Alone on the seafront, Alicia replayed the window incident in her head. She’d forgotten he could be like that. Earlier he’d driven her mad with his questions and questions and questions. Now, he was her hero. Which was the real dad? Perhaps he was many people, uneasily sharing one body. She’d had the same thought about herself.

The tide was on its way out, making the sea look smaller and flatter and safer than it really was. It wasn’t the size of the waves that would get you, it was the undertow. Most days it just tugged at your legs a bit. Some days it knocked over the small and the unwary. Very occasionally it would drag you out and out and out, finally depositing your pale bloated body ten miles down the coast. The undertow was the reason the lifeguards prowled the shoreline and yelled through the megaphone. The undertow was the reason she was strictly forbidden to swim outside the season. The undertow, or maybe her father – who didn’t like the water and had never understood her need to be in it whenever possible – did he have a point?

At least she could paddle. She stuffed her socks and trainers into her rucksack. Damp sand shimmied into the clutter, where it would get into her hairbrush and scratch her phone and ruin her lipstick. She secretly liked the loose grains, dancing gold-dust at the bottom of her bag. Wherever she went, the beach was always with her. She knew where she was going, even as she pretended she didn’t.

“Hey there.” Finn and Ava were on the veranda, lounging comfortably in canvas chairs. Finn was adjusting a gigantic umbrella to cast a shadow over his battered laptop. Ava was reading The Rough Guide to Shanghai.

“Hello.” Alicia normally hated hovering on other people’s doorsteps, trying to find the right words to convey I’d like to join you without looking pushy or rude. But the nice thing about Ava and Finn was they never seemed to expect this. They just assumed you were joining them, and that you wanted whatever they were having, and got out the biscuit tin and the kettle, or even a bottle of wine or cider, without any fuss or questions or complicated etiquette of refusal and repetition.

“Grab a chair,” said Ava, gesturing towards the beach hut as if it contained thousands of rooms. “They’re inside somewhere.”

With the door half-closed, Alicia could pretend she was alone and this was her space to do as she liked with. She looked around proprietorially. She’d take down the top bunk bed, of course; no-one but her would ever sleep here. But she liked the extravagant bright colours of the patchwork quilts, one all pinks and reds and greens, one blues and purples and yellows. Perhaps they’d forget and leave the quilts behind.

The tea-chest dresser could go, although she liked its ingenious neatness. But it just wasn’t strong enough to last. Maybe she’d get George to make her a more robust version. The bookshelf on the wall she’d keep, and the yellow table and the green chairs, but she’d sand them down to expose the beautiful pale wood. They were obsessed with colours, everything in here was bright and clashing and the walls were covered with maps. How strange that countries as different as Madagascar and Iceland looked so alike when seen from above.