When they arrived at the boat club the party was already in full swing. It was in a modern wooden building looking over a small marina, where small motor boats were tied to a line of jetties and the occasional grand yacht was moored. The club room was on the first floor and they left their outdoor clothes in the cloakroom downstairs. From the room came the sound of laughter, a gabble of voices. Polly had a moment of panic. She was an undergraduate again preparing to attend a formal college dinner, hesitating outside, sick with nerves, certain that she’d use the wrong fork, would blush whenever anyone spoke to her; that she would break one of those unwritten rules that set the educated middle classes apart from the rest. Waiting to go into the club room, she had the same physical signs of panic – the racing heart and sweating palms, the same instinct to run. Then it had been Eleanor who’d arrived, linked arms and swept her into hall before she could protest. Now it was Marcus, who gave a theatrical little bow, offered her his arm and walked with her up the stairs.

The room had been set out with two long trestle tables covered with white cloths and decorated with candles and flowers in glass vases. Boat-club members dressed in black were acting as waiters. It seemed as if everyone had been waiting for them, because there was a sympathetic cheer when they walked in, and Marcus – reading the situation immaculately as always – gave another, deeper bow. Caroline waved at people she knew. They were handed a small glass of whisky and took their seats at the end of the table. Lowrie pulled the bottles of wine from his rucksack. In the corner a young woman began to play a plaintive tune on the violin. Polly drank the whisky and found that her pulse had steadied. Food appeared on the table: fish and lamb, but in front of her a dish of roasted vegetables and a lentil-and-mushroom sauce, which, it seemed, had been cooked specially for her. The waitress even knew her name.