantly, a mosquito introduced itself, whining around the room like a miniature jet. She went to the bed, turned back the cover, and unknotted the net, which dropped, in folds, to the floor. Not only had she never been to this island, but she’d never slept beneath a mosquito net before. She smiled, relishing the new experience.

  * * *

  It was ten o’clock before Liz woke and found the sun already high in the sky. She went to the window. In the bright, hot light of morning, all was revealed – and it was far better than she’d dared to expect.

  Below, the terrace; to one side a small swimming pool, glittering turquoise in the brilliant sunshine. Steps led down to a garden that was surrounded by thick stone walls and shaded here and there with gnarled olive trees. Beyond this, an almond orchard sloped to a narrow country road. And across the road stood another small house, and then the sea. The air smelled of lemons. Filled with anticipation, Liz quickly turned from the window, put on a bathing suit, brushed her long dark hair, wrapped herself in a terry robe, slipped sunglasses into the pocket, and went downstairs.

  There was no sign of Harry, but she found Julie in the little kitchen.

  ‘Good morning.’

  Julie turned from the sink. ‘There you are! How did you sleep?’

  ‘Like a log. I think mosquito nets are romantic.’

  ‘Like a cup of coffee?’