We stare at each other. I want to kiss him, but I should run. Indecision paralyses me.

Dan’s focused gaze feels like a searchlight. ‘I’m trying to work out why you, Gemma? What’s your story?’

I laugh instead of answering, because where would I begin?

‘No, I want to know,’ he insists. ‘I want to understand what’s happening to us.’

I think about what Andrew used to say about the puzzle of love. How nothing is random, but it can take time for the clues to add up.

Guilt follows immediately, because I loved Andrew so much. But when we first met I never felt this intensity. This desire.

To distract myself, I begin my potted life story, sounding like a TV dating contestant. ‘OK, I’m Gemma, I’m thirty-four, I was brought up in Weston-super-Mare by a very cool dad and a very nosy mother. I take more after her than him.

‘What else? Um, I have one sister and one niece and one nephew.’ I realize I am avoiding talking about Andrew, which seems disloyal. ‘And I’ve been widowed now for almost two years and I still can’t quite believe that word applies to me.’

‘You don’t look like a widow, to be fair.’

‘What does a widow look like?’

‘Grey-haired. A shawl. Or riding a horse along a deserted beach, wearing a long black cape.’

I smile. ‘I did ride the donkeys on Weston beach when I was little.’

‘I don’t even think I’ve met a widow before. Though my dad was a widower.’

‘Your mum died?’

‘When I was a baby. Huh. Truth drug strikes again – I don’t usually tell people about that, but it’s no big tragedy.’ Dan sounds defensive.

‘It sounds like quite a big tragedy to me. Did your father remarry?’

‘No, there were girlfriends – a lot of girlfriends – but he always said my mum was a one-off.’ Dan peers past me, towards the Observatory. ‘No one else could live up to her.’

I close my eyes. I know how that feels.

‘Sorry,’ Dan says, ‘I bet that’s still raw, for you.’

‘Ah, it’s OK. I did ask.’

But it’s not OK. The intensity of this conversation feels like too much now.

Before I can say anything else, he’s standing up, breaking the connection. ‘Where’s Casey got to?’

He heads off to search, and emptiness blasts through me like a gust of icy wind. What’s wrong with me? Moments ago I wanted him to go. Now I can’t bear that he has.

But already they’re running back towards me – Dan, Casey, my little Bear. I don’t want this afternoon to end yet.

‘Anyone fancy a game of catch with Bear?’ I suggest. ‘He loves being piggy-in-the-middle, waiting for us to drop the ball, and that’s hard to play on my own.’

When Bear hears the word ball, his body tenses in anticipation of his favourite thing in the world. I should try to be more like him: focus on being in the moment.