Free The Forever Girl by Alexander McCall Smith

were in position, and secure. He tried the key again, with the same result.
    She glanced over her shoulder. After they had cleared the passage, they had gone half a mile or so out onto the open sea. Now, carried by the swell, they were little more than several hundred yards off the line of surf marking the location of the reef. In ten minutes or so, possibly less, they would have reached the point where the waves would carry them onto the reef itself.
    “Have you got a radio?”
    He shook his head. “I’ve got my phone. We’re not too far out. We’ll get reception.”
    She felt a surge of relief. “Then phone somebody.”
    “Who?”
    She frowned. “The police. They’ll know what to do.”
    He reached into his pocket to retrieve his phone. As he did so, he looked about, scanning the sea. On the other side of the reef, in the protected waters of the sound, he could see three or four boats still bobbing at anchor round the sting-ray feeding grounds. He could make out the heads of swimmers in the water.
    “Could we attract their attention?” she asked.
    “I’m not carrying any flares. If we had a flare they’d see it. But I haven’t.”
    She stood up and looked over in the direction of the knot of boats. She had been frightened, but the human presence not too far away reassured her. If the worst came to the worst, they could abandon ship and swim back through the passage in the reef. They would be seen then, or they could even swim over to join the boats at anchor. It was not as if they were far out at sea; and the water, as usual, was invitingly warm.
    She saw that George was looking anxiously at the reef, to which they were slowly being carried by the swell. She looked down: they were in about forty feet of water, she thought, but as they approached the reef that would diminish. Could they not anchor and then wait for help – boats regularly used the entrance to the sound and they would not have to wait too long.
    “Your anchor,” she suggested. “Couldn’t we …”
    “Yes,” he said. “I was thinking that.”
    He moved to the bow and opened a locker. Reaching in, helifted out a rather shabby-looking anchor to which a line of rusty chain was attached. He looked over the side of the boat.
    “We’ll have to get a bit closer to the reef,” he said. “It’s too deep here.”
    The swell seemed to pick up, and they found themselves being pressed closer and closer to the breaking waves and the jagged points of coral. When they were only a few boat’s lengths from the first of the outcrops, George heaved the anchor over the side, paying out the chain and line.
    She felt the boat shudder as the anchor line took the strain.
    “She might drag a bit,” he said. “We’ll have to watch.”
    But it held, and the boat was soon pointed into the incoming swell, riding it confidently.
    George sat down. He wiped his brow and smiled at her. “There we are. Emergency over.”
    She scanned the sea. “No sign of anything.”
    He seemed confident that help would not be long delayed. “Something will come by. A fishing boat. A yacht. Less than an hour, I’d say.” He looked at her apologetically. “I’m sorry about all this. You went off to play tennis and ended up shipwrecked.”
    “Not quite.”
    “Near enough. And I rather wish I hadn’t disposed of the rest of the champagne.”
    She made a sign to indicate she did not mind. “I’m fine.”
    He was about to say something, but did not. She was pleased that he did not, as she did not wish to discuss what had gone before. Some lovers, she thought; some affair.
    She steered the conversation to neutral topics. They discussed the plan to extend the system of canals to sensitive mangrove swamps. They discussed the ambitions of the developers who weresetting out to cover the island with concrete and pastel-coloured condos. He became animated on the subject of corruption. She listened, and found herself agreeing with everything he said. David was far less harsh in