i know fliss would tell me not to, but it's not her life, is it?

i don't exactly know what i want to say to him. in fact, i think i don't want to say anything. i only want to make a connection. like when you reach for someone's hand and squeeze it. that's it: i want to squeeze his hand over the ether. and if he pulls his hand away, well, then i'll know.

i can see the two russian women coming on deck, and i hurry round the corner so they won't see me. i pull out my phone, stare at it for an instant, then plunge my finger down onto the keypad. as his number rings, my heart starts to thud, and i feel sick.

"hello, it's richard finch here."

it's gone to voicemail. my stomach corkscrews in panic and i press stop. i can't leave a voicemail. a voicemail isn't a squeezed hand. it's an envelope pressed into the palm. and i don't know what i want to put in the envelope. not exactly.

i try to visualize what he might be doing right now. i have no concept of his life in san francisco. getting up, maybe? having a shower? i don't even know what his apartment looks like. he's drifted right away from me. tears sting my eyes and i look miserably at my phone. could i try again? would that count as stalking?

"lottie! there you are!" it's ben, along with yuri. i shove my phone back in my pocket and turn to face them. ben is pink-faced from booze, and my heart sinks. he looks manic, like a small child who's stayed up too late. "we're going to seal the deal over some champagne," he says excitedly. "yuri's got some vintage krug. care to join us?"

29

arthur

young people! with their hurrying and their worrying and their wanting all the answers now. they wear me out, the poor, harried things.

don't come back, i always tell them. don't come back.

youth is still where you left it, and that's where it should stay. anything that was worth taking on life's journey, you'll already have taken with you.

twenty years i've been saying this, but do they listen? do they, hell. here comes another of them now. panting and puffing as he reaches the top of the cliff. late thirties, i'd guess. attractive enough, against the blue sky. looks a bit like a politician. do i mean that? maybe a movie star.

i don't remember his face from the old days. not that that means anything. these days i barely even recall my own face when i glimpse it in the mirror. i can see this chap's gaze raking the surroundings, taking in me sitting in my chair under my favorite olive tree.

"are you arthur?" he says abruptly.

"guilty."

i scan him adroitly. looks well off. wearing one of those expensive-logo polo shirts. probably good for a few double scotches.

"you must want a drink," i say pleasantly. always useful to steer the conversation in the direction of the bar early on.

"i don't want a drink," he says. "i want to know what happened."

i can't help stifling a yawn. so predictable. he wants to know what happened. another merchant banker having a midlife crisis, returning to the scene of his youth. the scene of the crime. leave it where it was, i want to answer. turn round. return to your adult, problematic life, because you won't solve it here.

but he wouldn't believe me. they never do.

"dear boy," i say gently. "you grew up. that's what happened."

"no," he says impatiently, and rubs his sweaty brow. "you don't understand. i'm here for a reason. listen to me." he comes forward a few paces, an impressive height and figure against the sun, intentness of purpose on his handsome face. "i'm here for a reason," he repeats. "i wasn't going to get involved-but i can't help it. i have to do this. i want to know what exactly happened the night of the fire?"

30

lottie

when i give my making your job work for you! seminar to staff members at blay pharmaceuticals, one of my themes is: you can learn from everything. i take a sample workplace situation and we brainstorm and then list as bullet points what you learned from this.

after two hours on yuri zhernakov's yacht, my bullet points would go as follows: