It marked the end of the encounter – Em was, of course, desperate to see her daughter again, and after an appreciative thank-you, and a slightly rueful apology for having been a drama queen, they were saying goodbye and going their separate ways. By then, though, Maggie’s imagination had been set ticking. Maybe Em was right: a couple of days to herself could be a pleasant thing after all. Spas and manicure weren’t exactly her cup of tea, but there were loads of places she wanted to visit that Amelia had shown herself to be less keen on. This was her chance to really indulge in her hobbies, be completely selfish about what she fancied doing. Good!

And so she had turned to the guidebooks that her colleague Paul had lent her, flipping through the pages until she found a piece on Zennor, whereupon she remembered the promise she’d made to her mum. Perfect! According to her phone, it would take just under an hour to get there, where she would visit the church with its mermaid chair and take some photos for her mum, before returning home, possibly via the chippy for a proper fish supper with lashings of vinegar. There – see? Who said Maggie Laine couldn’t enjoy herself on holiday?

Heading off moments later, she felt purposeful and focused, glad that she had something to do. According to the guidebook, the mermaid chair was a carved medieval bench end, thought to have been made in the fifteenth century or thereabouts, and featured an image of a mermaid holding a comb and mirror. The most romantic legend of Cornwall, the guidebook proclaimed although, in truth, Maggie was less interested in the romance angle. (That was her all over, she supposed: destined to be alone and peering at ancient relics rather than misty-eyed and waltzing off into the sunset with anyone.)

She had tried dating again, by the way. It wasn’t as if Will had scraped every last romantic thought from her soul when he’d left her, but all subsequent attempts had resulted in bruising disaster. The first time she’d tried relaunching herself on the singles market had been via a dating agency, joined in a very un-Maggie-like moment of New Year rashness. ‘Hold your nose and jump in,’ a friend had advised her, and she’d taken the plunge, filled in the forms and been allotted a date. Arrangements had been made, a babysitter booked and a new haircut and dress purchased for the occasion, but once at the restaurant, she’d had a panicked call from the babysitter to say that Amelia, aged five at the time, had come down with a stomach bug. Maggie had to leave the date, having barely finished her starter. Arriving home to find her daughter flushed in the face and clammy, retching over the washing-up bowl with glazed eyes, the guilt had been acute.