‘Course not.’ She nods and turns to leave, then pauses. ‘You know, I’m sorry about your ex-husband and everything, but for what it’s worth, I’m glad he ran off with another woman, otherwise I would never have got to meet you.’

‘Thanks, Maya.’ I smile, both touched and amused by her blunt admission. ‘Me too.’

‘Plus he sounds like a total dickhead and didn’t deserve you,’ she grins. And with that, she strides off in her crop top and Doc Martens, her pink hair tied up like a pineapple on the top of her head, bobbing through the crowds as she disappears.

I find Valentine in a large white meringue of a marquee, where the cake and flower-arranging competitions are taking place. I tell him all about the money raised for the town hall and he’s both astonished and thrilled.

‘Well, bugger me,’ he declares loudly, which causes something of a ripple amongst the judges, who are in the middle of talking about soggy bottoms.

Hastily moving away from the Victoria sponge exhibits, we make our way over to the flower displays.

‘Gisele won second prize one year for her dahlias,’ Valentine says as we watch the winner of the ‘Romancing with Roses’ class being awarded their rosette.

‘Really? That’s great.’

‘Aye, she was delighted. Until she found out there were only two entries in her category.’

We both look at each other and start laughing.

‘She called the judges all sorts. Luckily for them, they didn’t speak French.’ His eyes flicker wickedly. ‘People used to mistake her for this sweet little French lady, but she had a feisty edge to her, you know. A real spirit.’

I feel his loss so keenly that I feel suddenly ashamed at how upset I was last weekend. And yet, it’s like Ben said: heartbreak isn’t a competition; there are no winners or losers – no one gets first prize or second.

‘Here, I got you something.’ I pull a small gift-wrapped box out of my bag and hand it to him.

‘For me?’ Valentine looks surprised. ‘But it’s not my birthday.’

‘It’s just a little something. To say thank you for looking after Harry when I went to London.’

‘Nay, you shouldn’t have.’

I quickly shush him. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

Turning the small box over in his hands, he tears off the wrapping paper to reveal a DNA-testing kit. His expression is unreadable.

‘I thought it would help you with your family tree,’ I say quickly. ‘And don’t worry, I can set up the account online and everything.’

‘I can’t accept this.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘But these things aren’t cheap.’

‘You can pay me back when you find out you’re related to royalty,’ I joke and he finally stops protesting and laughs.

‘Thanks, love.’

‘Thank you,’ I smile.

Reaching for my hand, he squeezes it and for a moment we stay like that until—

‘Where’s Harry?’

‘I thought you were holding his lead.’

‘No. I thought you were.’

Abruptly I have a feeling of alarm at the thought of losing Harry. And then I hear a panicked announcement over the tannoy: ‘Will the owner of the large, hairy mongrel caught eating the prize-winning Victoria sponges please report immediately to Visitor Information. I repeat: immediately.’