There’s something about the sea; the way you can inhale it and feel its transformative properties slipping into your bloodstream. I was standing near to him now, breathing in the lovely ocean scent – tangy, astringent and seductive. His half-smile made me desperate to touch him, to caress his neck or, even better, run my fingers down his tanned arms and lace my fingers into his capable, dexterous hands.

Instead of delivering my prepared speech, I found myself leaning in to him. Brody bunched my bright curls in his hand and drew me closer. And then, ever so slowly, he put his mouth on mine. His breath was sweet as caramel. I kissed him back and was soon floating upwards, brushing the clouds, light-headed and happy.

Whereas Harry was muscled, with big thighs, powerful shoulders and calloused hands – a durable man – Brody was lean and lithe, but wiry. There wasn’t a hint of the gym here. No vanity pec-flexing. Just effortless and easy masculinity. There was a caged energy about him that set my pulse pounding. His fingernails were gnawed and his shoes scuffed, but he had a worldly, hard-won edge that excited me. And what excited me the most was his apparent longing for me. There was a certain priapic affability concerning his trouser area that was both flattering and compelling.

‘You know I don’t trust easily. And I’ve been burnt recently, as I told you, betrayed by someone I confided in – which is how I ended up losing a job I love. I swore off women after that. But there’s something about you. I feel as though I’ve known you for a long time. That sounds ridiculous, right?’

No, I thought. The really ridiculous thing was that I felt the same way. Clearly the abrasive Mr-Darcy-repulse-and-infuriate trope doesn’t only work in Regency novels and clichéd rom-coms. I promptly realised Jane Austen had been right all along.

‘Sorry, Ruby, I keep interrupting you. What did you want to say to me? The thing is,’ he went on, not drawing breath, ‘yesterday I felt something I haven’t felt for ages. Hope. It was like finding an air pocket in a ship that’s going down . . . It must be how prisoners feel when they walk out of the gates. Shit. You’ve got me mixing my metaphors now. Sorry, I interrupted you again. I’ll shut up. If doctors talk, you know, we have to charge,’ he said, eyes twinkling. ‘What did you want to say to me?’

I wanted to tell him everything I was feeling – my qualms, the fact that I was unstable, nuts, possibly in the middle of a nervous bloody breakdown, dodging friends, alienating my kids, pretending to have cancer, lying to my sisters – that, in fact, the Sphinx’s riddle was less confusing than I was to myself right now – but I felt the words float away.