When they sat down at the table she couldn’t manage to eat anything. She held Bob’s left hand in both of hers under the corner of the table and gazed at him.
‘Oh, Bob!’ she said.
‘Oh, Tessa!’ said Bob, taking a forkful of stew with his disengaged hand. . . .
. . .’To us, Tess’ he said.
She took his hand again. ‘To you, Bob. Whatever happens to us, I hope things always go right for you.’
Bob put his glass down. ‘Tess,’ he said, ‘I’m honestly not worthy of you.’
‘That’s a silly thing to say, Bob.’
‘It’s true, Tess. You’re generous and selfless in a way I could never be.’ He picked up his fork, prodded ineffectually at his stew for some moments, and then withdrew his left hand from hers. ‘I just want to cut up this piece of meat, Tess,’ he said.
Michael Frayn, Towards the End of the Morning
