A little time later on Saturday morning, hot off the train from London, the rain lashed down on Charlie’s back as he panted upwards towards Willowbury Hill’s summit. ‘How the fuck does anyone meditate in this bloody weather?’ he said to himself as he tracked further up. His heart had both leapt and sunk when Chelsea had, albeit reluctantly, revealed where Holly was heading. His white shirt, untucked and unkempt, was drenched already, but the humidity made him sweat as he put one foot in front of the other. He prided himself on being reasonably fit, so why was it, then, that he was struggling to breathe as he hoofed it up the hill? Why was it that his heart felt constricted and his stomach was turning somersaults?

The mist swirled all around the base of the hill, and it was as if the landscape itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what the outcome of this meeting would be.

Further, further, further up the hill he went, stomach fluttering more and more with nerves as he tried to think about what the hell he was going to say to Holly when he got to the top. I love you; I was wrong; I’m a twat, was the simplest way to put it, but how could nine words, any words, possibly sum up everything he’d put her through? From the unwanted media attention to the furore over his ill-advised indecision, he just didn’t know where to start. Would he listen to her if the situation was reversed? Probably not, he conceded.

But he had to try. Had to drag himself up this bloody hillside in the warm, pouring rain and talk to her. If she didn’t want to know after this, then fair enough; he was prepared to admit it was over. But if there was just one tiny chance that she would…

A harsh, guttural yell pierced the air as Charlie was about twenty yards from the top of the hill. From his position, he couldn’t yet see the group that Holly was leading, but Charlie’s heart nearly failed him at the sound. Just when he thought he couldn’t feel any more nervous, more yells tore the humid air at the top of the hill apart. Panic gripped him at the sound as he imagined finding Holly in some sort of terrible state. Perhaps, distraught, she’d stumbled in the mist and rain and was now lying injured?

‘Holly!’ he shouted against the raindrops that were now splattering into his face.

No response. Then another yell.

Picking up speed, he dashed up and around the side of the hill, stumbling up the steps that were hewn into the earth as he neared the top, until he spotted several seated figures, legs crossed, facing outwards, looking over the view of Brent Knoll and Steep Holm, yelling their heads off into the rising wind and rain.