‘I was going to say that I would never have picked you as someone who believed in ghosts.’

‘Why not? How do you think you could spot a believer?’

‘If they were wearing a Ghostbusters T-shirt?’ Hannah shrugged. ‘You just came across as the kind of person who wouldn’t have time for ghosts. You didn’t even have time for small talk, then.’

‘As I said, dickhead. It wasn’t – isn’t …’ He sighed. ‘I have no excuses. But at least you’ve changed your opinion of me, even if only slightly.’

‘Significantly,’ she corrected, then wondered if she’d been too forceful. They had reached their corridor, Noah’s room next to hers. ‘Well, goodnight then. Or morning. What’s the plan for our last day?’

He leaned against the wall and smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the edges. ‘We can have one of your much-loved breakfast meetings, then I thought we could find somewhere quiet to call Gerald and update him. After that, the day is ours.’

‘I might need to spend tomorrow afternoon snoozing.’

‘You had a solid nap upstairs. Quite a pleasant one, too, from the sounds you were making.’ This time his smile was pure mischief.

‘Trying to scare me with all that ghostly hair-stroking wasn’t exactly soothing,’ she shot back, and two points of colour appeared on Noah’s cheeks.

‘That wasn’t …’ he started, then shook his head. ‘I wasn’t trying to scare you. Look, we’d better …’ He pointed at his door.

‘We should. Night, Noah.’

‘Sleep well, Hannah. I’ll see you at breakfast.’

She waited until he’d taken Spirit into his room and shut the door, before unlocking her own. She sat on the bed and stared out at the sea, the waves churning wildly, the wind like a battering ram against the walls of the hotel. Eventually she pulled the curtains across, got ready for bed and climbed under the duvet. When she drifted off, she thought she could still feel Noah’s hands sliding gently through her hair.

She was sitting in the restaurant, staring at her phone, when he found her the following morning. He was wearing a dusky-blue round-neck jumper and jeans, neither of which she had seen before, and his hair was a riot of dark curls instead of the carefully tamed style she was used to. The more casual, natural version of Noah was so distracting that for a moment she forgot the worrying news she’d had.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘Your clothes,’ she murmured.

‘I had some extra stuff in the car,’ he said, sitting down. ‘Long story. But you were looking pissed off before you noticed me, so I don’t think it can be that my outfit is offensive this time. What’s happened?’

The two-person table was arranged so that both seats faced the window, and Noah was at right angles to her. This morning, however, the Cornish coastline was more nightmare than dreamy. The sky was a Turner painting with every conceivable shade of grey, and the waves mirrored the clouds, angry and unsettled. It wasn’t raining at that moment, but she could see, above the horizon, the slate-grey haze that signalled another imminent downpour.