This was unprecedented. As I have noted, Mary never drinks in the week and not often at weekends.

‘I’ll just go and change,’ I said. ‘You must have come home early?’

‘Yes, I’m off to Geneva again in the morning so I thought it would be nice for us to have a proper dinner together before I go.’

Ah, so that was it. When I came downstairs dinner was ready, and two glasses of white wine were misting on the kitchen table.

‘This is really good,’ I said, after a mouthful. And it was. Mary shook her head and said something about being out of practice.

I sipped my wine and asked, ‘Do you still have no idea how long you are in Geneva for?’

‘Well, that’s just it,’ she said, putting her fork down. ‘I told you before that I’m standing in for someone who fell ill and died. They want me to stay there for at least a year, not just on a temporary basis. They’ve been very impressed with my work.’

I said it seemed a bit hard on me that she was the only person in the bank they could find to send out there. Mary frowned and said, ‘Why not me? I’m very good. It’s a great opportunity. It’s promotion, even if the salary isn’t very different.’

It was happening again. Mary could have been one of Napoleon’s generals: for her, attack was not just the best form of defence, but the only form of defence. We began to argue. Despite my intention to keep the conversation at the calm, rational level I prefer I too became annoyed. I remember saying, almost shouting, that I didn’t think she had spent five minutes considering what my feelings might be. So she told me how selfish I was and how little account I took of her career, and how I was always impossible to talk to because I thought of nothing but my bloody, bloody fish.

‘I must have told you a dozen times, if I get offered the job in Geneva as a permanent position, the next step is almost certainly a senior posting to London. I’ve told you a dozen times,’ she repeated.

‘At least a dozen,’ I said. This was not helpful of me, but I couldn’t stop myself.

‘Oh, I’m sorry if I’ve been boring you. Well, here’s a bit of news which I won’t repeat too often because I won’t be here to repeat it. I’m going to Geneva tomorrow. I will be away for at least six months before I am entitled to any leave. I can’t come home at weekends because they work Saturday mornings in the bank. If you want to come and see me, my address and some other notes for you are on my desk in the study.’

She was really angry now. She told me I didn’t care; I was buried in my own career, and now on our last evening I was being sarcastic and self-centred. She pushed her plate away and I heard her run up the stairs and slam the bedroom door.

I haven’t the nerve to go in there tonight. I’ll try and catch her in the morning before she leaves.

23 August

This morning I made a last effort. I felt shattered by the evening before. These emotional exchanges take it out of me, and I felt bilious all night long. Despite that I was up at five, and went downstairs in my pyjamas to find Mary’s cases in the hall. Mary herself was sitting drinking a mug of tea at the kitchen table.

She looked at me in a not very friendly way and asked me what I was doing up at that time of day.

‘To say goodbye, of course,’ I said. ‘Darling, don’t let’s part on a sour note. I’m going to miss you.’

‘Well, you should have thought of that before you were so unpleasant to me last night.’

The front door bell buzzed. It was her taxi.

Mary stood up. She allowed me the faintest peck on the cheek by way of a kiss, and then in a few moments she, her cases and the taxi had gone. Gone for how long, I wonder. For a year? For good?

Written and posted in Frankfurt airport

10 May

Darling Harriet,

I don’t know how to tell you this. I tried you on your mobile and left a message, but by the time you pick it up I will be out of the country and not contactable by phone or email.

I was rung by the adjutant and given about five minutes’ notice to get packed and out to the airport. We flew commercial to Frankfurt, which is where I am now. I’m writing this in a little coffee place in the departure lounge. We have a few minutes before our connecting flight out to Basra.

Yes, I’m afraid I’m going to Iraq and that means our week together is in ruins. Darling, I feel as sick about this as you will do when you read this. One thing I have already decided: I’ll do my tour here, which is meant to be about twelve weeks, but when I come back I’m going to put in my papers. I’m going to leave the forces. I’m not especially ambitious for promotion-I can’t be bothered to go to staff college. I only joined up because Dad wanted me to, and I was never going to get to university. I just wanted a few years of fun. Well,

I’ve had lots of fun and they’ve looked after me very well, so I suppose when they tap me on the shoulder and send me somewhere slightly unpleasant, I can’t object.

But now I’ve met you, as a way of life the marines are no longer for me. It’s just as you say. It would be so good to settle down and become part of somewhere again, instead of constantly passing through.

That’s small consolation for a bust holiday, but I hope you will understand. Don’t worry about Iraq, it’s just a routine rotation of people. I wasn’t on the list but someone had a slight accident so I was pulled in to replace him. We won’t be doing any dangerous stuff. The place has calmed down a lot over the years. It’s more public relations than anything else. I’d almost prefer it if we saw some action, because otherwise it can be a very dull place to be stuck, particularly at this time of year when it’s almost too hot to go outside.

Anyway, I’ll be thinking of you. We’ll go away the minute I get back. That’s a promise.

Write to me as soon as you can c⁄o BFPO Basra Palace, Basra, and it should reach me pretty quickly. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for a while. If I’m on the base at Basra I should get letters almost straight away, but if I’m in-country there might be some delay before I have a chance to see them.

So don’t ever worry about me. I’ll be all right.

Love,

Robert

Letter

Captain Robert Matthews

c⁄o BFPO Basra Palace

Basra

Iraq

12 May

Darling Robert,

You can imagine my first reaction when I picked up your message on my voicemail. I went in a rage to my desk and pulled out the file with all the copies of the hotel and car hire reservations and tore them up. Then I burst into tears.

In other words, I behaved just as badly as you might have expected, but I think you will admit I had some excuse. I was looking forward to our holiday in France together so much. Now I’ve got over that I spend all my time imagining something ghastly might happen to you, but I know that’s just me being stupid again, plus a hyperactive imagination. I don’t think you have any imagination at all, and never worry about anything. Or at least that’s what you always tell me, and of course you will be perfectly all right with your friends around you, and because you’ve done it all before.

Now I sort of accept it, and I just want you to know I’m thinking of you every minute, and when I’m asleep I dream about you. You can’t ask for more than that, can you?