‘Like on the TV show,’ he said to our blank expressions, adding limply, ‘the one none of you have ever seen.’

The reason I said very little during these exchanges was because, beneath the table, Ben was slowly working his hand under my skirt. I wasn’t wearing the alluring mermaid pleats, just a simple, denim A-line, a style most of the women on the island owned, but still it enticed his touch. His fingertips massaged the soft flesh at the top of my thigh. The sensation required all of my concentration, all of my breath. Only when a hand, someone else’s entirely, landed heavy on my shoulder, making me start, did I burst into gabbling speech.

‘Mary!’

‘You’re not getting drunk are you, Miss Cedars?’

It was Mary Ahearn, Jade-Marie’s mother, still in her greens after a day on the land, her cheeks red from the wind. She was smiling, not really appalled, but her grip stayed firmly on my shoulder. I snipped my knees together to stall the progress of Ben’s hand.

‘Oh, no! Just a little tipsy!’

I hadn’t seen Mary since I’d dragged her daughter down the aisle and away that first morning at chapel. She was a good friend of my parents; I didn’t want her upset. I supposed that she had been called in to see Mr Crane about Jade-Marie’s misdemeanour, yet I had no memory of her waiting there on the chairs outside his office. Did she even know what her daughter had done? Nausea flickered at my throat.

‘You won’t go telling the girls you’ve seen us like this, now, will you?’ I laughed too brightly, and Mary narrowed her eyes as if considering her options.

‘I reckon your secret’s safe with me, Miss Cedars,’ she said, patting me gently and moving away.

My jumper clung hot and sweaty at my shoulder where her hand had rested.

We left as planned; me first, feigning tiredness, Ruth creasing her brow suspiciously at this early retreat. I went home, drew the curtains and waited in the kitchen with the lights off. The moon was new; I was guided only by what I could hear. The gate latch clicked, footsteps sounded in the small concrete yard. I opened the back door.

‘I can’t see you,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry. Your eyes will adjust.’

He reached for me. You are Hades, I thought, the unseen one. I am Persephone, soon to be lost to the underworld. His lips found mine, and I became instantly liquid, alive, though still laced with doubt.

‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ I said, surfacing for air.

The sabbath would roll around in minutes. Engaging in works of the flesh is to deny yourself a place in the kingdom of God. And then what? What would be the price?