Outside, the rain had finally stopped, and silver shafts of sunlight fell through breaches in the swollen storm clouds. Billie stretched and felt a painful but satisfying pop between her shoulder blades. She had been hunched over the boxes for too long. She shrugged on her coat, pushed her hat firmly down onto her head and set off for a brisk walk to clear the dust from her nostrils and loosen up her stiffened limbs. The promenade was quiet save for a few hardy runners, and dogs in designer coats looking considerably more cheerful than their wet and windswept walkers. Billie headed for the pier. The smell of warm doughnuts made her stomach grumble, but she resisted the rings of soft, sugar-coated dough. She would be meeting Imelda for lunch in less than an hour. The flags on the turrets that flanked the entrance to the pier were being whipped so viciously by the wind that their Union Jacks were barely visible; just blurred flashes of red, white and blue. Billie battled her way along the pier until she reached somewhere to sit and gaze at the sinuous, froth-crested waves. She found the sea’s perpetual propulsion a soothing sight, and yet exhilarating to her other senses. The salt tang of it, the sting of it on her skin, the sound of water sloshing and crashing made her feel energised – her brio rebooted. Billie registered a figure in her peripheral vision and turned away from the sea to find MI5 Clive a little distance away stretching elastic bands across the fretwork of the metal railings. This time the design was simple: five green and two red bands positioned vertically, and eight blue running across them horizontally. Once the message was completed, Clive straightened up and looked around, as though checking to see if anyone was watching him. Spying Billie, he hesitated, seemingly unsure whether to acknowledge her or not. Billie waved. Clive appeared to gather himself together, quite literally, by brushing down his coat and shaking the bag in his hand, before approaching her.

‘Good afternoon, Billie In The Bowler Hat.’

‘Good afternoon, Clive.’ Billie wished that Imelda had never told her about Clive’s sobriquet. Each time she encountered him she struggled to keep the MI5 prefix unspoken. Much to Billie’s surprise, Clive sat down next to her. She waited for him to say something, but he was clearly more comfortable with the silence than she was.

‘I’m opening a little shop at the front of Madame Burova’s booth selling vintage seaside stuff.’

Clive didn’t look at her. ‘Why?’

For a moment Billie was thrown. There were so many things that she could say about starting a fresh chapter in her life; wanting a new challenge and the serendipity of Imelda’s semi-retirement. But if she were to strip back her reply to match the candour of Clive’s question the answer was simple.