She dressed in jeans and trainers, and checked, yet again, that her passport hadn’t expired and that the details of her crossing and Jem’s instructions for how to get to his house were in her bag. She had a last look round the house, half drawing the curtains in the bedrooms, leaving a light on in the hallway, pouring bleach into the upstairs and downstairs lavatories. Everything felt orderly and quiet, as if she had already left and the house was standing empty, waiting for her return. She made sure the back door was locked, and the chain drawn across it, switched on the answering machine, took her jacket off the hook in the hall and picked up her bag, the picture and her violin case, into which she had put her sheets of music. Then, on an impulse, she put them down again and went to the chest in the living room, pulled open the bottom drawer, and removed the pink folder in which were the letters she had once, head over heels in love, sent to Adrian. She opened the case, and shoved the folder in. Then she left the house.

She got to near the terminus with hours to spare. Leaving the motorway, she headed for the coast, driving until she found a small strip of sand littered with plastic bags, pieces of polystyrene and tin cans. It was a louring day and the sky in the distance looked almost purple with approaching rain. A scummy, crooked line of seaweed marked the tide line. The wind was blowing in from the sea, which surged grey and cold in the blustery weather. On the horizon, she could see the huge block of a container ship. A bit further in, a tiered ferry, heading out to sea. Little waves slapped at her feet. She took a deep breath, holding the air in her lungs. She could smell salt, fish, seaweed. Already her hair felt stiff from the spray.