Paul emerged from the baggage area, striding swiftly forward in his black overcoat and his black scarf, holding his hat in one hand and his briefcase in the other. He glanced about the arrivals hall, and when he saw her, she couldn’t prevent herself from waving eagerly, though she knew he disapproved of public displays of affection – of displays of any kind, really. He was smiling, all the same, she saw. It was a thing he didn’t often do, not because he was dour or ill-tempered, but because he portioned out everything carefully, even smiles.

She had wriggled her way through the waiting crowd and was standing right up against the metal barrier. Now she stopped waving and lowered her hand uncertainly, experiencing a lurch of misgiving. It was a trick of perspective, she knew, but she had the peculiar and unsettling impression that, even as he advanced towards her, he was at the same time hanging back somehow. She couldn’t make it out, the sensation she had – it was as if he were sending a wave of some kind ahead of him, a palpable qualm of doubt and unwillingness, so strong it made her falter for a moment, stalled in uncertainty.

It was the effect of the sausage rolls, surely, or of the three cups of horribly strong tea. She should have had that drink, it would have steadied her nerves.

Paul skirted the barrier and came forward quickly and put an arm around her, the stiff brim of his hat pressing into her back between her shoulder blades. He kissed her lightly on both cheeks. She wasn’t having that, and, whether he disapproved or not, she clasped him to her and put her mouth, fairly squashed it, in fact, against his. Why were men always so stiff and reserved when they came back after being away? Was it shyness? She could never understand it.

‘The thing, the board, showed your flight was delayed,’ she said, breathless and laughing. ‘What happened?’

‘Oh, we were supposed to circle until the fog cleared. There was no announcement, just suddenly we were descending and a minute later we were on the ground. So here I am.’

They were walking towards the exit. She linked her arm in his. Then she halted. ‘But where’s your suitcase?’

‘A porter is bringing it. He will be waiting at the taxi rank.’

She felt momentarily deflated. It would never have occurred to her to engage a porter. Paul was accustomed to clicking his fingers and summoning porters, taxis, waiters, barmen. He saw nothing remarkable in being instantly attended to. Would she ever achieve that level of sophistication? And yet, strangely, she felt that in ways she was more advanced than he was. Advanced – it was a word her late grandfather, Judge Garret Griffin, would have used. Disapprovingly. Girls weren’t supposed to be advanced. It was almost as bad as being ‘fast’.

They were at the exit.