A wave of feeling came over her: relief, excitement, a quickening of nerves.

Car museum in France. It would blow your mind.

She pressed send, biting down on the smile that kept surfacing while she waited. And sure enough, a new message pinged back:

Oh yeah? What else have they got?

She sent him a photograph of a 1947 Georges Irat MDU with a black body and soft white top. Exquisite was his verdict. To the picture of the grey 1950 René Gillet motorbike, he responded: Cool. She sent him images of a 1961 Dodge Lancer alongside an antique Total petrol pump; of the first electric car as well as early Vespas. His responses were immediate and positive. She felt the rhythm of their communication flowing backwards and forwards, wondered where he was right now, what he was thinking.

She had reached the final part of the car exhibits, and now she paused, an idea coming to her.

‘Hey, Dad,’ she said, waiting as he approached. ‘Will you take a picture of me?’

‘Sure.’

He reached out and took her phone and she pulled her hair from the elastic that was holding it back, then arranged herself so that she was leaning back against the 1962 Sunbeam.

‘I don’t think you’re allowed to touch the cars,’ her father said.

‘Just take it quickly.’

He took a few different shots and when he handed the phone back, she flicked through them and selected the best.

‘Who are you texting?’ Mark asked.

‘Alicia,’ she lied.

The last part of the museum was dedicated to its history as an armaments factory. Glass cases held samples of swords and knives, rifles and pistols. Briefly, she thought of Callum standing over her, the gun in his hand. She remembered her heart pumping madly, the light gleaming on the barrel, and wondered at herself now for having felt so afraid.

Her phone sounded with an incoming text.

Beautiful, it read.

A split-second later, a second text: The car’s not bad either ;)

She blushed to the roots of her hair.

Thoughts and feelings tangled inside her. What did it mean, this message? It was openly flirtatious – she wasn’t imagining that. She remembered again the brief press of her lips against his, and how he’d pulled away, laughing but embarrassed. His response at the time had made her feel foolish – too young, too easily humiliated. But now this text changed things. Had he had time to reconsider? Was it possible he’d been thinking about her too? That he had missed her?

Eva knew that they were on the cusp of something. How she responded would determine everything. The image of Callum lingered until she dismissed it.

Callum Ferguson was just a child – a boy playing with his father’s gun.