“I would have picked somewhere more…” she paused, eyeing up the two sea-gulls screaming at each other at the edge of the shore while he wrestled with the clasp on his briefcase.
Their cars waited on the cracked, weed strewed concrete, three hundred yards behind them. It was the sort of beach that struggled to find warm days in Summer. She pulled her jacket tighter and looked back at the contact.
“This isn’t a place where you can meet someone unnoticed.” she said.
“It’s fine.” he reassured her, the briefcase popping open at last. “No one alive for fifty miles.”
Kept the rest of us waiting; hands bearing down on pocket linings as we hunted for the warmth of previous hours before the storm.
“He will be here.” she said, your wife of three months. We did not comment on the press of curves against the clarity of damp cotton; only offered her jackets which she refused with the comment: “They are not his.”
We stood ankle deep in leaves, eyes towards the bank where track met road and carriages might run. We heard the horses first; they did not like the thunder.