“Well then – fuck you!” The husband stood up, reaching blindly into his pocket. “I can’t do this any more, okay? I’ve tried everything and none of it’s good enough. I haven’t got the energy. See you around.” To Donald’s deep satisfaction, the man threw a bundle of notes onto his plate, and left.

“I am an unappreciated genius,” Donald declared, and let go of the waiter. The wife sighed and put her knife and fork neatly on her plate, but showed no signs of following her husband. Instead she checked carefully through the sheaf of notes before tucking them underneath her wine glass. Donald could see there was at least eighty pounds there. The rustic chips were very good. He ate three in one mouthful, then applied himself seriously to his sandwich.

Between the chips, the waiter and the arguing couple, it had been a surprisingly enjoyable couple of hours. The guilt he felt at leaving Mike to hold the fort while he gallivanted around eating poncey chips was just enough to add spice to the occasion, like adding a little too much Tabasco to a bowl of chilli.

It wasn’t until he got back to the car park that he remembered why he’d come. Those bloody idiots in their bloody beach hut, and the bloody council with their bloody list of questions. Are they causing a noise nuisance? Well, no, he had to admit they weren’t. Are they causing a litter nuisance? Actually, he had to give them that, there didn’t seem to be any. Are there more than two people in their party? No, he’d already said; there were just the two of them, brother and sister. Are there more than six vehicles parked illegally? There weren’t any vehicles. Look, this wasn’t just a bunch of travellers – they’d paid some bloke to build them a beach hut! A patient pause. Are they behaving in an abusive or threatening manner?

Never mind. He’d reported them. Wheels were in motion. Visits would be paid. Discussions would be had. Eventually, if necessary, court orders would be issued. Finn and Ava would be moved on and life would return to normal. It was time he got back to work. There was his car. It was a long walk round to the entrance. Laboriously, he climbed over the barrier. His coat caught on a bush and his keys fell out of his trouser pocket.

And there, bafflingly, was the woman from the café again, standing at the bus stop, checking the timetable. Everywhere he looked, there she was – slim and elegant in her beige trouser-suit and nude heels. Unless it was someone else, of course. Maybe it was a popular look for women this autumn.

She turned slightly to look up the road for the bus, and he saw the splash of red wine across her thigh. He’d never imagined a woman who dressed like that would be seen wearing stained clothing. Surely she’d just go and buy a new outfit? Come to think of it, he’d never imagined a woman who dressed like that catching a bus.