“It changes all the time,” he says. “I’m mostly interested in ethics and morality. Kant has written extensively on the subject. Right now, I’m exploring ethical egoism. It’s the idea that we all know our wants and needs better than others and should be responsible for our own wants and needs.”
“What about the needs of others?” I ask.
“That’s the tricky part. Egoism isn’t concerned with others.”
“Isn’t that a little selfish?”
He laughs. “It’s extremely selfish. I suppose the idea is that if everyone in the world is selfish, then we’re all looking after ourselves rather than relying on others to do it for us.”
“As a mother, I’m not sure I can get on board with that principle,” I say. “All parents need to put their children first.”
Alistair lifts a finger. “But there’s a reason we’re told to put our oxygen masks on first, isn’t there? If we always put others first, we die before we’re able to help them.”
I sip my martini, surprised by the sudden depth of the conversation. But I have to admit that I quite like this kind of adult, educated discussion.
“Sorry,” he says. “We ended up delving into philosophy before we talked about regular things like jobs and hobbies. I’m a designer at an agency in Scarborough. I like running and have completed a couple of marathons. Oh, and travelling. What about you?”
I start listing off the things I do in my spare time, like cooking and walking. We’re quite different. He has a logical, mathematical brain, whereas I am creative and more emotionally driven. Annoyingly, I like it.
We order our second drinks. This should definitely be my last but I need it to loosen up. The conversation moves onto family. Alistair has never been married or had any children. I suppose some women may see that as a red flag, but he does tell me about a long-term girlfriend he lived with for almost a decade.
“She told me she didn’t want kids but then changed her mind.” He shrugs.
“That can happen,” I say. “Some of my friends were adamant in their twenties but suddenly felt the urge after they turned thirty.” I think about one of Scott’s colleagues, an ambitious woman who later admitted regretting having her son, when she was drunk on Malbec.
“I didn’t resent her for it,” he says in a level voice. “But we couldn’t get past it and she chose to pursue having children over the relationship. I did love her though.”
And suddenly I realise his interest in older women.
I finger the stem of my glass as I try to broach a subject that could be awkward. “On your dating profile you said you don’t want a serious relationship.”
He smiles. “Is that a problem?”
I shake my head. “No, not at all. I feel the same way.”
He exhales shakily. “Oh, that’s good. It’s always a little… tricky to navigate with someone new.” He takes a sip of his drink. “I hope this doesn’t come across as wanky or whatever, but I like living in the moment. I don’t like thinking about the future. I just want to keep hold of that initial attraction to someone and see where it takes me. You know?”
“It does sound a little wanky,” I say with a grin.
He laughs heartily and I’m hopelessly excited by him.
I move closer to him. “Why don’t we go somewhere we can dance?”
He grins. “Sounds great. I know a place in Whitby. Fancy it?”
I nod.
As he arranges an Uber, I catch my reflection in a mirror and I don’t recognise myself. For a moment there, I am twenty again. I see Alistair as Scott. My life is yawning out ahead of me, any possibility within my grasp. Then the moment passes.
Alistair kisses me lightly in the taxi. His fingers brush tendrils of hair away from my face. That fleeting impression of being young again returns, but this time I know myself, and I can indulge in its lightness.
CHAPTER6
THE GRAVEDIGGER
He sees the trail of her escape in the flattening of moor grass and heather. The torchlight picks up her path, heading away from the coast. But as he takes a step in that direction, he hears a rustling sound behind him. Heart beating faster, he turns, moving the torch with his body. Clumps of heather shiver under the weak moonlight but there is no one standing behind him. He curses. It could be anything. Another fox, a grouse, some sort of rodent. Whatever it is, it has cost him precious seconds.
Picking up the shovel by his feet, he stomps through the grass, tracing his prey’s footsteps. Sweat trickles down his forehead and he wipes a mix of sweat and dirt from his eyes. This is turning into a nightmare. Why didn’t he slit her throat or cave her skull in? He’d tried to do this the least messy way. But now it was becoming messier than ever.
