Celia was open-mouthed with wonder. Even more so than she'd been up at the house.

"Oh Flora, this is fab," she breathed. "I'll be as happy as a sand girl down here with my easel. Is that seriously the beach? Look at the dunes. Aren't we getting out? Don't tell me this is some kind of tease?"

I roused myself wearily, knowing I was being the worst possible version of myself. Knowing we were lucky to be here, away from London. Away, too, from Trewarren. And in a cottage they usually rented out to vacationers, so super kind. I detected Roger's hand in this. Yet still I felt sick to my stomach. I was sure I'd made the most catastrophic mistake. Why hadn't I listened to Celia in London? Why had I ever embarked on this?

"Who's that?" asked Celia, as I finally got out of the car and went round to join her by the trunk. As we hauled our luggage out, I turned and followed her gaze. A slight, solitary figure in a royal-blue swimsuit was sitting on a rock, at the edge of the beach, but also, in our back garden. Her skinny brown back was to us, and her fair curls blew in the wind. I felt my heart rise and settle into its more natural position. My stomach unclenched and relaxed slightly. Suddenly I felt better than I had done all day.

"Oh, she's lovely," I said happily. “That's Babs Trewellyn. She's Roger's mistress."

Chapter 3

"His mistress? You mean Roger Roger?"

“The very same. Rogering Roger, in fact." I giggled. First laugh of the day, it seemed to me.

Babs had turned at the sound of our voices. She got to her feet and waved extravagantly, both arms windmilling about as if she were bringing in a light aircraft. "Helloo! Darl-ing!" she cried.

"Babs!" I shouted back, waving.

Grinning broadly, I nipped through the front garden, around to the back, and down the rocks to greet her, still as nimble as ever on this slippery, hazardous terrain, I was pleased to see. “Did you know we were coming?" I called as I approached.

"Of course I did, I know everything. And I was reasonably sure you'd want to tootle down here on your own, so I thought I'd be your welcoming committee." She was slipping a short white toweling poncho over her swimsuit which I remembered from years ago, when she'd gone through a phase of making and selling them to loyal friends, complete with matching toweling turbans.

“Mum's still got one of those," I told her as we kissed, and as her little Yorkshire terrier, Piggy, climbed up my leg, wagging. I picked her up and petted her.

"I know, we modeled them on the beach the last time she was here, a couple of old bags still trying to drum up business. How is she?"