THE HOTEL HAS been billed as one of Orkney’s finest. It is tired, and has not been decorated for years. There are queasy swirls of color on the carpet, and a smell of fried food and burnt coffee seeps from the restaurant. Her room is pleasant enough, despite the pictures of hideous purple flowers on the walls. The bed is huge but uncomfortable—two beds pushed together. The pillows are unspeakable. She twists off the top of her wine and pours a third of a bottle into the bathroom glass.

By six o’clock she is hungry and has almost finished the wine. There is no answer at room service and so she goes downstairs to the restaurant. “Can I order food here?”

“Aye,” says the young woman behind the bar. She has a small heart-shaped face, makeup, a pretty mouth.

“Can you deliver it to my room?”

“I’m the only one on right now. Do you mind waiting? You can take it up yourself?”

Hannah looks around her at the near-empty restaurant. She is alone apart from an older couple who look as though they are on a business trip, their heads bent over a computer screen. “OK.”

“You can have a drink on the house,” says the young woman with a wink, “since I’m in charge.”

“OK,” says Hannah. She looks over the menu. “I’ll have fish and chips,” she says.

“Perfect,” says the young woman.

“And a glass of wine. What wines do you have by the glass?”

“Just the Merlot.”

“A glass of that then.”

“Perfect,” the young woman says again, taking a large glass and filling it almost to the rim. “There you go.”

Perfect?

She takes it to a seat in the window. A vase of plastic flowers stands on the table before her. Outside, the harbor is rain-washed. Shafts of fading sunlight pierce the drizzle, then disappear again, leaving steely gray light in their wake.

“Tomorrow’s better. Weather-wise.”

She turns and sees a man beside her. It is a moment before she recognizes him from the airport, from the plane. She nods in response. He looks as though he has sobered up, whereas she is on her way to being drunk. He takes a seat at the next table, diagonally opposite her, and she feels a vague sense of annoyance. Now she will either have to make conversation or ignore him. She looks in her bag, finds the paperback she bought at the airport, slides it out onto the table. She takes a sip of her wine, opens the book. Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich—

The young woman comes over, puts a pint down in front of the man. “There you go.”

“Thanks.”

The murmur of the couple in the corner—something about a meeting. Something about figures. The world of work. The man lifts his pint and drinks. “That good?”