I pick up a few shells and try to skim them across the surface like we did when we were kids, but I am rusty and out of practice and they fail dismally at the first hurdle. Bending down to forage for more, I hear a noise that is out of place, a clicking sound. Puzzled, I turn to the path and at first I see nothing obvious, but then the light shifts and I make out the outline of a man, standing in the shadows of the trees at the bottom of Kate’s property. He has a camera, and it is trained on me.

As soon as he realizes I have seen him, he lowers it and smiles ruefully.

“Sorry,” he calls out, emerging from the trees and jumping easily down the bank to stride across the beach toward me. The length of his legs means he is in front of me in an instant, a hand thrust out in greeting. His fingers are long and look well lived.

“James,” he says. “I’m your photographer for the magazine shoot, not some random stalker.”

His smile is broad and honest, and I find myself tracing the outline of his lips with my eyes. They are a plum color, emphasized even more by the light blond stubble on his jaw. I’m not normally a fan of facial hair, but his is trimmed and discreet and suits him. He is the very epitome of the saying “larger than life” and fills my vision, the beach, my world. Tall and athletic, he is wearing a snug black T-shirt and jeans that are possibly a size too big, given that they slouch around his hips and reveal a sliver of tanned skin. He is also barefoot, and has rolled his jeans up to his calves. Up close I realize he is older than he first appeared, evidenced by the fine lines around his eyes and mouth. His skin is beginning to show signs of weathering, and has the kind of color cultivated by a great deal of time in the outdoors and exposure to the elements. The brilliance of his green eyes against this is penetrating, and his hair is a palette of blond tones, similar to that which Kate spends a fortune every month trying to replicate. It is shorter on the sides than the top, which is brushed roughly to one side.

I’ve had boyfriends, although not recently. My longest relationship lasted for three years, spanning the ages of nineteen through twenty-two. We had tentatively started discussing the possibility of engagement, but then something, and also nothing, happened. We simply drifted apart like wispy clouds on a summer’s day. The sum of the parts that made up Us disentangled so stealthily and so slowly that it wasn’t even painful. We just looked at each other sadly over the breakfast table one morning and realized that We had Come to an End. No fuss, no tears. Well, maybe the odd one when I watched a particularly soppy rom-com or drank myself maudlin. We’re still on good terms, and I bump into him in the supermarket occasionally. He is married with three children, and despite looking beleaguered as they run circles around the trolley and attempt to throw food in without him noticing, he looks happy.