‘Well, now you put it like that . . .’ I laugh, pulling a face at the grisly thought and feeling slightly embarrassed by my admission. ‘It must have been all those teenage hormones,’ I add, and Maya shoots me a withering look.

We carry on walking, Maya striding ahead while I follow behind, trying not to slip on the muddy pathway and wishing I’d worn sturdier walking shoes. I look enviously at her Doc Martens and down at my own suede boots, which are already covered in mud.

‘I know what you mean about boys my age, though,’ she says a few moments later. ‘They’re just stupid and childish. Zac says girls mature a lot quicker.’

‘Who’s Zac?’

‘My boyfriend. He’s twenty-one.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘My parents don’t know about him, though,’ she warns quickly. ‘They’d say he was a bad influence on me.’

‘And is he?’

‘No. But I know they’d blame him for me not wanting to go to uni. He thinks it’s a waste of time. He says you don’t change the world by getting a degree in English Literature.’

‘And what do you think?’

My question seems to catch her by surprise.

‘The same,’ she says defensively. ‘And you can’t change my mind, you know.’

‘I’m not trying to.’

She seems to relax then and looks satisfied. ‘So do you have a boyfriend?’

I consider telling Maya that’s none of her business, then decide that would be hypocritical, considering I’ve just asked her about hers.

‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘I was married for a long time. I just got divorced.’

‘I’m never going to get married. It’s a waste of time. Everyone gets divorced.’

‘Well, not everyone.’

I feel a raindrop and look up at the leaden skies.

‘One in two marriages fail. I’ve read the statistics.’

She’s so absolute. Was I so black-and-white when I was Maya’s age? I feel oddly envious. Now everything seems to be so many shades of grey.

‘No one gets married thinking about the statistics,’ I reason, as we carry on towards the waterfalls. ‘It’s a leap of faith.’

A memory of David’s proposal flashes through my mind and I feel a sudden lump in my throat.

‘And it looks so boring. All Mum and Simon do is talk about what’s for dinner, whose turn it is to empty the dishwasher, and watch TV.’

Which is so funny and relatable it cheers me up. ‘Maybe if Emily Brontë was writing about Heathcliff and Cathy now, they wouldn’t be running around on the moors, they’d be arguing over the dishes and watching Netflix,’ I joke. ‘Not sure it would be such a classic, though.’

Maya laughs and I pull out the pamphlet I got from the museum and begin reading.

‘Apparently the Brontë sisters used to do this walk often . . . Do you know “wuthering” is an old Yorkshire word for stormy weather?’

‘Look at that rock,’ she cries, scrambling up to a large boulder shaped like a seat.