She lifted his hand, eyes still closed, pressing her lips against the knuckles. She could hear that rhythmic growl of the engine growing and chose to ignore it, savouring the tingle of heat against her bare flesh. The thrumming engine cut out. Another voice, fast and lively. She sighed.

‘He’s here.’

‘Mmmmm.’

She rubbed herself against Fari, a slow swipe left, right. He chuckled, chest rocking.

‘Behave.’

‘What for? We could go back to bed.’

She was only half joking, almost smiled.

‘No we can’t. You want to as much as me.’

The warmth of his body was gone. She opened her eyes and there was Richie, sitting on the motorboat yards from the water’s edge, bobbing on a relaxed tide. Fari motioned with a free hand, loosening his grip, and her palm was empty, cold. She wanted to reach for him, only something told her not to. She watched him splash knee-high into the waves.

Wisps of question-marked engine smoke curled from the boat, the resort fading, its volume receding with distance. Richie and Fari talked on the prow. Ray kept to herself. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t join them, although she had vague reason. She just felt different today. Inner.

They lowered their heads close like they’d known each other years, hands on the boat to steady themselves against the waves. Richie was heartbreak good-looking and knew it, a bit too podgy for a model, not that it mattered to the various women he met. His eyes were dark brown, sparkling like beach sand. When they were introduced days ago, Ray avoided their brightness. Too pretty, too mesmerising. He knew how to use them. She didn’t want him getting ideas.

She watched in the pretence of listening, actually more interested in her man. He made her proud, partly because he was a reflection of her tastes, mostly because he was unique, so comfortable in his own skin. She’d never met anyone like Fari. For her, he was complete. The height she’d always favoured, tall but not too tall; the physique, slim and muscular, toned. A husky voice as though he’d dragged each word over sun-baked gravel, sensual without even trying. The light brown locks that reached his hips when they weren’t wrapped up, his shaven beard daily trimmed, a sculpted work of art. He talked with his whole body, expressing the fine points of his statements by stepping forward, knee bent, or twisting his body to the left, or pumping his arms in a mimed, exaggerated jog. It made her smile to note the seriousness of Richie’s listening, head bent to catch Fari’s London accent, dark eyes never leaving the foaming water.