I cannot now recall exactly when I destroyed that self-portrait. Perhaps it was the day Duncan confessed he could never be my lover again. I do not remember; that time is hazy in my mind. I am glad I destroyed it. The rose flush on my cheek, my look of dreamy contentment, were a lie. I had not told Leonard everything.

There is a heron, far out, silhouetted against the gray-blue. The tide has left pools of water amongst the mud and shingle, calm mirrors of cloud. The three of us walk along the estuary, enjoying the sun on our backs. Roger strides ahead while Clive and I dawdle, pausing to watch the birds grub for food. By the time we reach the jetty all the hire boats have gone. Clive and I settle on one of the benches, glad for this opportunity to rest. Clive takes out a book and starts reading. I gaze at the view, the bustle of the fishermen carrying in their catch, the elegant swoop of the gulls diving for remnants of fish. Roger seethes and fumes at the delay. He walks up and down the jetty, trying to persuade the fishermen to rent us a boat. Finally he succeeds and beckons to us in triumph.

The boat is bigger than the hire boats and we make good progress up the estuary. I sit on a cushion in the prow. At first Clive tries to help Roger with the sails but after a series of rebuttals joins me in the prow. Roger stands at the helm, his hair whipped back by the stiff breeze. I see that he is in his element. I lean back on my cushion and stare up at the billowing sails.

“We should turn back.” As if to ignore Clive’s words, the boat tacks to the right and we shoot forward. Roger’s eyes shine with the exhilaration of the speed. Above me, I can see dark twists of cloud banked up against the blue. Suddenly the sails go slack. They hang limp and flapping like wet sheets. Roger tacks to the left but this time we scarcely move.

“The wind’s dropped.” Roger hauls in the ropes. Clive raises himself onto an elbow.

“We’re a hell of a long way out.” I sit up in alarm. I realize that we have left the estuary and are out on the open sea. I feel the waves slap the sides of the boat.

“We must drop anchor and wait for the tide to turn.” Clive’s voice is reassuringly authoritative. “We can’t afford to get dragged any further out.”

Roger scowls. He draws in the ropes. The sails fill as we swing round and the boat inches forward, but then stops almost immediately as the airstream caused by the sudden change of direction dies. The sails droop.

“What time is the next tide? Did anyone think to look?” This time Roger answers Clive’s question.

“Just after midnight.”