“An ugly girl once gave me a box
containing a pebble, to use to throw at her window
 whenever I fancied taking her out. Of course we both
knew that that would never happen.”

Laurence had been wondering about love. B said he loved
only the way he needed to. On recovering, he had replied, doesn’t everyone? For her righteousness he decided to leave her at
home, careful to be vague about his errand. She understood
at once that he would be spending the day with Nanette.

They had agreed to meet in the park, at their usual place,
under a wave of tall brown grass that grew
on one of the man-made hills.
Laurence had brought a blanket, which he
shook out and spread over the ground.
The loose soil on the way up ensured that this spot
was always lonely, in spite of the view.
About 200 metres away, on the next hill in
line of sight stood the Royal Observatory, its
dome open a crack. On the plain below them lay the
Queen’s House, the ghosts of Henry VIII’s old
summer palace and, across the water, London.

Nanette tried to feel genteel. That was what
Maritime Greenwich did to you, but today it seemed
to require effort. Laurence's story recalled her to a
 time—a very different time—she didn't want to remember.
She kept herself very still, to attend to the panorama.

The panorama didn’t count to Laurence. Elliot Winter was dead.

He had paused for a response, but gaining none,
tossed away the stone that had attracted him, and began
to unpack their picnic. “I forgot to bring some of that
 rhubarb-and-ginger jam that you liked,” he said. Nanette
reached into her bag and pulled out a daintily wrapped jar. He knew she would hunt out the shop he’d found it in, because this jam was her kind of thing. It had a very pleasant tang that
 had nothing to do with either of its ingredients, that is, it was a
thing capable of surprise. Give us two of your favourite
 words, the journalist had asked. Surprise, and attack, he
had replied. And now he was dead.

Nanette peered at Laurence’s
face. She couldn’t mention Elliot. He hadn't told her
about it. Perhaps she wasn't meant to know. 

“What’s your favourite word, Nanette?” 

“That’s an American question. That’s a Hollywood celebrity
question,” she replied. This irritated him. He lay back down and
watched her small dull eyes. How would B have answered
the question? How would B, his Delilah, his Arabella,
his Old Man of the Sea answer?

 “You never liked him,” she hazarded. “No,” Laurence whispered,
failing to notice anything amiss. What would he say if I
 told him I went to see Elliot’s brother last night,
she thought. I heard the news too, Laurence. I’ve known those
 two for a long time. But how could I tell you? He’s from your
big world. I’m only from one of your little ones...
“How’s Lamorna?”

Lamorna. I haven’t heard that word in ages,
thought Laurence. “She’s called  B.”  She’s called B
 because that’s what’s missing from Lam.

Had it been Elliot, then, all this time, Nanette thought. Elliot. She
couldn’t blame Laurence. They sat silent for some time. It was 
August, and hard to tell from the sky whether it was
now actually night.

“Things coming to an end,” Nanette said at last.
“Yes.”