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slow voice. He pronounced it ‘pithi-veer’ ‘A sort of pie,’ explained Vernon.
    ‘Good country fare,’ added Jerry. ‘You look like proper pair of farmers tonight in those knits.’
    Angie’s eyes sprang open in horror. God he was so rude.
    ‘Well, that’s because we are,’ replied Ken with a smile.
    ‘At least we were,’ added Cyn, smiling at her husband.
    ‘Were? Were ?’ said Jerry. ‘Cows get foot and mouth and you had to close up shop?’
    He chuckled again as if he’d made the funniest joke of the night.
    ‘Well, I mean, before we won the lottery and sold up.’ Ken’s quiet voice silenced them all.
    ‘You won the lottery?’ Yvonne’s tone suggested she didn’t believe that anyone who came down to dinner in his and hers market-quality jumpers could possibly be telling the truth about being rich.
    ‘Yep. Twenty-five million,’ said Ken in his gentle burr, eyes on the menu. ‘I think I’ll try that pithi— pie thing. That sounds just up my street, that does.’
    Oh please make him be telling the truth, willed Angie, watching the colour drain from Yvonne and Jerry’s faces. Jerry even dropped his joke sheet on the floor with shock.
    ‘Congratulations. And how are you enjoying your newfound wealth?’ asked Vernon with genuine admiration.
    ‘Not bad,’ replied Cyn. ‘I still can’t sleep past five in the morning though. I think we’ll end up buying a couple of cows as pets. I miss ’em.’
    Funnily enough after that, Jerry and Yvonne’s attitude changed considerably towards the ex-farming couple. They were sucking up to them like a turbo-vacuum. Yvonne even complimented them both on the pattern of their knitwear, suddenly impressed by Fair Isle.
    Gil managed some soup, a bread roll and a couple of mouthfuls of roast chicken before giving eating up as a bad job. Despite his protestations, Angie accompanied him back to the room. The sea was still rolling but it had calmed since the previous day at least.
    ‘Darling, I am so sorry,’ replied Gil, climbing into bed. ‘Go and watch a show. Please. Don’t babysit me.’
    Only because she didn’t want him to feel bad, Angie agreed and went off to find a seat in the theatre where a comedian was going to perform. He certainly tickled the audience but Angie felt guilty about being there when Gil wasn’t well. Then again, he would have felt guilty if she wasn’t there. She really was between a rock and a hard place.
    She wasn’t tired at the end of the performance so she decided to have a nightcap in one of the bars. Corniche was in a quiet corner on the eighth floor. The galleried landing afforded a view over an open area currently being used for ballroom purposes. Angie ordered a double Armagnac and sat watching the dancers below. There was a tall elegant lady in a sparkling black dress dancing with an elderly man. She looked like the older-version-of-Sharon-Stone woman whom Angie had seen in the service station car park. The one who reminded her of Selina.
    Angie’s thoughts once again drifted to her school days. The gym. Selina pretending she had hurt her ankle so she wouldn’t have to do country dancing. She’d hated it. She would rather have stuck hatpins up her nose than jig a Roger de Coverley or a Birds and the Bees. Selina wouldn’t even dance in discos. She thought it was the most pathetic thing in the world for someone to gyrate to music in a crowd. It was apparently whilst Angie was happily strutting her stuff to Peter Andre at the last sixth-form disco that Selina moved in on Zander standing at the side.
    Angie went back to the cabin and slipped into bed beside Gil. He was sleeping soundly and tonight would stay that way all night. Angie dreamed that she was eighteen and she was dancing. She looked over to see Zander and Selina staring into each other’s eyes and she couldn’t push through the crowds to stop them. She awoke in the middle of the night with old feelings of hurt and longing once again uncovered, raw and