That morning over breakfast he had started asking her about her plans for sixth form and when Izzie said she wanted to do Art as an A-level, he’d said ‘Oh!’ in a really pleased-sounding way, before telling her he’d done that as an A-level too and always wished he’d gone on to art college, rather than heading into business. They had bonded, you know? George had got out his iPad and shown her some Caravaggio paintings that he’d seen in Rome, and she’d been able to say some reasonably intelligent-sounding things in response – in between Seren’s attempts to sabotage the conversation, that was – and they’d ended up having a really good chat. She had felt noticed, properly listened to, especially when Mum, overhearing, had said, ‘Oi, you, I’ve been trying to persuade her to do something vaguely useful like Economics instead of Art’ and George had pulled a face at Izzie and replied, ‘Sorry, Em, but I’m on your daughter’s side for this one.’ A thrill had gone starbursting through her at his conspiratorial grin. Did that mean she fancied him or was it something else?

Jack shouted just then and Izzie snapped out of her reverie to find herself back on her bike and passing a small cove, with a row of painted beach huts on their right. The sea was spread out before them, its dark-blue ripples winking and twinkling under the morning sun, with a couple of people out on the water in kayaks.

Down on the shingly sand there were kids building sandcastles and dads using big rocks to hammer in the poles of windbreaks, and one family starting a game of beach cricket. For a moment Izzie had a lump in her throat, remembering holidays when her parents had still been together; how they’d all been obsessed with beach cricket themselves one summer, ridiculously competitive, playing for the prize of chicken and chips from their favourite takeaway. And then she was tumbling all the way back down memory lane, thinking about how her dad would always insist on walking miles down the sand on any given beach until he found the perfect spot, and how Mum would roll her eyes affectionately in his wake. How she and Jack would spend ages building forts near the shoreline and carving out a moat and channels, so that when the tide started coming in, they would fill with frothing sea water . . .

Sometimes she wished you didn’t have to grow up. She’d have liked to be a small girl on holiday forever, collecting shells in a plastic bucket and sprinkling a paper packet of salt on her chips before being tucked into bed at night, safe and sound, all responsibilities taken away from her. It would be a lot easier than trying to compete with her daring friends in their Summer of Yes, that was for sure.