‘She’s fine. Glad to have me back. I think she’s relieved I didn’t settle in Italy. Perhaps we can go round and see her?’

‘Perhaps.’ Pat Dawson wouldn’t spoil the moment. I vividly remembered her dismissal of my aching loneliness and her euphoric victory that I hadn’t managed to usurp her son’s affections. She insinuated that Mitch had fled from my neurotic clutches. She could wait.

We finished our meal and staggered out of the bistro into a mild and balmy afternoon. Several boats had left their moorings. We wandered past and clung tightly to each other, swaying perilously close to the water’s edge. We giggled at the names, The Hazel Rose, Sloppy Sailor, The Penny Pot and Carter’s Charter.

‘What would you call your yacht?’ I asked.

‘Em… let me see. Maybe Saucy Sue,’ you winked, ‘or Bonny Becca.’

‘And you? What would you call yours?’

‘The Mighty Mitch. Or perhaps Dawson’s Dinghy. Although I do rather like the ring of Carter’s Charter,’ I said, pointing to the glossy italic paintwork on the way past.

By the time we reached our room, replete with food and love, we were ready for each other. Our minds were satiated and our bodies craved the same.

I threw my sandals across the room and unbuttoned my blouse. I could hear the nervous water splatters in the bathroom, the door gingerly pushed to.

I sat, like a nervous virgin on the edge of the bed, and toyed with the radio controls on the headboard. You finally emerged, having taken off your polo shirt and unbuckled your belt. You held out your hands for me to stand up. The culmination of all those years of waiting was here, in this one moment. It would be perfect; a moment to remember.

And it was.

We headed back to London late on the Sunday night. The traffic slowly built up and the grimy suburbs soon enveloped us. We became engulfed by a companionable silence. Spent on excitement and conversation, unbidden worries crept back in.

I turned down Mitch’s offer to spend the night at his flat as I needed to get ready for work. This time I didn’t worry about not seeing him again. We were going to move forward, slowly and steadily, and our future together seemed secure.

My flat felt less dull and daunting when I returned, and as I threw my overnight bag on the sofa, I instinctively went to check the answerphone. The knot in my stomach stubbornly reattached itself to my insides and for a moment I braced against a flashing red light. It was oddly still.

Although relieved, I was surprised there wasn’t a message from Arthur. Perhaps I’d read him wrong and my surmise that he wouldn’t take rejection lying down, without a fight, might have been wide of the mark.