She nodded and went to help Janey, who'd had an unfortunate stumble, doubled up with mirth as she was at her new English girlfriends’ humor, and needing an arm. Lord, they were drunk! I went down the slipway to the beach, looking about. Lots of students had spilled over from the pub, but . . . I strained my eyes into the distance — no Ted. Back up the slipway I went. Further along the beach, perhaps, near the dunes, and the cottage, which I'd just driven past. I walked on.

As I rounded the corner, the wide, sandy stretch opened up before me, full of bustling activity. Preparations were in full swing here, awaiting the crowds to wander round, at their leisure, from the Mariners. I saw Belinda and Christina beetling about with bowls of salad; Ibby and Theo were helping, too. I stopped a moment. So strange to see people in a new light. I watched Christina, whipping cling film from a plate of bread rolls on a long trestle table; regarded her with real affection, for the love she'd given Hugo, and for what must have been a confused and anxious time of her own, too. Everyone in their own little worlds. No one sensitive enough to recognize the worlds of others.

Roger was holding court near the shore with his best buddies: a retired general and the lord lieutenant of the county. All three were great golfing and sailing pals and had glasses of something brown and sticky-looking in their hands. They were collectively off their trolleys, brick-red in the face, pickled with alcohol, fun, and the sheer exhilaration of there being every excuse – duty done in the morning and wives too busy to notice now – to stay here and drink until they literally toppled over. I ducked, but he'd seen me.

"Flora!" he bellowed.

There was no escape. I pottered across and said hello. I was greeted warmly – a little too warmly, sweaty cheeks and huge stomachs – with kisses from his friends. Roger told them about our little project.

"It's a masterpiece!" he roared. "Going to submit it to the BP Portrait Awards. The National Gallery will be clamoring for it, eh, Flora? See it up in lights!"

"Oh, heavens, no, I don't think so, Roger, but I'm glad you like it. Um, actually I must get on, I'm looking for—"

"Like it? I love it! Hundred times better than all those ghastly oils in the hall. All those bogus dismal fools Belinda found in some auction, Pa and Grandpa excluded, of course." Bogus. I didn't know that. Buy an ancestor, eh? He was seriously drunk. "And what's more," he went on, his face in mine, prodding his chest, "it's of me!" His eyes popped with pleasure. “Me!”

I laughed. "It certainly is, Roger. Although it's not quite finished yet."

"Argggh! No more!" He staggered about theatrically, clutching his heart like King Lear on the heath. "No more sittings!"