Matthew took her hand, moved by the frankness of what she had said. These words, he felt, were like an act of undressing. “You took yourself away.”

He dropped her hand and walked across the hall to switch on a light. “Is your suitcase all ready?”

She nodded.

“And your passport?” Matthew asked.

She laughed. “Do we need that for Arran?”

“I wouldn’t mind going to Arran,” said Matthew. “We used to go over there when I was a boy. My uncle had a house near Brodick and we would go there in the summer. It was mostly Glasgow people and there was a boy there whom we called Soapy Soutar and who threw a stone at me because I was from Edinburgh. He said I deserved it and that if I came back next summer it would be a rock. I remember it so clearly.”

“So it’s not Arran. Why don’t you tell me?”

“Because I want it to be a surprise.”

She reached out and slipped her hand back into his. “You’re a romantic.”

“If you can’t be a romantic about your own wedding,” he said, “then what can you be romantic about?”

“So no clue at all?”

He thought for a moment. “A tiny one… maybe. All right. A tiny clue.”

She looked at him, searching his expression. She hoped that it would be Italy; that he would say something like “where there’s water in the streets” or “the Pope lives nearby” or hum a few bars of “Return to Sorrento.”

“It’s a big place,” said Matthew at last.

So they were going to America (or Canada, or Russia, or Argentina).

“You’ve got to tell me more than that. You must.”

Matthew looked at her teasingly. “I really want it to be a surprise. So that’s all I’m going to say.”

“Texas. Texas is big.”

Matthew frowned. If she insisted on guessing, sooner or later she would come up with the right answer and he was not sure that he would be able to remain impassive when at last she did.