Rolling her new swimming costume into a ball, she tucked it into her bag, still considering. Lorna and Roy had been so kind, letting her stay here in her hour of need. Incredibly kind. The last thing she wanted to do was upset them. But didn’t she owe it to them, too, to tell them the truth?

Having zipped the case shut, she heaved it downstairs and left it by the front door. Then she stripped the bedding, gathered it up with the towels she’d used and bundled the lot into the washing machine before setting it churning. She washed her breakfast things and stacked them neatly in the drying rack, bagged up her rubbish ready to go and then checked over the cottage one last time. Her heart was thumping suddenly at the prospect of what lay ahead, and she found herself sinking unsteadily into the armchair, struck by a queasy rush of nerves. Not only did she have to say her piece to Lorna, but after that she planned to drive somewhere quiet where she could phone Mack and talk to him, really talk, about where the two of them went from here. After that, she supposed she would have to go home and face the music. Hoping that it didn’t completely deafen her.

Em’s words came back to her – Olivia, you’re totally going to sort everything out and move on to happy times again – and she found herself recalling how she’d lain in bed the night before, thinking, Yes. Yes, it’s time to sort everything out, once and for all. Because she really did want to move out of the shadows at last and find those happy times.

She stood up, striding quickly towards the door before she could change her mind.

The wind was getting up, the trees rattling their branches threateningly as Olivia put her belongings in the car and then walked the short distance to Lorna and Roy’s farmhouse. It was a lovely old stone building: double-fronted with a shingled roof. A cat snoozed on an upstairs windowsill, oblivious to the birds that whistled and cheeped in the hedgerow. It looked the sort of house where nothing bad could ever happen. How ironic, she thought, knocking on the door.

Lorna answered, wearing a faded blue apron with a dusting of flour on the front and her sleeves rolled up: the image of contented domesticity. At the sight of Olivia standing there, her face creased with a smile. ‘Come in, love. Roy’s just putting the kettle on, aren’t you, Roy? Roy! Put the kettle on, Olivia’s popped round.’