I lowered the lids of my two suitcases, snapped the clips shut, and turned the keys in each lock. With one last glance around the cabin that had been my home for three months, I hauled the cases into the alleyway where my steward waited silently.

“Right, Francisco, take them down to the taxi.”

He nodded, slow and solemn. “Yes, Sahib.”

I slung my soft leather holdall from the bed, climbed the stairs to the next deck, and knocked on the door.

From inside came a muffled "Yes".

“It’s me, Captain. I’m off now – thanks for everything.”

He emerged briefly from the depths of his suite, gave me a brisk handshake, and vanished again, pulled back into his shell.

Descending to the main deck, I found myself thinking of the time I’d stood at that same door three weeks earlier at Calcutta.

“Captain, could you ask Personnel to relieve me in Colombo? With all these delays, we won’t reach the UK before my wedding. Mr Strachan promised they would arrange it, otherwise I’d never have signed on for this voyage.”

The dour Scot had looked at me with that bleak, weather-beaten expression of his. “Och, two-oh, they’ll never do it.”

My heart had dropped like a lead weight, but I pressed on. “Please, Sir. At least try.”

To his credit, and to my future’s salvation, he sent the message. Two days later, the head office replied: they would fly a relief officer out.

._.

My flight wasn’t until the following midday, so for one night I had a room booked at the Taprobane Hotel. One of Colombo’s finest, it still carried the unmistakable imprint of colonial times. Stepping into the lobby felt like walking into a fragment of Empire: staff in immaculate white uniforms, brass fittings gleaming under chandeliers that cast a warm light across the polished hardwood floor.

The lift to my second‑floor room looked as though it was from Victoria’s reign. Steel shutters clanged shut, and the attendant pressed one of the large brass buttons with military precision. I still carried my holdall, but the suitcases had vanished the moment I began signing the register at the front desk.

When I reached my room, the bellboy was waiting outside, the door already open in welcome. I slipped a ten‑rupee note from my wallet and handed it to him. He snapped off a smart salute before disappearing down the corridor, leaving me to step inside and take possession of my temporary quarters.

I dropped my bag on the floor, kicked off my shoes, threw off my clothes, and collapsed onto the bed. After barely two hours’ sleep in the past twenty‑four, exhaustion took me, and I was out instantly.

._.

I woke up thirsty and desperate for a pee. Still half‑asleep, I staggered into the en‑suite, drank a tumbler of water in one long pull, and relieved my aching bladder. When I glanced at my watch and realised it was twenty past six, my stomach rumbled enough to make its needs clear. I washed, dressed quickly, and headed for the top‑floor restaurant.

As I approached, the hum of conversation grew louder, and I wondered whether I should have booked a table earlier. My suspicion was confirmed as soon as I reached the entrance; every seat seemed taken.

The maître d’ appeared, wearing an expression of polite regret. “Sahib, we are full with a party of local big‑wigs, but there might be a place for you. Please wait a moment.”

I hovered awkwardly until he returned, then he beckoned me inside and threaded a path through the crowded room. We stopped beside a picture window with a view across the Port Office and the harbour, where a middle‑aged European woman sat alone.

“Sahib, the memsahib has agreed you may share her table.”

I smiled at her. “Thank you, Madam. I’m very grateful.”

She looked up, amused. “Nonsense, young man. I don’t own that seat. Sit down and join me.”

For reasons I couldn’t quite name, I felt nervous. Something in her manner unsettled me. Her invitation had sounded more like a command, and there was an air about her – poise mixed with entitlement – that both attracted me and pushed me away. My next words stumbled out, betraying the turmoil beneath the surface.

“Have you ordered yet?”

“No. Why are you here?”

Again there was that imperious tone, as if addressing a subordinate rather than a dinner companion.

“Err… I’ve just signed off a ship. Flying home tomorrow to get married.”

Something shifted then. An almost imperceptible softening.

“I’m joining my husband on his ship tomorrow,” she said. “He’s the staff captain on the Himalaya.”

The way she pronounced Himalaya – the classic P&O Him‑are‑lee‑ah – grated on me, but I was committed now. There was no graceful escape.

Then she smiled, and her grey eyes warmed. “You’re watching the pennies, no doubt, so the drinks are on me this evening.”

I relaxed and managed a smile in return. “Thanks. I’m Ken, second mate with the City Line.”

“I’m Hyacinth. Now let’s get some wine ordered.”

From that moment, Hyacinth took charge. She recommended a smooth red for me, far beyond my limited knowledge of wine and certainly beyond my budget, and then ordered an even more expensive white for herself. Then, I found myself studying her while we studied our menus.

She looked about my mother’s age, early fifties perhaps. Neatly cut reddish hair, soft grey eyes, and pretty despite the years. Her summer dress, white with scattered bright flowers, looked expensive, as did the two strands of pearls resting around her throat. The V‑neckline, though, didn’t quite reach her generous bust. And on her left hand, the large diamonds on her engagement ring glittered beside the wedding band, catching the light every time she moved.

We slipped into conversation as the courses came and went, though the ‘we’ might be generous. Hyacinth dominated from the outset. I listened as she waxed lyrical about their large house with its endless rooms, billiard‑smooth lawn, ha‑ha, and meadow beyond. I listened as she gossiped about the vicar’s affair with the headmistress of the church infants’ school and then about the local squire’s wife, Elizabeth, whom she suspected of being a lesbian after a drunken kiss one evening. 'She wasn’t sure what lesbians actually did,' she confided, but she was quite certain she didn’t want to be one herself.

On and on she went, her stories looping through every corner of village life. I nodded sagely at intervals, letting her monologue wash over me. Yet something nagged at the edges of her chatter. For all her talk of neighbours, scandals, and her social life, there was a conspicuous absence. No mention of children or her husband, no reference to family at all.

It struck me as hollow – a full life empty at its core, far removed from the warm, chaotic, cosy family world I knew.

Finally, as we sat sipping our coffees, Hyacinth seized control of the evening once more. I was ready to call it a night after three‑quarters of a bottle of red. She had worked her way through two full bottles of white without the slightest sign of slowing. She appeared to have further plans because she lifted the drinks menu, waved it at the waiter, and jabbed her finger at something excitedly.

I waited for the account so I could sign my share, but when it arrived, she snatched it from the waiter’s silver tray.

“It can all go onto my chitty, Ken. The P&O are very generous with their entertainment allowances.”

I tried to intervene, my protest useless. “But… I can claim expenses too.”

“Nonsense, Ken. I’m in charge here.”

With that, she placed a thick wad of rupee notes on the table as a tip, then swept to her feet and signalled for me to follow. At the maître d’s desk, she paused while he handed her a small box, which she passed to me with a curt "Take care. It’s fragile."

We stepped out into the corridor, and she turned to me with yet another command.

“Follow me.”

We wound our way down the grand staircase. One hand clung to the bannister, the other gripped the little box. Every step required concentration. I watched my foot hover in front of me before lowering it to the thick carpet, my body swaying slightly as the alcohol made its presence felt.

Hyacinth, by contrast, seemed entirely unaffected. She swept ahead confidently but paused at the landing. When I caught up, she slipped her arm through mine and propelled me along the corridor. At her door, she turned the key, pushed it open, and pulled me inside.

Opposite the foot of the bed stood a writing desk with a chair tucked neatly beneath it. She pulled the chair out, turned it to face the room, and issued another command.

“Sit, Ken.”

I slumped down gratefully. She lifted the box from my hand, opened it with ease, and drew out a bottle of unmistakably expensive whisky. I watched as she bustled about the room; first to the bathroom, where she collected two tumblers, then to the fridge, from which she retrieved a bottle of mineral water.

At last she opened the Scotch and poured two generous measures, adding an equal amount of water to each before handing one to me.

“Half and half,” she said. “That’s the way to take this medicine.”

She paused, then tapped the rim of her glass lightly against mine. “Cheers.”

Hyacinth kicked off her heels and settled into the armchair opposite me, studying me over the rim of her glass. Since leaving the restaurant, everything had passed in a kind of whirl, but now, in the quiet of her room, a faint unease crept in. I wasn’t entirely sure why I was here or what she expected. Perhaps I was imagining things. Perhaps she wanted company for a drinking session.

I sipped from my glass, but the uncertainty remained, prickling at the edges of my thoughts. Then she spoke – hesitantly this time, her tone quite different from the brisk tone she’d used over dinner.

“When is your wedding date, Ken?”

“In three weeks.”

She let out a soft, dismissive "Humph", then continued, “And when was the last time you kissed a woman other than your intended?”

Perhaps I should have stopped her there and left. But in my befuddled condition, I rose to the bait.

“Just after we first got engaged. She was ill, and I went to a party at one of her friend’s houses. I had too much beer, stayed too late, and snogged her friend. Nothing more than that.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

I swallowed and lied. “Yes. Sita phoned me a few days later, trying to get me to go out with her. By then I was feeling guilty and fobbed her off. Fortunately, she never told my girl about it.”

"She's fat – nutcracker thighs, big boobs." A stupid grin tugged at my mouth. "I still fancy her."

“Such a sweet name. Who is Sita?”

“Her parents own a newspaper shop; they’re Indian. The family fled from Uganda a couple of years ago.”

She paused, then demanded more. “What is your beloved’s name?

I stammered my reply, “Julie.”

Now Hyacinth knew everything. "You like that?" she murmured. "Confessing your little fantasies to me?"

Hyacinth stood and shuffled across the space between us, hitching her skirt slightly as she moved. It was my second chance to flee, but again I failed to act. She straddled my legs and settled her weight onto my thighs.

I looked up at her face, watching her take another sip from her glass. Then she lowered it to my lips and tipped the remaining whisky into my mouth before leaning over me to place the glass on the table.

Her hands came to rest on my shoulders as she spoke the fateful words.

“This is your last chance, Ken. Take it, because in three weeks your freedom disappears before the altar.”

Then her lips crushed against mine. We kissed deeply, supping from the cup of cheaters.

._.

In the morning, I woke with a brutal hangover – and an even heavier sense of guilt. Whatever happened the night before was driven by drink and Hyacinth's entrapment, not affection. In the cold clarity of daylight, it felt like a mistake. There had been no tenderness, no connection, only a moment of desire that she had controlled, and I had been too foggy to resist.

At breakfast I sat alone at the same table, silent, nursing a cup of Ceylon tea I could barely face. I stared out of the window toward the berth where my ship had been moored. She had been replaced by the bulk of the Himalaya, the white hull and upperworks catching the rising sun. Hyacinth had told me they were repositioning her to Australia for a short cruising season before sending the grand old lady to Taiwan to be broken up. I had seen the shipbreaking yards in Kaohsiung on a voyage a couple of years earlier – vast, bleak places where proud vessels met their life's end.

As I watched Himalaya glowing in the morning light, a cold fear settled in my chest. I prayed I hadn’t condemned my future to a similar fate and that I hadn’t consigned the woman I loved to an emotional scrapheap, just because of one careless night in Colombo.

._.

My turmoil continued for the whole flight home. I sat awake and fretting on both legs, the first to Dubai, then to London over a stretched night. It felt longer than any passage I’d ever made by sea. I sat by the window, staring out at nothing in particular, replaying the night in Colombo again and again. Every time I tried to push it aside, it returned – Hyacinth’s persistence, the wine and whisky, the moment I should have stood up and walked out but didn’t.

Somewhere over the Arabian Sea, I made myself a promise: I would never let anything like that happen again. I would draw a line under it, lock it away, and step back into the life I was meant to live.

By the time we landed at Heathrow, I was mentally and physically exhausted. Julie was waiting in the arrivals hall, waving as soon as she spotted me. The sight of her – smiling, hopeful, utterly trusting – hit me hard. I hugged her tightly as she asked, “Ken, have you missed me?”

“Of course, darling."

It was the truth, but I could not handle the whole truth.

On the drive home, she chatted about the wedding plans, the final fittings, the guest list and the flowers. I nodded and answered when needed, but inside I felt as if I was on thin ice, listening to the cracking underfoot.

That night, we made love passionately, but during the act, I fantasised about Hyacinth, the odours of her body, the words she had said to me and the things she had done to me. 

Later, lying beside her in our newly purchased flat, the unfamiliar silence left my mind free to wander. I wanted the sound of a ship’s engines and a gentle ocean roll to lull me to sleep, but all I had was Julie’s soft snuffling. I knew I loved her, and love, if it was to mean anything at all, meant I had to be faithful. But even when we were joined physically, I was unable to do it.

The days that followed assumed a rhythm. On the surface, everything was normal, but beneath it all ran a thin, persistent current of unease. 

Julie noticed something, of course. She asked if I was tired, if the voyage had been tough, and if the flight had been awful. I answered each question with half‑truths, the kind that sound convincing because the speaker wants them to be. She accepted them without suspicion, and that only made the guilt sit heavier.

._.

I had been home a week, lounging around all day while Julie was at work. One mid-morning, I answered the phone. I recognised Sita’s voice instantly.

“Ken. We need to meet.” It wasn’t a request.

“I’m getting married in ten days,” I said.

“I know,” Sita replied. “That’s why we need to meet.”

There was a pause – long enough for me to hear the faint background noise of her parents’ shop: the doorbell dinging, the rustle of newspapers, someone asking for something.

She had embraced life here with an enthusiasm that bordered on recklessness. Her parents, by contrast, were deeply conservative. They’d arrived from Uganda two years earlier with nothing but a few suitcases and a bellyful of fear. They watched her like hawks, terrified she’d slip into the freedoms England offered too easily. But Sita had slipped away from their grasp anyway – into parties, men’s arms, and the thrill of being wanted.

“I don’t think a meeting is a good idea,” I said.

“Well, I do,” she replied. “Come to my parents’ house at twelve thirty.”

“Sita, please…”

“No. You owe me this.”

I drove the familiar route to her home, butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Her words were hammering in my head.

I tapped the door knocker, and she answered almost immediately. It was as if she had been standing there, one hand on the knob, waiting for me. She’d always been pretty, but in a round and warm way. I hadn’t seen her for two years, but in that time Sita had matured physically, lost her puppy fat, gained poise, and no longer looked quite so sweet and innocent.

She beckoned me and closed the door firmly behind us. There was a long silence. I could hear her breathing, steady but tense.

“You kissed me,” she said at last. “You made me think there was something there. Then you dropped me like rubbish. And Julie never knew.”

I closed my eyes. The hall around me blurred into a haze.

“Sita, it was a mistake. I was stupid. I was drunk. I shouldn’t have…”

“You shouldn’t have,” she cut in. “But you did.”

After another silence, she said, “I want you to complete what you started. The deal is once only. If you do, Julie will never know. If you don’t, I will tell her everything and embellish it.”

I was trapped. She knew it, and my voice betrayed it as I replied, “Okay, Sita, it’s a deal.”

At that moment, I had never felt so unaroused, but the smile that my agreement had created was followed by Sita pivoting and pressing herself against me. I stared down into the black pools of her eyes and felt desire coursing through my loins.

“Kiss me, Ken," she demanded. Our lips met, and my first tentative pressure was met with Sita’s desperate surge of hunger, deepening our connection while her hands pressed against my crown, pulling me into the void where she was waiting.

She broke the kiss, panting in short bursts, her words spilling out breathlessly, “Come upstairs, Ken; come to my bed.

._.

I enjoyed it. She was an enthusiastic and expert lover, no longer the inexperienced girl I had been with two years before. Afterwards, I wondered just how close I had come those two years ago to having Sita as my bride instead of Julie. Because of this, I felt less guilt about Sita than I had done about Hyacinth, and for some inexplicable reason, I trusted her.

But then, reality dawned. I had failed the promise I made to myself on the flight home, and I really had no idea how I was going to stop myself from being unfaithful again and again.

Salvation came unexpectedly, a few days later. A letter from the company offered me a promotion if I would cut my leave short. When Julie came home from work, I told her my news. Her face fell, and tears rolled down her cheeks as she stammered, “B… but Ken, we won’t have any time together, and you’ll be away for another four months.”

“My love, that’s not all. I’ll be a senior officer, and one of the perks is for my wife to be with me on board. We’ll fly to Montreal together a fortnight after the wedding, and you will see the world with me.”

Julie threw her arms around my shoulders, and we danced around the room in a close hug. Her tears became tears of joy, and I knew I had found the time to learn the art of faithfulness.