Without saying anything, I took his hand. He turned his head towards me and I did the same, looking into his eyes. There was love there—and a hint of sadness. He leant over and kissed me gently, a kiss which lasted a long while—not urgent and fraught with need, but tender and loving. We didn’t finish the wine, but we did fall asleep wrapped up in each other. The last thing I remembered was James stroking my hair, and me thinking that I didn’t want to see sadness in his eyes anymore.

*

I awoke well before sun-up, my head on James’s chest and a horrid crick in my neck. That’s the part you don’t see in the movies. I managed to extricate myself from our tangle of limbs and sheets without waking him. I got out of the bed slowly, hoping not to disturb him, and went into the tiny bathroom. I splashed water on my face and swished some toothpaste to try and shake off the grogginess of poor sleep cut short.

But despite the lack of sleep, when I peered into the mirror above the sink, I didn’t look wretched. There was even a hint of colour in my cheeks. I looked like a woman who was falling in love with someone who loved her back. I opened the door of the bathroom and peeked out. James was lying with an arm behind his head, looking directly at me, smiling.

“Hi,” I whispered.

“Hi,” he whispered back. “Why are we whispering?”

I shrugged and jumped onto the bed, climbing up to re-join him under the covers. I resumed my place, his arm around me, my head on his chest and my leg thrown over his. My neck protested, but I ignored it.

“I wasn’t sure if we’d wake up in time,” he said, “but now we are awake, we should definitely go up on deck to see the sunrise.”

“Sounds good.” I propped myself up and checked the clock next to his side of the bed. “Still a while, yet, though.” I snuggled back under the covers and closed my eyes, basking in the feeling of being wrapped up in him. He smelled so good.

And then, I ruined everything.

“James?”

“Mmm.”

“Can I ask you something about Portia?”

I felt him stiffen—and not the good kind. Uh oh. Abort. Abort. Abort.

“What’s that?”

I couldn’t not ask the question now, no matter what my inner voice said. I’d already obliterated the mood. “Uh, I just wondered if she was the woman you told me about when we were in Greece.”

There was a moment before he replied—only a moment, but it was enough to send a jolt through me and my stomach lit up with nerves.

“Yes, she is.”

There was no way not to ask the next question, to just pretend that everything was fine, then get up, get dressed, and go and watch the sound come to life with the sunrise. And even though I dreaded his response, even though some part of me knew what was to come, I asked the next question.