The toast popped up. We both jumped. He put a slice on my plate, sat down opposite, and pushed the tub of hummus towards me. I could feel his eyes on me as I picked away at the plastic lid, trying to open the seal. He didn’t help me. Finally I levered it off and spread some on my toast.

I slid the hummus over to him. He spread some on his own toast, then looked up at me.

‘So how can I help you?’

‘What?’

‘Why are you here? Is there something you need to collect?’ He cleared his throat. ‘Before things, you know, change?’

‘No.’

‘I’m well aware that you’re entitled to take what you want, but I’m also aware that you’re living in a much more valuable property—’

‘That’s not why I’m here!’ I snapped.

He put down his toast. ‘So what is it?’

I paused. ‘Nothing. I just wanted to get out of London. It’s such a lovely day. I wanted to go for a walk.’

‘A walk?’

‘For one last time.’

See? I was a coward too. Just as bad as him and Azra. Of course I should have said, ‘I’m here because you’ve not responded to my emails, you snivelling little shit. I want to have it out with you. Don’t you owe me that?’

‘Fair enough.’ Greg looked mildly surprised. Probably relieved. God knows what was going on in his head. We were simply two strangers, having a cheerless and meagre little meal.

He looked at my plate. ‘Don’t you want to finish that?’

I shook my head.

He leaned over the table, grabbed my toast and crunched it down. Love had obviously given him an appetite. In a few days it would be Azra sitting opposite him. I bet she’d get salad and a glass of wine. I’d seen a bottle of Chablis in the fridge. Christ, I longed for a drink.

I should have left then. I could feel the fury building up. Blind, reckless fury. I watched Greg posting the last piece of toast into his mouth. This man I’d loved, who’d danced with me around this kitchen to our Beach Boys CD. Who, by his demeanour, seemed to be having a perfectly normal day, despite its unwelcome interruption.

Greg tore off a piece of kitchen roll and patted his lips in the prissy, actorish way that had always irritated me.

‘Want some apple?’ he asked.

He reached for the bowl, cut one in half and passed the half to me. Once, this had been a companionable act; he’d quarter the apple and cut out the core, before giving me two pieces. Once, our life had been like that. Small shared considerations, too small to even register.

And then he said something that took me by surprise. ‘Shall I come with you?’

Behind the cottage a track led up through gorse bushes to the coastal path. You had to walk in single file, your legs brushing the prickles. I followed Greg’s grey tracksuit. We’d done this walk a thousand times. It led along the cliff, the grass springy and littered with sheep droppings. Each year we’d pointed out the harebells dancing to their secret tune. After a mile the path descended in a series of steps, to the next cove. We’d branch right, turn inland and return through Scragg Wood.