Chapter 24: The Good Match

A year to the day after the gala, Sylvie took me to a restaurant with tablecloths.

She had booked it in her own name.

She wore a green dress and had put on ten pounds.

She ordered for both of us without looking at the menu.

"Is this one all right?" she asked the waiter, about the wine.

"It's fine," I said.

"You're only saying that."

"I don't know wine. It's red."

She laughed.

She laughed easily now, a full, loud laugh, and the next table turned and smiled at us.

My kidney was working well in her, and the one I had kept was working well in me.

Every Sunday we compared scars and argued about whose was neater.

Richard came in for dessert.

He had his own chair at our table and a standing order for a lemon tart.

He had stopped apologising at Christmas, because I made him.

He kissed Sylvie on the head.

He held out his hand to me, and I took it, and he held it a moment longer than he needed to.

"How's the shop?" he asked.

"Busy."

"Your name's still on the sign."

"My name and the old boss's," I said. "We're opening a second one in Westport in the spring."

"With what?"

"A loan from a bank that has never heard of the Ashcrofts."

He laughed, which he did not often do.

Diane had written eleven letters.

I had kept them in the drawer of my desk in the order they came, unopened.

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