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tomorrow and I’ll show you.’
    ‘I’m not sure if I like the idea of this. Me being out there for anyone to look at.’
    ‘It’s the same photograph as you’ve got in there.’ He waved towards the museum. ‘You don’t mind people gawping at that.’
    ‘But that’s – that’s different.’ Even as I said it, I knew the distinction made little sense. But the museum was my domain. I could dictate who entered it, who got to see what. The thought of people I didn’t know being able to dip into my life, my history, as casually as if they were scanning the betting pages . . .
    ‘You should put up a picture of Liza and her boat. You might get a few more visitors. Forget advertising the hotel with the Moby s – a fine-looking girl like her could be quite a draw.’
    ‘Oh, you know Liza. She likes to pick who she takes out.’
    ‘No way to run a business. Why don’t you focus on your own boat? Bed, board and a trip out on Ishmael with Liza. She’d get enquiries from all over the world.’
    ‘No.’ I began to tidy up. ‘I don’t think so. Very kind of you, Nino, but it’s really not for us.’
    ‘You never know, she might find herself a bloke. About time she was courting.’
    It was a couple of minutes before he realised that the atmosphere had changed. Half-way through his pie, he saw something in my expression that gave him pause. He was disconcerted, trying to work out what he’d said that had been so wrong. ‘Didn’t mean to offend you, Kate.’
    ‘You haven’t.’
    ‘Well, something’s wrong. You’re all twitchy.’
    ‘I have not gone all twitchy.’
    ‘There! Look at you.’ He pointed to my hand, which was playing restlessly up and down the bleached wood.
    ‘Since when was tapping my fingers a crime?’ I placed my hand firmly on my lap.
    ‘What’s the matter?’
    ‘Nino Gaines, I have a room to make up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve already wasted half the day.’
    ‘You’re not going in? Aw, come on, Kate. You haven’t finished your lunch. What’s the matter? Is it what I said about your picture?’
    No one except Nino Gaines calls me Kate. For some reason this intimacy just about finished me off. ‘I’ve got things to do. Will you stop going on?’
    ‘I’ll email them, ask them to take it down. Perhaps we can say it’s copyright.’
    ‘Oh, will you stop wittering on about that darned photograph? I’m going in. I really have to get that room finished. I’ll see you soon.’ I brushed imaginary crumbs from my trousers. ‘Thank you for the lunch.’
    He watched as I – the woman he had loved and been perplexed by for more than half a century – stood up, less heavily than age should have allowed, and began to walk briskly towards the kitchen, leaving him with two half-eaten pies and a barely touched glass of his best vintage. I felt his eyes burn into my back all the way back to the house.
    Just for once, I imagined, he might have felt a bubble of frustration at the unfairness, at the arbitrary manner in which, once again, he had apparently been judged. Because I heard him stand and his voice on the soft wind. He was unable, just this once, to contain himself. ‘Kathleen Whittier Mostyn – you’re the most contrary woman I ever met,’ he yelled after me.
    ‘No one’s asking you to come,’ I shot back. To my shame, I didn’t even bother to turn my head.
    A long time ago, back when my parents died and I was left in charge of the Silver Bay Hotel, plenty of people told me I should take the opportunity to modernise, install en-suite bathrooms and satellite television, as they had at Port Stephens and Byron Bay, that I should advertise more to spread the word about the beauty of our little stretch of coast. I paid them heed for all of two minutes – our lack of custom had long since ceased to worry me, as I suspect it had most of Silver Bay. We had watched our neighbours up and down the coast grow fat on their profits, but then have to live with the unexpected