Jenna stops walking and looks at him. The sun is so low in the sky that the landscape, and Tom, have taken on a monochrome hue. ‘About what?’

‘You were trying to tell me something on the plane, and we were interrupted.’ His eyes are so soft and compassionate that, despite her shame at misreading the situation, she feels drawn back in.

She pulls her dressing gown tighter around her damp skin and tucks her hands under her armpits. ‘Do you remember what I talked to you about after the London seminar? When I pulled you to one side?’

He nods. ‘Of course.’

‘Well …’ She rubs the frozen toes of one flip-flopped foot against the back of her calf. ‘I confronted my mum, like you said I should.’

‘And?’

‘She denied it, then she got angry, then she admitted it and …’ She presses her hands to her face and looks at him over the top of her fingertips. ‘I just … I can’t believe it. I can’t believe what she told me. I … I can’t match the mental image I have of my parents with what she said.’

‘You think she’s lying?’

‘No. I don’t. And that’s the … that’s the thing that’s really messing with my head. I believe her. I believe what she told me but I don’t know who she is anymore, who Dad is. They feel like strangers. I don’t know even who I am anymore.’

‘You’re still you.’

‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m really not.’ She stares up at him, this tall, handsome man with his wavy hair slicked back from the sea and his compassionate eyes, and she presses her lips together. She’s going to cry. She can feel it, all the anger and frustration she’s kept bottled up for so long, swelling inside her, desperate to escape. She hates that she’s a crier. She wishes she was the type of woman to lash out, to scream and rage, instead of a weak, sobbing mess.

‘What would make you feel better?’ Tom asks.

‘Nothing.’

‘How about if you let it all out?’

‘No.’ She held it together on the plane, on the minibus, in her hotel room, in the sea. As long as she doesn’t talk about how she’s feeling she can control her emotions. But he’s making it so hard for her. He’s looking at her so sympathetically, acting like he cares.

‘Scream,’ he says. ‘Shout. Hit me. Let it out, Jenna.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘That’s not the kind of person I am.’

‘And how’s that worked out for you?’

She hits out at him then, before she can talk herself out of it; shoves him hard in the chest with both hands.

Tom doesn’t flinch.

‘Do it again.’

‘No.’

She does it again.

‘Who are you angry with, Jenna?’