That night, Connie had fallen into a fitful doze when she was startled awake by her phone beeping and vibrating on the glass of the bedside cabinet, the screen illuminating the darkened room like a searchlight. She picked it up, thinking it would be Devan – he’d been messaging her a lot since she left, with pictures of his bacon sandwich, or Riley, or what was supposed to be a squirrel but was just a blur – making her laugh. I’m outside the text read.

Jared’s name on the screen jerked her fully awake. For a moment she just stared at the display, her breath fluttering in her chest. She could almost feel his presence on the other side of the door. Hesitating, for a moment she pretended there was a decision to be made: ignore him or open the door. But her body had already decided, carrying her out of bed and quickly across the room to catch him before he walked away.

Jared was soaked, his hair plastered to his head, face glistening, jacket sopping wet. But he was grinning confidently as he stood on the threshold of her room. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘I’d forgotten how bloody wet Scotland can be.’

Connie stood her ground, although she trembled at his presence, so close. ‘Listen, Jared, I’m sorry, but you can’t come in,’ she began, sounding unnaturally sensible and businesslike – reminiscent, in fact, of Mrs Barnes, her primary-school head. ‘The tour finishes tomorrow. Maybe we could talk after I’ve seen them all off.’

Jared was clearly surprised. ‘Oh … right … if that’s what you want.’ He continued to stand there, however, looking bedraggled but determined, not moving a muscle. She saw him shiver slightly. ‘It’s just … I’m really wet and I didn’t book a room. My stuff’s in the car.’

Connie still managed not to crack. There was a strange impasse as they stared at each other in silence.

‘Could I just borrow a towel and dry myself a bit?’

She clung weakly to her resolve, but it was as if the last remnants were clattering fast down the hill, like shale loosened by a hiker’s boot. After another moment of agonizing hesitation, she moved back, waved him into the room and shut the door.

Jared regarded her in silence. Then, with a slight raise of his eyebrow – as if asking permission – he stripped off his jacket and hung it carefully on the back of the hotel chair. Connie, heart now thumping nineteen to the dozen, went through to the small en-suite to get him a towel.

He took it and thanked her as he vigorously rubbed his face and hair. When his skin was pink from the friction, his hair wild and still damp but at least not dripping, he handed back the towel. Connie did not speak. She didn’t dare.