She could not tell him. She could just take him there, and see what happened. It would be too late by the time he walked in the door, and all sorts of things would take over – there might be flying crockery or shouting. Her little lie would be forgotten completely. And was it a lie if she said nothing? She slowed and turned right.

He’d asked her not to tell. He hadn’t said why – he’d said best not tell her, don’t you think? and she hadn’t promised either way. She hadn’t written back. He’d assumed she’d do as she was told. She could just say, I decided against it – but that would ruin their lunch and she didn’t want that. She wanted her few hours of happiness. He had something to him that comforted her, his presence, as if something greater was watching. Without him she wondered if she existed at all.

There was the pub. She’d been a million miles away. Of course she existed. She was thinking of before, those other times, when they were little and he went off and she was left alone. She drew up in the car park of the Herod Arms. It was convenient and anonymous, it had adequate food and no music in the dining room. The sort of place a businessman might bring his mistress, or a mother take her son for lunch. Or a brother his sister, who met once a year for lamb chops and roast potatoes.

She parked, turned off the engine and checked her face in her compact. She looked almost the same as she had last year – Ian never seemed to age either. Campbell blood, Joan used to say. Nothing about Anstruther blood. Campbell blood dominated everything. She walked up the steps and pushed open the half-glazed doors.

Ian was already there, seated at a table near the windows. He got up and kissed her. “Got here all right?” He held her chair.

“Fine. No traffic.” A waitress brought them menus. “Thank you.” Finetta put hers on the table without looking at it.

He did look exactly the same, not an inch older. Terribly smart, well-cut, clean-shaven and dapper, a nervousness covered up. He brushed the fingers of his right hand over the knuckles of his left and didn’t look at the menu either. He looked at his watch. “We’ve plenty of time.”

“I’ll have a sherry,” she said to the waitress.

Ian ran the ice around his glass of Cinzano. “You look well.”

“So do you.”

“Bloody cold.”

“Bloody.”

“Car started alright?”

“Just about. Thank you.” Her sherry arrived.

“What’ll you have?” He picked up his menu. “Shall we have a starter?”

She picked up hers. “Yes, let’s.” They always did.

“I’ll have the paté and the lamb,” said Ian to the waitress.

“The soup, please,” said Finetta, “and the fish.”

“Cod or plaice?” said the waitress.