‘I’m not going to badger her, you great lummox,’ Lorna scoffed. ‘I just . . .’ She felt embarrassed to put into words how desperate she was to talk to Olivia about Aidan again. But oh, how wonderful it had been when Olivia had brought him alive with her stories and memories! Lorna had written up every single one on pieces of paper and stuck them into her scrapbook, and felt a warm glow inside, like a lit tea-light, whenever she replayed their conversation. It was amazing how even a small flame could brighten a dark corner. Cherish the good days, she’d read in magazine agony-columns before. Recognize the happy moments when they arrive – and she did, or she tried to anyway, pinning down every lovely memory like a butterfly, telling herself whenever she remembered that today was going to be a good day, even when that didn’t always feel possible.

‘I just want to say hello,’ she said.

‘That won’t take long then, will it?’ He met her gaze with his, steady and kind. Don’t get all worked up now, that look said. Don’t you go upsetting yourself.

‘No,’ she replied, getting a cake tin down from the cupboard. ‘Probably not.’

‘Lorna, hello! This is a nice surprise. Come in,’ said Olivia when Lorna knocked a few minutes later.

‘Are you sure? I’m not disturbing you? I’ve brought some cake,’ Lorna said, holding the tin up rather self-consciously. ‘Lemon drizzle; it’s still warm.’

‘Thank you! That’s so kind.’

They went through to the kitchen, where Olivia had been peeling vegetables. A small chicken joint sat pinkly in a tray on the worktop with a head of garlic and some olive oil standing in attendance nearby. ‘Having someone round?’ Lorna asked in surprise. It was always so strange to see her cottages with other people’s belongings in them. Barring emergencies, when she had to pop over and replace a light bulb or inspect something that wasn’t working, she only ever saw them empty, having been stripped of guests and their possessions once more.

‘No, only me.’ Olivia moved the chopping board and peelings off the table and onto the worktop, then put the kettle on. With her deft movements, she already seemed different from the broken woman she had been at Aidan’s grave. ‘I just fancied making something really delicious,’ she went on. ‘Treating myself. Roast chicken’s the best comfort food I could think of.’ There was a turquoise swimming costume on the table too, still with its price tag attached and somewhat incongruous amidst the potatoes, carrots and broccoli. ‘I treated myself to that as well,’ she explained rather bashfully, noticing Lorna looking at it. ‘How could I not, when that beautiful pool is out there? I’m getting all the food prep done first, then I’ll put the chicken in and take myself off for a swim while it’s roasting.’