“Even so, there are just too many people here,” he grumbles. Then he pauses. “Oh, it is pretty,” he says in a delighted voice. Ahead of us the river moves past old houses with mullioned windows looking down on it. Paths branch off, leading to shops and more houses. “It’s like the Lego village,” he says delightedly. He pauses, shooting me a sideways look, and I see the flush on his cheeks.

What the fuck is going on here? I open my mouth to ask, but he diverts me by pulling me along. I realise he’s deliberately avoiding talking about whatever problem he currently has about the same time that I realise we’re now holding hands.

He pulls me down the sun-dappled path, pointing out houses he likes, and I nod and smile and I must make sense when I talk because he displays no sign of unease. That’s good because inside I’m a turbulent mess. I can’t focus on anything. It’s like I’ve been blinded by the sun and can’t see anything apart from snapshot impressions. Like the sun on the mink-brown strands of his silky hair, the brightness of his eyes, the long length of his legs and the feel of his hand in mine.

I try to remember when the last time was that I held hands. It must have been with Patrick, but I can’t ever remember feeling like this before. I search my memory banks for a name for it, but I can’t find it. It leaves me uneasy. I don’t like uncertainty. I like to be fully prepared at all times. But nothing prepared me for him.

When we get into the village with its shops and cafes, the crowd disperses a little and I watch him as he looks around with those bright eyes of his. He’s still holding my hand, and I’m aware of several disapproving looks. However, they don’t motivate me to drop his hand at all. Instead I tighten my grip as he pulls me along.

He stops, looking up at a house that has scaffolding all over it. “What do you think they’re doing to it?” he asks.

I send a cursory glance over the building. “New roof, from the looks of it, and they’re repointing some of the brickwork.”

“How do you know that?” he asks, his bright eyes set on me.

I shrug. “I told you my dad was a property developer. He didn’t just buy houses. He did them up too, and I helped him. By the time I was fifteen, I could do most stuff.” I look up at the cottage. “It’s a good feeling to renovate old properties and see them come back to life.”

“Why aren’t you doing it, then?”