'Why's that?'

'Breakfast is served at eight-thirty on weekends. You're too early.'

'I thought you said I could have breakfast early if I wanted to.'

'I don't think we agreed to that.'

'I wake early,' I say. 'I always eat breakfast before eight o'clock.'

'I'm as busy as a frog in a sock,' she says.

I stand.

'I'm sorry,' I say.

I've told her I'm sorry when I've nothing to be sorry for.

I go to the front door without saying goodbye, as though this is the way to show my strength.

It's a cold, bright morning and I walk along the water's edge with my hands outstretched. There's n.o.body but that old man with his small white dog to see me.

I go to the cafe.

There are four people, each of them alone, at four separate tables.

I stand by an empty booth and the lovely waitress comes from the kitchen carrying two plates.

'h.e.l.lo,' she says.

'h.e.l.lo.'

It takes me too long to realise I'm standing in her way. 'Take a seat,' she says.

I sit.

A few minutes later, she comes back.

'Your mum was in here yesterday evening.'

'Was she?'

'She came for her tea with another lady.'

Jennifer.

'Right.'

'She wanted to know why I wasn't an actress. She was very sweet.'

I fancy the waitress, and my mother's sniffed the air and realised it.

'Don't worry,' she says. 'She said she was going home this morning.'

My mother's already gone then and I don't feel too great about it. I wanted her to go, and now she's gone it's like rejection, feels like it was her idea and not mine.

'What would you like to eat?'

'Sausages and eggs.'

I read the newspaper while I wait.

The waitress comes with my breakfast, four sausages, two eggs, two pieces of b.u.t.tered toast.

I take my time eating and read the paper, start at the back, then work my way to the front.

When she comes to clear my plate, I look at her and smile.

'This is a nice cafe,' I say.

'I'm glad you like it. My dad owns it.'

'Why doesn't it have a name?'

'It does. It's called The Harvest, but the sign's being re-painted. It used to be called Powell's, but we all hated that name. We changed it four years ago.'

'Who's Powell?'

'That's the family name. But it's a boring name for a cafe.'

'Harvest is good.'

'I agree.'

She's got blue eyes and, as far as I'm concerned, blue eyes are more real than any other colour.

'How long have you worked here?' I ask. 'Four years.'

'You changed the name first chance you got.'

'That's right.'

'Is it fun working here?'

'Listen,' she says. 'I need to serve a few tables. I'll come back to you.'

I want to say more, something smarter than the things I've said, one more thing before she walks away.

'I'll be here,' I say. 'When you come back.'

'Where else would you be?'

'Right,' I laugh.

I watch her serve tables.

She's not only tanned, but she's got small nostrils to match her small nose and everything about her is neat and in proportion.

I stall at the counter when I'm paying the bill.

She gives me change, but I'm not ready to leave. Sunday's a lonely day, and if a man's lonely on this day people will probably think he's always lonely.

I'll have her think I'm busy.

'I'd better go,' I say.

'Are you late?'

'Only a bit.'

'Time flies when you're having fun,' she says.

I put the change in my pocket, but go on looking at her.

We give each other a smile and it seems a pact's been formed. How quickly it happens when it happens.

'I might come again tomorrow,' I say. 'I like it here.'

'Good,' she says. 'I'm open till ten o'clock.'

I turn to leave, but I've got to go back and ask her name. I take a deep breath and turn round.

'What's your name?'

'Georgia.'

'I'm Patrick.'

'Nice to meet you, Patrick.'

'And you,' I say.

I kill some time down the pier. The pavilion's open and I play arcade games and slot-machines and win a few quid. I buy a hamburger for lunch and sit on a bench and watch a fisherman untangle his net, watch the couples walking together arm in arm. I get to thinking I'll go back to the cafe tonight, before closing, have a good chat with Georgia and offer to walk her home.

At four o'clock, the air cools and dark clouds threaten a storm.

I get back to the house just as a heavy rain starts up.

Bridget's already started making the dinner and there's a good smell of roasting chicken.

I go straight to the office.

She's doing sums in a red ledger.

'I'd like to use an iron,' I say.

'You'll have to get it from Ian,' she says. 'He was using it this morning.'

I go to Welkin's room, but he's got company. The radio's turned up loud, but not loud enough to cover the sound of the grunting and giggling.

'I'm busy,' he says.

I go back to my room and sit at the table and without any warning I've a vision of Welkin with his trousers round his ankles. He's not bothered to undress, wears his shoes, and his girl lies on the end of the bed, her hips on the edge of the mattress, her legs round his waist, her hands grabbing at his hair.

He's got my blood boiling.

I go back down.

Bridget's in the sitting room putting flowers in a vase.

'Welkin's got company,' I say.

'Has he?'

'Yeah.'

'Did you get the iron?'

'No. He has company.'

I put my haunches on the edge of the settee.

'Well,' she says. 'You can get the iron later.'

'I'm going out tonight,' I say. 'I want to iron my good shirt and trousers.'

'Can't you get it later?'

'So, it's okay then?' I say.

She picks up a cushion, holds it to her chest.

'Within reason,' she says. She looks at the door. 'As long as the girl's gone by midnight and so long as there's not too much noise.'

I say nothing.

'We're all grown-ups, Patrick.'

I shift my weight too quickly on the settee and it rocks.