‘Have you dived before, love?’ He took a step towards her.

‘MS Zenobia – Cyprus, Cirkewwa – Malta, Fortunal – Croatia; Thistlegorm – the Red Sea, and,’ she paused for effect, ‘the Lusitania. Also, at least fifty more hundred-metre-plus wrecks . . . love.’

She narrowed her eyes, picked up a beer bottle and studied the alcohol content. ‘Is this the only dive outfit on the island? I was hoping for something a little more professional, love.’

The smirk fell from his face. She glanced at the older guy and was surprised to see him grinning as she spun on her heels and stormed out.

*

On her walk back to the port, she kicked herself for being unfairly abrupt and judgemental with the diver. She sat on one of the benches that ran along the edge of the beach, closed her eyes and listened. The sea forged its own unique sounds, rich with dormant strength and whispers of endless secrets. She needed to go in, allow the harmonious murmuring of each gentle wave bathe her spirit and dilute her tension. If she allowed her imagination free rein, she could hear the echoing sounds of dolphins and whales, the plaintive mewl of high-flying seagulls drifting over the oceans, the laughter of children as they decorated sandcastles with cockleshells. The roar of an approaching motorbike shattered her musing.

She would never see the Britannic if she alienated herself from the dive outfit. Why couldn’t she be as patient with men as she was with cats and dogs? The motorbike stopped behind her.

‘Need a lift?’ She turned and saw the older guy on a quadbike. ‘I’m going round to the port,’ he called.

She hesitated, wanting to sit a while and enjoy the peace, but here was a fresh opportunity to get on friendly terms with a diver. ‘Great, thanks,’ she called.

He was early-to-mid-forties; strong physique and deeply tanned. Tight curly hair with the first signs of grey, eyes hidden behind shades. She climbed onto the quadbike beside him.

He turned off the engine, used a forefinger to drag his glasses down the bridge of his nose, then gazed over them with piercing brown eyes. ‘Can I say, I’m sorry about before? That was my son, Elias. It was his twenty-first yesterday and, well, everyone’s a little hungover this morning. Perhaps we all sounded a little patronising.’

She shook her head, stared at the sea rushing towards them, then dashing away – like a dog chasing something that scared it. ‘Yes, a bit, but to be fair I’m a little tense from lack of sleep. Let’s forget it, shall we?’

He nodded and started the engine.

‘Can I make amends . . . buy you a coffee?’ They pulled up outside a pavement café near the ferry terminal. ‘Harry Dennis, owner of Dive-Den.’ He thrust his hand towards her. ‘The locals call me Aries.’

She shook it firmly. ‘Shelly Summer.’

‘Where’re you from then, Shelly Summer?’ he asked while they waited for their drinks.