It was a clear night and the moon, almost full, and high above the sea, reflected a rippling white path towards me across the water. The tide was out so the beach was peppered with marooned boats, which I always thought looked peculiar, embarrassed to be so exposed, their muddy bottoms at wobbly angles, not bobbing brightly on the water as they would be in the morning. Small, seaweed-strewn rocks dogged my path but I knew this beach well, had played on it as a child, and I picked my way easily amongst them like the eight-year-old I'd once been. Back in those days the Bellingdons were a distinctly mythical family, and the house — I stopped and glanced back at it now, standing white, proud and isolated, high up on the cliff— had been emblematic of all that stately grandeur. We knew of parties on the lawns, tennis matches, croquet, and in my childish mind's eye I always had them in long Edwardian dresses.

As I gazed back now, I wondered if tonight's party had broken up. The lights strung above the terrace were still shining. Perhaps Janey, Tommy and Roger would still be drinking and chatting around the table, but Hugo and Christina would have gone up, I was sure. I saw them mounting the stairs companionably. Brushing their teeth, doing all the cosy, familiar things together. Reading for a bit, maybe. Then the lights would go out. Then what? Sex isn't everything. Would he squeeze her hand, murmur something soft, then roll over and go to sleep, as he had done with me?