At Westgate-on-Sea, I got off the train, walked to the front of the station and looked up and down the road. It looked a charming place, with a variety of shops opposite, including a fabulous-looking greengrocer’s with boxes and baskets overflowing with fruit and vegetables in the window and out onto the street. A few people were standing on the pavement outside the station waiting. How would I recognize Kevin? I asked myself as I stood with them. How would he recognize me? We should have agreed to carry red carnations. As I looked around, a white battered Skoda drove up and stopped. A chubby middle-aged man with thinning grey hair got out of the driver’s seat and came striding towards me.

‘Bea? Is that you?’

‘Yes, I … Kevin?’

He looked nothing like the skinny teenager with a mop of thick hair I had known so long ago. He pulled me into a hug where I got a whiff of some strange chemical smell. ‘Come on. I can’t stop here long,’ he said as he went back to the car and opened the passenger door for me. ‘Get in.’

The car had a strong scent too, a mix of stale cigarettes and meat pies. Oh God, this was a bad idea, I thought but, too late, he had already started up the car and was heading off down the street.

‘So good to see you, Bea. I’m so glad you got in touch,’ said Kevin as he drove. ‘I’ve rustled up some lunch at home. It’s not far and you can meet my babies.’

‘Babies?’

Kevin grinned. ‘All will be revealed.’

He continued on and right into one of the side streets, where we stopped outside a terraced house. He got out, rushed round to the door and opened it for me. ‘Allow me, madam.’

As I got out, he looked me up and down. ‘Well, I have to say, you’re looking good, Bea. Kept your figure.’

‘And you’re looking well too,’ I lied. He wasn’t. His complexion was pallid, like that of a man who spent a good deal of time indoors. There was zero attraction to him and I wanted to get away as soon as possible. I’ll have lunch then make my excuses, I thought as I followed him up the pathway and into the house, where I was hit with a strong, cloying, rotten smell, mixed with some kind of chemical. It reminded me of the chemistry lab from my school days – chlorine and maybe formaldehyde – and had obviously soaked into all Kevin’s clothes.

‘I got us a quiche and some salad from the Co-op,’ he said as he led me into a small kitchen. ‘And what would you like to drink? Tea? Wine? Beer?’

‘Just water, thanks. You said something about babies, so I presume there is a Mrs Grisham?’