He lifts the basket of chips to drain and switches the gas taps off. Before joining Nain, he stands for a moment and looks about the kitchen – at the irrelevant stuff that’s been part of the scenery for every memory he’s made here: the bar of hand soap no one uses, marbled green and white and split end to end; the London Olympics commemorative plate above the door, veined with superglue; the fridge magnets from places no one in the family has been.

He thinks about his first A-level physics lesson this morning. The law of entropy was the topic: how all things in the universe move over time from order to chaos. And he thinks how there was a time when his life existed in perfect order: when everybody who mattered was still alive, when no one had illnesses that would take them away, when both parents still lived under the same roof and divorce was just a word used in gossip about other families. His life once had order, and he was happy. As order moves towards chaos, Will thinks, so happiness falls to bits and becomes misery.

He takes a seat next to Nain, knowing that what little order that still remains will soon be chaos too.

But he’s wrong. Unlike most of nature’s known laws, there’s room for a little negotiation where entropy is concerned. Things are about to get better for Will.

Although they might get worse first.

Work

Will stares at the folded trousers and the green and red striped waistcoat as his manager slides them over the bar to him. He feels nauseous. For a change, it’s not because of the stench of stale beer and festering mops that always fills the pub until it gets aired out at opening time.

‘Front of house?’ Will asks. ‘I’d maybe rather stay on pot wash.’

‘Kitchen’ll manage without you,’ his manager tells him.

‘I’m just not sure I’m –’

‘High time we got you customer-facing – nice strapping lad like you. It’s a cracking day. Be some tarts down looking for a bit of fun, mark my words. You’ll be thanking me later.’ He winks at Will. His name is Mick Touch, and there have been whispers from the younger girls on the staff that suggest his surname is not inaccurate.

Will keeps his hands clear of the uniform, as if picking up the pile of well-worn clothes will commit him to the gig. It’s barely past ten on Sunday morning, but beyond the pub’s glazed frontage the beach is already sprouting blankets and windbreaks, and the sea is fizzing with autumn sun.