Her father glanced towards the café and she felt an electric jolt of fear. Had she done something to give herself away? What if he came round the back and saw the rolled-up shutter?

He was passing the café. He wasn’t coming in. She was safe.

What was her dad doing down here anyway? She’d worked out long ago that he didn’t like the sea. Left to himself, he’d never venture past the car park. He only came down to the waterline when she dragged him there for exercise, or when she wanted him to watch her swim or surf, or when she was late back and he came to look for her. So where had he been?

Snippets of conversation, overheard in the bar on her way in or out, or as she bought something from the shop, or passed a clump of mothers on the street. Camper van. Beach hut. Down in the – really? Cold? Draughty? Sheltered spot. Besides, George – Married? Brother and sister. Really? Oh yes. Saw them in the – In here yesterday, buying – Donald said – Did he? Has a point. Maybe, though – Seem nice. Oh yes, lovely. But still – Her dad’s tight-lipped rage whenever they were mentioned.

He’s been to see those beach hut people, she thought, to tell them to move on.

She hadn’t been down there since she and George had stood back and smiled at each other, admiring the small piece of perfection they’d created. She could still feel the smooth wood against her fingers. That night she’d dreamed about it, and about herself living in it, a singular existence in a haven that was hers alone. She held this dream in her head like a pearl in an oyster. She was afraid of losing it to envious reality.

Heart pounding, she made herself count to twenty before leaving the café. She hadn’t been forbidden to visit the beach hut for the same reason she hadn’t been told not to let herself into Emma’s dad’s café when it was closed; it had simply not occurred to her father that he needed to tell her these things.

I’m not disobeying, she told herself, in rhythm to her strides. It’s not disobeying if he hasn’t said not to.

But the truth was she would have gone anyway.

But it’s blue, she thought as she approached. In her mind, the beach hut was the bleached-bone colour of sanded wood. And there they were, the man and the woman, not married and not a couple but brother and sister, hippie-looking, flower children, nice manners though, the one thing everyone insisted on… these were the two people whose house she’d helped to build. The two people who were living inside her dream.

“Hi there.” The man smiled and raised a hand, a passing greeting rather than an invitation. She stopped and stared anyway. The man was painting the roof now, standing on a chair to reach. The woman was inside, half-hidden by the door.