As Banks entered Filey, he concentrated more on the roads and found the hill that sloped down to the seafront. He had suggested that he and Julie meet in a pub or restaurant, but Julie had insisted that he dine with her at the B&B. It was off season, she had said, and there were no paying guests. Besides, it would be more private. Her chef husband loved nothing more than a chance to show off his skills, she told him. Banks agreed. Why argue against a meal cooked by a fine chef?
There seemed to be quite a squall out on the water, with the wind whipping things up and the waves slapping hard against the sea wall, cascading spray on to the road. Julie had given him clear directions when he phoned to inform her he was coming, and she told him he could park on the front by the row of houses. When Banks saw the sandbags, though, he decided to find a more sheltered spot and parked back up the hill, around the corner, where the houses themselves provided a barrier. The wind tugged at his coat as he walked along the promenade towards the B&B, one of a terrace of similar guest houses, and he could taste the salt on his lips, feel its sting in his eyes.
He walked up the path and rang the doorbell. He would have recognised the woman who had answered his ring even if he hadn’t known who she was. She still looked young for her years, and though she had filled out quite a bit, the plumper version was similar to the one he remembered, except it had rather more substance, more chins, the eyes more deeply buried in puffy cheeks. Her husband’s cooking, perhaps.
She stared at him, a distant smile on her face. ‘Alan Banks, as I live and breathe. Come in, dearie. Do come in. Marcel is busy preparing dinner for us. He’ll be out later to say hello, but he has to go out to a business meeting tonight. We’ve got the place all to ourselves.’
Banks followed her inside and took off his coat in the hallway.
‘We’ll eat in the guests’ dining room,’ Julie said. ‘There’s a nice window table with a view of the sea, or as much as you can see of it in this weather.’
‘If you like,’ said Banks.
‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy the view. It’s a bit wild tonight, isn’t it?’
‘Just a bit.’
‘It’s just through here.’
Banks followed her into the front room, where a table in the bay window was already laid for two with white linen cloth, serviettes in silver rings, gleaming cutlery and two candles flickering in cut glass holders. The rest of the room, filled with bare tables, was in semi-darkness and shadow except for a small dimly lit bar at the end where they entered. Julie asked him if he wanted an aperitif. Banks knew he would have to be careful, but one aperitif and one glass of wine with dinner wouldn’t put him over the limit. He asked if she had Pernod. She did. He watched the clear liquid cloud up as she added a little water and ice. She poured a sherry for herself then led the way to the table, giving Banks the place with the best view of the raging sea.
When they sat down, she raised her glass and proposed a toast. ‘To absent friends.’
‘To absent friends,’ Banks repeated.
It felt strange sitting opposite Julie in the candlelight, surrounded by the dark, deserted dining room, waves crashing against the sea wall and splashing over the road. Christmas lights still strung along the prom between the lamp posts danced and flickered in the wind, and the streetlights themselves reflected and rippled in the undulating water just off the shore. The whitecaps stretched a long way out to sea. Banks felt apprehension. What was he doing here? It all seemed so arranged. Did she have something special in mind? The place to themselves, the candlelight, the view of the sea. He dismissed the thoughts. Her husband was cooking for them.
‘Don’t worry,’ Julie said, clearly noticing an expression of concern on his face and misinterpreting it. ‘The waves rarely come as far as the garden gate. Even on a night like this. We’ve only been flooded once since we moved here over ten years ago. The sandbags are there mostly to reassure people. The squalls come and go. You wait and see, it’ll be all over by the time we’ve finished dinner. The starters should be here soon.’
As if on cue, a man carrying a tray walked into the room. He wasn’t dressed as a chef, but was wearing dark trousers and an open-neck checked shirt. Julie introduced him. He put down the tray, and Banks stood up to shake hands. Unlike his wife, Marcel was tall and rangy. ‘Just a little appetiser,’ he said, gesturing to the plate. ‘Foie gras, figs and crusty bread.’ Then he excused himself and returned to the kitchen.
‘Do tuck in, Alan,’ said Julie, taking a couple of figs. ‘I’m afraid I can’t touch the foie gras myself, not with the state my heart’s in these days.’
‘Serious?’
‘No. Well, yes, I suppose. I mean, anything to do with the heart is serious, isn’t it? I’d been getting a bit short of breath, so I had some tests done. The upshot was that the doctor gave me some pills, told me to lose a few pounds and to cut back on the fatty stuff.’
‘I’ve been told the same,’ said Banks, spreading a little foie gras on a slice of crusty bread.
Julie laughed. The skin around her eyes wrinkled. ‘But you’re skinny as a rake,’ she said. ‘You must be one of those enviable people who can eat what they want and not add an inch to their waistline.’
‘I suppose I’ve been lucky that way, yes,’ said Banks. ‘I didn’t mean the weight, though. Just the fatty stuff.’
‘Ah.’
A wave hit hard against the sea wall, and Banks could swear a few drops of water splashed on the bay window. Julie didn’t seem concerned.
Marcel delivered their main courses next: roast cod with a light watercress sauce and roasted cherry tomatoes, buttered new potatoes and haricots verts. ‘Try the white Rioja with it,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll enjoy it...’ He turned to Julie. ‘I have to go now, love. There’s a nice cheese plate on the kitchen table for later, along with a drop of Sauternes, and there’s fruit and ice cream if you want sweet stuff.’ He bent forwards to kiss her lightly on the cheek. ‘I won’t be late. Nice to meet you, Mr Banks.’ Then he was gone. Banks felt as if he were being deliberately left alone with Julie to put forward some sort of business or romantic proposal. Again he felt a twinge of apprehension.
‘Don’t be so nervous,’ Julie said.
‘I must admit I hadn’t expected such a feast when I invited myself,’ Banks said, picking up his knife and fork.
‘Oh, he loves it,’ said Julie. ‘Any excuse to spend time on his creations, and make a mess in the kitchen. Honestly, sometimes I think he does it just to get away from me.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Banks.
‘Well, maybe not. He’s one of the good ones, Marcel is. A keeper.’
‘This is excellent,’ said Banks. ‘Nice wine, too. Be sure to pass on my compliments to the chef.’
‘You can do it yourself. He won’t be late back.’
‘Now what was it you wanted to tell me?’
‘Did I say I wanted to tell you something?’
‘You certainly hinted at it.’
‘Yes. Yes, well, I suppose I did.’ Julie paused. ‘I believe I mentioned in my letter how I spent a lot of time with Emily towards the end.’
‘Yes. It must have been a terrible ordeal.’