To Cut a Long Story Short

‘No,’ replied Angus. ‘My wife and I live on Jersey, but our twin boys are at school here on the south coast, so we sail across at the end of every term and take them back for their holidays. And you? Do you live in Brighton?’

‘No, London, but I come down whenever I can find the time to do a spot of sailing, which I fear isn’t often enough - as you’ve already discovered,’ he added with a chuckle, as a woman appeared from below the deck of The Scottish Belle.

Angus turned and smiled. ‘Ruth, this is Max Bennett. We literally bumped into each other.’

Max smiled across at a woman who could have passed as Henderson’s daughter, as she was at least twenty years younger than her husband. Although not beautiful, she was striking, and from her trim, athletic build she looked as if she might work out every day. She gave Max a shy smile.

‘Why don’t you join us for a drink?’ suggested Angus.

‘Thank you,’ said Max, and clambered across onto the larger boat. He leaned forward and shook Ruth’s hand. ‘How nice to meet you, Mrs Henderson.’

‘Ruth, please. Do you live in Brighton?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Max. ‘I was just telling your husband that I only come down for the odd weekend to do a little sailing. And what do you do on Jersey?’ he asked, turning his attention back to Angus. ‘You certainly weren’t born there.’

‘No, we moved there from Edinburgh after I retired seven years ago. I used to manage a small broking business. All I do nowadays is keep an eye on one or two of my family properties to make sure they’re showing a worthwhile return, sail a little and play the occasional round of golf. And you?’ he enquired.

‘Not unlike you, but with a difference.’

‘Oh? What’s that?’ asked Ruth.

‘I also look after property, but it belongs to other people. I’m a junior partner with a West End estate agent.’

‘How are property prices in London at the moment?’ asked Angus after another gulp of whisky.

‘It’s been a bad couple of years for most agents - no one wants to sell, and only foreigners can afford to buy. And anybody whose lease comes up for renewal demands that their rent should be lowered, while others are simply defaulting.’

Angus laughed. ‘Perhaps you should move to Jersey. At least that way you would avoid …’

We ought to think about getting changed, if we’re not going to be late for the boys’ concert,’ interrupted Ruth.

Henderson checked his watch. ‘Sorry, Max,’ he said. ‘Nice to talk to you, but Ruth’s right. Perhaps we’ll bump into each other again.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ replied Max. He smiled, placed his glass on a nearby table and clambered back onto his own boat as the Hendersons disappeared below deck.

Once again, Max picked up his much-thumbed novel, and although he finally found the right place, he discovered he couldn’t concentrate on the words. Thirty minutes later the Hendersons reappeared, suitably dressed for a concert. Max gave them a casual wave as they stepped onto the quay and into a waiting taxi.

When Ruth appeared on the deck the following morning, clutching a cup of tea, she was disappointed to find that Sea Urchin was no longer moored next to them. She was about to disappear back below deck when she thought she recognised a familiar boat entering the harbour.

She didn’t move as she watched the sail become larger and larger, hoping that Max would moor in the same spot as he had the previous evening. He waved when he saw her standing on the deck. She pretended not to notice.

Once he’d fixed the moorings, he called across, ‘So, where’s Angus?’

‘Gone to pick up the boys and take them off to a rugby match. I’m not expecting him back until this evening,’ she added unnecessarily.

Max tied a bowline to the jetty, looked up and said, ‘Then why don’t you join me for lunch, Ruth? I know a little Italian restaurant that the tourists haven’t come across yet.’

Ruth pretended to be considering his offer, and eventually said, ‘Yes, why not?’

‘Shall we meet up in half an hour?’ Max suggested.

‘Suits me,’ replied Ruth.

Ruth’s half-hour turned out to be nearer fifty minutes, so Max returned to his paperback, but once again made little progress.

When Ruth did eventually reappear, she had changed into a black leather mini-skirt, a white blouse and black stockings, and had put on a little too much make-up, even for Brighton.

Max looked down at her legs. Not bad for thirty-eight, he thought, even if the skirt was a little too tight and certainly too short.