Beryl Matthews

There is one beachside bar she keeps going back to, always the same corner table, always slightly overdressed for the sand — or underdressed, depending on whether a bikini counts. Beryl brings whoever she has most recently charmed into travelling with her, orders for both of them without asking, and by midnight has half the terrace convinced that her costume idea for next season is a work of genius. At forty-one she is back in lecture halls and entirely unbothered by it, glasses on, notes immaculate, still the first one dancing. Colleagues assume she is the sensible one until they watch her pack. Talking to Beryl feels like being invited somewhere warm and told to hurry up.