Some clicking followed, a few rearrangements of angle and placing, and then it was all over. ‘Thank you for taking part,’ said the woman, passing her a small business card. ‘Here are the details of the show, if you’re in the area – otherwise, I’ll be putting the prints online for you to look at.’ Her flowered headdress had slipped sideways on her head, and there was lipstick on one of her front teeth, but she reminded Maggie of a sea nymph or even a good fairy, standing there amidst her pebbles and hopefulness. Her nose wrinkled as she smiled. ‘You are now free to take your courage and leave. Have a lovely day.’

‘You too,’ said Maggie, smiling back. The pebble was weighty in her palm and she curled her fingers around it carefully, not wanting to smudge the ink. A handful of courage, she thought to herself, continuing along the sand. It was just what she needed.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Izzie was swimming in the pool. Length after length after length, feeling strong and energetic, enjoying being on her own for once. All the things that had stressed her out this summer didn’t seem so important while she was here in the water, the sun warm on her shoulders, her muscles singing with the exertion of movement. The exams she’d taken – whatever. The pressure of trying to keep up with her friends – whatever. The thought of moving on to sixth form and a whole new chapter of her life beginning – pah. She’d deal with all that when the time came.

She did a splashy tumble-turn just for the sheer fun of it, surfacing halfway across the small pool. I am a dolphin, she thought. A mermaid. I am . . . being stared at by a man in a motorbike helmet. What? Where had he come from?

‘Hi there,’ said the man, pulling off his helmet and tucking it under one arm. Oh, okay, less of a ‘man’ actually, because he wasn’t that much older than her, at a guess. Eighteen? Nineteen? He was quite sexy, with his flop of dark-brown hair and wide smile. ‘Mrs Lorna Brearley?’ he asked, peering at the address label of a parcel he was holding.

Izzie sniggered and swam to the side of the pool. ‘Do I look like a Mrs Lorna Brearley?’ she asked, then pointed up at the farmhouse. ‘She lives there.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘She’s my nan’s friend, actually.’ He grinned and a dimple poked a small attractive crater in his left cheek. He was wearing faded jeans with biker boots and she could see a white T-shirt under his leather jacket. The more she looked at him, the hotter her face seemed to get. He was fit. ‘So what is your name?’ he asked.