Another old buddy seemed equally relaxed working as a sailing instructor. Marcus admired his choice to live modestly and still, at forty-five, to go on backpacking adventure holidays with his wife.

It seemed, some days, that he envied everyone else’s life.

Sure, he made a good living, and he loved the kudos he got for his role at the hospital, but at times he couldn’t help feeling he’d made the wrong life choices – including the wrong career. And possibly the wrong discipline within it. Sometimes he made people happy, but not this morning. His first operation was to remove the remaining fallopian tube of a thirty-nine-year-old woman who’d endured nine tough years of in vitro fertilization and whose final chance of a natural pregnancy was now gone. Her symptoms had been confirmed just over an hour and a half ago and he had little time to lose.

Cursing for being so late, he was now driving faster than the 40 mph speed limit along Victoria Avenue, his baseball cap pulled low over his forehead against the low, dazzlingly bright sunlight in his eyes. Over to his right, the tide in St Aubin’s Bay was a long way out. Full moon. His own tide felt just as far out.

Snapping himself out of this mood, he hit the speed-dial button on his phone to call his assistant, Eileen, to give her his ETA.

Then he looked up and saw the red light.

Bearing down on it at speed.

A young woman, with Titian-red hair, in running kit, had stopped right in front of him. Staring at him in horror.

Frozen in her tracks.

Hands clamped over her midriff.

Shit, shit, shit.

He stamped the brake pedal to the floor.

The wheels locked. The car slithered. Yawed left, then right, then left again, the tyres scrubbing and smoking.

Oh Jesus.

Heading straight towards her. No longer driving his car, just a helpless passenger.

4

Friday 7 December

The Porsche stopped inches from Georgie. Like, inches. Another foot and it would have wiped her out.

She stood still, staring, momentarily rooted to the spot in shock. Through the windscreen the driver, in a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses, also looked shocked. She shook her head and opened up her arms, mouthing an exasperated, What?

He put his window down and leaned out a fraction. Then froze as he saw her properly.

Lynette.

Was this Lynette, after all these years?

No, it couldn’t be. Couldn’t. Could it?

‘It’s a red light,’ she said, tartly. ‘Or are you colour blind?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m—’

She shook her head and ran on.

Marcus sat staring after her, stunned. His mind flooded with emotions from the past.

She was exactly how he imagined Lynette might look now – some thirty years on. Handsomely beautiful, alluring, and in great shape.

God, how ironic if it really was Lynette and he’d run her over!