If Cornwall were a family, then Rainstead would be the distant cousin no one ever likes to mention. It wasn’t always this way. I remember Ruth telling me that when she was a girl her mum would drive all the way to Rainstead to buy fish. It was a small fishing port back then, quaint and unchanged for generations before quotas took effect, suffocating business for independent fishing companies. The coastline had become a graveyard of small boats. Sometime in the late eighties, the council built a one-way system that coiled around the town, literally in the shape of a noose. It didn’t take long for the high street to go the same way as the fishing boats. Now, faded signs are the only clue that there used to be shops behind the boarded-up windows and doors. The only surviving places are a bookie’s, a pound shop, a Tesco’s, and two pubs. Cara shrinks in her seat as we pass the Bull, where Robbie and his mates will be drinking tonight. The second pub, the Lamb, is up on a hill on the road out of town, as though the building itself is desperately trying to find a way to leave Rainstead. I pull into the parking lot to turn around, go back the way we came in the hope we’ll find a B&B, when Cara nudges me and points to an old wooden frame that says ROOMS AVAILABLE hanging by the front door. I don’t see any TripAdvisor stickers or hygiene scores stuck to the door.

“We’ll find somewhere else,” I say, pointing the car out of the parking lot, when Cara says, “Don’t be a stuck-up Londoner. Come on, it’s only for one night, it’ll be fine. You park, I’ll see if they have rooms free.”

I’m about to tell her it’s a Friday night in bloody Rainstead, of course they’ll have rooms free, but I bite my tongue. I should be glad Cara seems to be perking up a bit. I park and she comes back after a couple of minutes.

“Thirty quid each, shared bathroom, sound OK?”

I panic, try to think which of my credit cards has any money left on it.

“God, Jon, you look like you’re about to puke. I’m going to pay for my own room if that’s what’s freaking you out.” As she hauls her backpack out of the passenger footwell she says, “Oh yeah, and I told them you’re my uncle,” before she slams the door.

My room is small with thick, dusty carpets and a wobbly-looking single bed. The rooms are joined by a tiny bathroom. I have to turn sideways to walk through it into Cara’s room. She’s sitting on her bed, frowning at her phone. She drops it quickly into her bag when I knock on the half-open door. She sees my eyes follow the phone into her bag.

“Before you ask, no, I’m not messaging GoodSam. I just got a few messages from my mum, that’s all.”