This morning I was proud of myself for having reduced my suit of armour to a pair of jeans and a loose T-shirt. I felt like a Victorian maiden flashing her ankles. Now I know that I still look wrong.

I prod my psyche in an attempt to figure out how I feel about this. Do I wear my rape as a badge of honour? Do I choose to single myself out as the girl who was raped? Or are my multiple layers of clothing a genuine expression of the vulnerability I feel? I can’t answer this, not even in the privacy of my own head, because I don’t know any more.

As we walk, Moira chats animatedly to Raz. She laughs at the things he says, flinging her head back and exposing her throat. She touches his arm constantly, establishing a zone of intimacy between them. He is reserved at first, but she wears him down. Soon he is chatting and laughing too, and giving her little dabs and shoves.

“They’re hitting it off,” I say to Eugene, swallowing resentment like sour milk.

“Your friend has a gift. Raz tends to be shy, but she’s taken him out of himself. He’s having fun.”

“That’s good.”

Are we? I wonder. Having fun?

Is this what fun feels like? The sun is hot on my cheek, making me wish I’d brought sunscreen, but my body is still cold. I have to resist the urge to walk with my arms folded around my chest for warmth. I make myself swing my arms like the others are doing.

The scenery is pretty. At least, it would be pretty if it were framed and cropped in a photograph, with a dramatic filter applied to play up the contrasts between blue and green. As it is, it seems messy—as though the set designer hasn’t got to work yet. There is low-growing, grey-green scrub everywhere, and it is not picturesque. We have passed several places where litter is caught in the scrub.

The rocks are untidy and asymmetrical. There are drifts of shingle that we avoid. We are walking partly on a trail and partly on the beach.

Conversation does not flow between Eugene and me. His beauty makes me tongue-tied. I want to impress him, but fear of failure keeps me silent. It’s much easier when he is just a photograph on my screen and the messages fly between us.

Then we come to the first wreck, and everything becomes easier. The sight of the twisted iron skeleton strikes even Moira dumb. It has ribs that reach up out of the sand, like the carcass of a buck. The predator that has been chewing on it is the sea.