‘The rules don’t allow it,’ she said.

‘What rules?’ he demanded, trying to curb the anger.

‘The rules by which the British expatriates live,’ she said.

He laughed, trying to relax her. She remained stiff in the seat beside him.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he pleaded.

‘I know them,’ she insisted. ‘Had them sweating over me at night and shoving past me in the street with their wives the following morning, contemptuous that I exist.’

‘Come on,’ he said, determinedly getting out of the vehicle.

He walked around to the passenger side, opening her door.

She stayed staring ahead.

‘Come on,’ he repeated.

She didn’t move.

‘Please,’ he said. He had begun to enunciate clearly, a man intending to show his words and judgment were unaffected by the mid-morning whisky back at the apartment.

She looked up at him, still unable to gauge the effect of drink upon him, but with a professional awareness of its dangers.

‘It’s a mistake,’ she warned him.

‘No it’s not,’ he said, reaching out for her.

Reluctantly she got out of the car. He took her arm, leading her to the verandah, gazing around defiantly for seats. There were two at the end, with a poor view of the sun-silvered bay and the township of Aberdeen beyond, but he hurried to them, ahead of another couple who emerged from inside the hotel.

The waiter was not slow in approaching them but Nelson began waving his hands, clapping them together for attention, and when the drinks were finally served Jenny spilled some of hers in the contagious nervousness and then used too much water trying to remove the stain. It meant there was a large damp patch on her skirt when they finally walked to the buffet line and then to the table he had reserved. Conscious of it, she walked awkwardly. At the table, she ate with her head bent over her plate, rarely looking up when he tried to speak to her.