It was seven in the morning. She had posted the letter to Daniel’s father that morning – care of the ridiculous gentlemen’s club – on the way to the gym. But part of her hoped, cravenly, that he might be dead.She stood at the edge of the pool, looking at the fast swimmers’ lanes, bodies pounding up and down in each other’s wake. They were all men with strong, clean, rhythmical strokes, but she could sense their frustration at being penned up like this. Normally she came later, when these young bloods had taken the Northern line to the office and the pool had a more relaxed clientele. She glanced at the slow lane, where two middle-aged women were climbing out of the water, then dropped into the shallow end, fastened her goggles and set off at high speed in the empty lane. As soon as she got into her rhythm, she began to review the picnic, and what Daniel had told her. They had talked about his work.‘How do you finance yourself?’ she’d asked.Daniel had shrugged. ‘Not easily, if I’m honest.
