‘I’m sorry too,’ she said, her voice catching. Would she ever be able to tell him how sorry she was? She pressed her face into his cotton shirt, breathing in the familiar smell of his cologne, and felt unbearably happy and sad and wrung-out all at once. What a strange few weeks it had been. What an abrupt turn her life had taken, the day of the party, and then afterwards, in the airport – a turn away from him, a striking-out on her own into the sunshine and into all kinds of trouble. ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, disentangling herself and stepping back. The whole scene in the airport where she’d forbidden him to come with her seemed like a strange, vivid dream now. She felt a different person from the woman who had shouted at him and marched off without a backward glance. ‘I overreacted, I didn’t know how to handle the news.’

‘And I let you down,’ he said, taking her hands. ‘I let you down and I wasn’t a good husband. You had every right to be angry with me. I hope, in time, you can forgive me.’

She couldn’t stop looking at his face. His dear, kind face. There was a flicker-reel of images running through her head: all the good times they’d shared, all the happy moments. He hadn’t been a good husband back when he’d had his fling, but then she hadn’t been a good wife lately, either. How could she not forgive him, now that she knew how easy it was to be tempted? Would he ever forgive her, if he knew what she’d been up to moreover? ‘We’ll get through this,’ she said staunchly, her heart pounding. ‘We can work it all out together.’ They had both made mistakes, she thought, as she flung herself into his arms again, but she knew now, as plainly as she knew her own name, that this was where she belonged, with Harry.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We will.’

Jeanie led him towards the reception desk, where Bernardo had at last finished his phone call and was gazing expectantly at her. ‘Bernardo, this is my husband, Harry,’ she said; her two worlds colliding. ‘Is it all right if he stays with me until . . .’ She glanced back at Harry. ‘Maybe Sunday?’ she asked, feeling almost coy in making the suggestion. ‘I was thinking maybe we could go home on Sunday.’

Harry nodded and squeezed her hand again. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘We’ll go home on Sunday.’

Bernardo’s face was wreathed in smiles. ‘But of course!’ he cried, delightedly. ‘It would be our pleasure to have you both staying with us. Perhaps I could book you a table for dinner tonight as well?’