“I’m sorry. There was an emergency meeting. A possible strike. The tuition fees.”

He looks tired, irritable.

“Do you need anything?” she says. “A shower? A drink?”

“If we’re late, let’s just go.”

At the car rental office there are forms to be filled out, driver’s licenses to be photocopied, extras to decide upon. It is seven before they leave with an ugly Ford Fiesta, and Nathan drives out of London on the A2.

“I think we’re too late to go to Whitstable first,” she says.

He nods. She studies his face in the dark. Something she thought she knew by heart has become inscrutable, opaque.

“So shall we go straight to the dinner then?”

“Whatever you think.”

“Or maybe we should cancel the dinner? Just go to the hotel?”

“Won’t Cate be disappointed? Isn’t that the whole point?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” She turns to look out of the window at the 1930s edges of London sliding past. “I’ve never been to Canterbury,” she says. “I only know it from Chaucer. The Wife of Bath’s Tale. Honors class.”

He changes lanes. “I went there once,” he says, “for a conference.”

“Did you like it?”

She winces. It is as though they do not know one another. Or as though they are following a badly written script.

“Yes,” he says. “From what I saw. It was nice.”

They fall silent. The script has run out. She feels panic growing in her. “The hotel looks sweet,” she says. “There are bikes we can borrow. We can bike to Margate tomorrow. If the weather’s OK.” She lifts her phone and checks the weather, but there is only one bar of reception. “Apparently it’s really up and coming. Margate. There’s the Turner. Opening next year. Turner Contemporary. Someone at work went there last summer. Loved it. Sold their place and moved.” His face. His shuttered face. “Or, you know, we could just stay in bed. Sleep. They bring breakfast up to your room.”

What is she? A fucking tour guide? Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

She switches the radio on; the news is full of the tuition fees story. She leans forward and turns it up. “Do we have to?” he says, leaning in and turning it off. “It’s depressing. I’ve heard enough of it today.”

THEY FOLLOW THE instructions that Cate sent, but they lead only to a large roundabout, which they go around twice as Hannah tries calling to check, but the phone rings and rings and is not answered. “She’s probably busy,” says Hannah. “With her guests.”

“Right,” says Nathan. “Well, in the absence of any clear directions, shall we stop the car?” He swings off the roundabout and turns left at a set of traffic lights. There is nowhere to park. She watches the muscle tense in his jaw. “There,” he says, pointing to the sign for a parking lot.