I had become desperate for a shift in the way I was seen, to be known as Leah once more. Not compliant Leah from the good book, the one who raises children as a consolation when her husband takes her better-loved sister as another wife. Not that Leah. Not Leah the dope. I would be Leah with the tender eyes who goes to bed with Laban and deceives him into marrying her in the first place, convincing him in the dark, with her naked body, that she is as desirable as her too-perfect sister, Rachel.

True to form, I lost my nerve. I waited in line upstairs at the Counting House to use one of the computers (the school internet being strictly off limits for ordering goods from the mainland) and hovered the mouse over the ‘buy’ button beside a bottle of peroxide. Then I clicked away and bought myself a skirt instead. It was blue, with pleats and a mermaid shine. A daring choice, or perhaps a cowardly one.

Ben was merely a catalyst. Let’s say that. He was a channel.

The Autumn term was rolling close – my favourite time of the year. Clean stationery, a fresh set of faces staring back from the front row of desks. In the replenishing sun of July and August, lying back on the harbour beach, I would reread the set texts – Lord of the Flies, Gulliver’s Travels, The Tempest – stories we hoped might connect with the pupils. Then I would arrange an informal meeting about the year ahead over a glass of shandy at the Anchor. (A ‘wam-bam’ was what cute Miss Cedars called it.) Ruth French would be there to represent the juniors, her demeanour softened by two months of warm winds. Dellie Leven, the senior assistant, would bring a tin of something sweet from her stockpile of summer baking. My enthusiasm would spill across the table, enough for the three of us.

‘We should hold some classes on the lawn overlooking the East Bay. It would really bring the subject alive!’