‘I lost my virginity two years ago. It was with one of the beach staff at the Four Seasons in Florida. I don’t know why I’m laughing at the name Kevin. My guy was called Chuck Junior. Can you believe it? Anyway, I can’t say the earth moved but he looked like Rob Lowe and bought me tacos afterwards.’

I didn’t like to ask what tacos were.

She stopped suddenly and bent down. Her slender fingers reached out to close around something on the sand. She stood up and outstretched her arm. Between her thumb and forefinger was a piece of sea glass. It was a brilliant aquamarine, smooth, opaque, without imperfection, and weathered to a perfect oval. She held it up to the sun and shut one eye to look at it. The light passing through it made it glow. Then without a word she gave it to me and walked on.

The sea glass sat in the centre of my palm like a turquoise pearl in an oyster shell. I held it up to my lips and rubbed it against them, closed my eyes to marvel at its silkiness, then I slipped it into my pocket and jogged to catch up with her.

The beach became increasingly crowded as we neared Sennen and, by the time we reached the concrete ramp which led up to the car park, scores of pink-and-white tourists patchworked the sand. They sat so close to each other there was barely room to pick our way through. There was a buzz in the air, screams of joy, mothers telling children not to throw sand, fathers grumbling as they battled with deckchairs and inflatables, excitable laughs and angry shouts at thieving gulls who scoured the holiday chaos for chips to steal.

‘Is Florida anything like this?’

Edie laughed. ‘Not exactly. I mean parts of Florida are like this, only hotter. But where we go has its own private beach so there are fewer people. And there are white sunbeds with white towels and a waiter with the name of the hotel stitched to his shirt to bring you drinks. And obviously, because it’s America, everywhere you go people tell you to have a nice day.’

Her American accent was perfect and as I walked up the ramp I repeated the words in my head and tried to mimic it.

‘It’s boring though. Max is always writing, Eleanor spends all day dousing herself in gin and baby oil and turning herself to sozzled leather. The last time we went I saw this father playing with his kids, you know, bat and ball, throwing them up in the sea, reading to them, and all I could do was look at my parents and think how fucking shit they were.’